#okan the unknown

[i-was-bored-so-this-happened]

Second Star Chapter Ten: The Retreat

Fandom: The Mandalorian Wordcount: 5.2k Warnings: None

Okan, Mando, Cara and the child find peace on Sorgan...for a while

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Morning light is soft and fuzzy through the blanket Okan had tugged up over her face a few days later. It’s been a quiet few days since the battle, the farmers repairing their huts after celebrating their victory and Okan forcing herself to multitask. The ache hasn’t left her head all week and pain has settled deep in her joints, but it’s a pain relieved by the children coming back to her over and over again, begging for a story or a new game. In saying that, the edges of her blanket are blackened and burned. A stress reaction, but not a bad one. From under the blanket though she can hear a soft pitter-pattering noise. She can’t identify it. A second unfamiliar sound, a crinkling. There are voices, too,

“My mum said she’d like it.” Winta.

“She doesn’t like being woken up.” Mando.

A gurgle. The baby.

“But what if it stops!”

“It’s not going to stop.”

“But Mando!” He’s doing well under all this pressure, Okan must admit. She smiles under the blanket and starts to stretch out, slowly, “See, she’s moving, she’s moving!” quick little footsteps and,

“Winta!”

The attempt at restraint makes Okan laugh as she pushes herself up into sitting. She keeps the blanket on her as Winta launches towards her with the baby in her arms. Mando’s not far behind, which she would normally find hilarious, but the onslaught of children has her a little preoccupied. The laughter becomes strained and Okan’s shoulders jump to her ears. She manages to pull her feet up before Winta lands on the bed, tugging her glove cuffs. Mando moves forward again, but Okan holds up her hand,

“At ease, barshtok,” the baby is crawling up the burnt blanket onto Okan’s legs, “good morning, good morning, good morning, what is so urgent?” Winta looks different today. She’s wearing something different over her regular clothes, something shiny. Okan plucks at it and finds it smooth, rubbery. Plastic. A coat. She hasn’t seen one of those in a while. “And why are you wearing this?” 

“Come on!” Winta latches onto Okan’s arm and rolls off the bed. Before her feet touch the ground Okan has pulled away, 

“Winta, no surprises, remember?” she does her best to sound gentle while she pulls her cloak from under the layers of blankets. It’s the contact, that’s what Okan’s not prepared for. She’s adjusted to keeping control when surprised, having been surrounded by children for the past fortnight. Those children constantly wanting to hold her hands, be lifted up, play with her hair, that’s what’s difficult to get used to after so many years devoid of humanoid touch. Even the last while, all she’d had to deal with was the one baby. 

“I’m sorry.” Winta frowns, a frown that Okan’s seen once before, when she was upset by another child taking a toy from her.

“It’s okay, I’m just reminding you. Will you take the baby for me?” This works. Winta likes responsibility, unusual for a child. 

“Come on! We’re going to miss it!” the little hiccup immediately forgotten, Winta scoops up the child, who coos happily as she skips towards the door. He’s wearing a tiny version of Winta’s coat, Okan notices as she untangles herself from her blankets, “Oh! The jacket!”

“Omera gave her this for you.” Mando’s holding it out to her, another coat. Rubbery, like Winta’s, but much bigger.

“Aren’t you coming along for this life changing event?” Okan asks, yawning just before the question, but he shakes his head.

“Come on!” 

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Obediently, Okan follows, shucking her cloak in favour of the jacket. The pattering sounds grow louder the closer Okan gets to the outside, but it’s when she pulls aside the entry curtain to follow Winta that she stops in her tracks.

Something is falling from the sky. It’s clear, but she can see it. Like the water showers, on the ship, but steam doesn’t roll off these droplets.

“Rain. It’s raining.” Okan catches her breath, reflexively pulls back from the door.

“Mama said you’d like it. You don’t get rain in deserts.” Winta crows, extremely proud of herself. She delivers her piece and skips further out towards the ponds. There are a few other children playing further away, in the same plastic jackets, and some adults moving food inside.

“No, we don’t.” Okan says, far too quietly for Winta to hear while she skips around with the baby. Okan stays still in the doorway. She lifts one hand to the drips falling from the edge of the roof, slower than those falling from the open sky. One drop, two, three, land on her glove. They bead on the coated leather and roll down her wrist, leaving a cool snail trail behind. It’s cold. This revelation pulls a gasp from her, and she feels compelled to say it aloud. It’s cold. Rain is cold. She steps forward and lets these slow drops fall on her head, wetting her hair. These, too, are cold. She can feel each individual drop as it works its way through her hair, splitting into an infinite amount of infinitesimally smaller drips at the ends. Before she steps completely out of the cover of the roof, Okan looks up to the sky. To the huge grey clouds releasing the rain. It’s like looking directly up at the water shower.

The instant Okan steps out onto the pathway between huts, it’s an entirely different experience again. Totally unlike the water shower. Different pressure, different temperature. She doesn’t know if she’s ever felt anything like this, tiny pathways of cold skating down her arms over the plastic coat. However, when she steps on the wooden slat of the path, there’s another, deeply unpleasant sensation. Her socks soak up the water and stick to her feet when she lifts them, squish when she puts them back down. Without hesitation she peels the wet things off and flings them inside the barn. She doesn’t look back into the barn, only ahead, to where Winta is. Her feet are cold now, in direct contact with the wet wood, but when she steps off the pathway and onto the grass everything is different again. The grass still tickles, as it does when it’s dry, but now it sticks to her as she treads on it, the soil softer underneath her. Winta’s jumping up and down, and water is splashing over her boots while the child squeals.

“Is that…a puddle?” She’s never said the word before, only heard it, so it’s hesitant, but Winta grins up at her like it’s Life Day. 

“A puddle, a puddle, a puddle! You jump in them!”

“I can see!” Okan replies. Another puddle lies a few feet to her left, full of ripples as it’s peppered with raindrops. She crouches and lets her hand hover over it before she pushes her fingers into it. This sensation, of her hand in water, isn’t entirely new to her, but the temperature of the water chills her bones. That, the experience of being cold, isn’t one she’s all too familiar with. She can only bear to keep her hand there for a few seconds before she has to pull it out and cradle it to her chest.

Okan joins Winta, and lets the child guide her into the art of playing in the rain, jumping in the puddles until her feet are numb. Winta shows her mud, usually restricted to the pond banks. Okan turns to the barn and sees Mando’s shadow by the open window. She smiles and whoops and laughs, waves both hands at him. Winta joins in, the baby, the other children having formed a knot around him, all waving and smiling until eventually the Mandalorian waves back, pulling a cheer from them before they break apart for their own rain-games or to follow the siren call of hot soup made by their relatives. When Okan looks back to the window, Mando’s gone, so she returns to her guide, taking the baby from Winta so she can carry him and Winta can bounce around.

“I was your age the last time I saw rain, you know,” Okan tells her. The little girl’s eyes are bright and round as coins as she looks up at Okan, her hands swinging back and forth, “On my home planet.”

“Why?” The hood of Winta’s jacket prevents her hair from getting wet, but water forms tiny streams on Okan’s face, drops running down her nose and chin and into her eyes.

“Why what?”

“Why has it been so long since it rained?”

“I had to leave my planet, that’s why I haven’t seen rain. I lived in deserts, and your mother’s right that there’s no rain there. Very little water above the surface at all.”

“Why did you have to leave?” Winta asks at once. Arms still swinging, they wander towards the perimeter fence. The fabric of Okan’s sleeves are wet.

“There were bad people, like the bandits, who wanted the things we had. No one would help us, so we had to run away.”

“Where do you live now?” 

“I don’t know. I left my last planet to look after the baby, but Mando doesn’t live anywhere either.”

“You can live here! We can build you a hut, and you can stay forever.”

“Would you like that?” Okan asks. Winta nods so hard that she starts hopping up and down, splashing her legs with the cold muddy water. It’s wonderful.  Winta’s eyes move past Okan,

“Cara!” The children are just as attached to Cara as they are to Mando and Okan, for reasons the first two really can’t understand. Unlike Mando, however, Cara puts her hands out to the children when they run towards her like Winta is doing now, easily lifting the child up out of the puddles just long enough to tell her to go home. Winta giggles and skips away as soon as she’s dropped. Cara, on the other hand, stamps through the soggy grass towards Okan,

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

“It’s raining.” Okan’s smiling as widely as Winta had been, watching the fabric of Cara’s clothes turn darker raindrop by raindrop.

“Yeah, it’s raining, you’ll catch your kriffing death, come on!” Cara doesn’t shy away from contact with Okan and, ignoring the water droplets sticking to her jacket, braces one hand behind her back and takes hold of her elbow to frogmarch Okan back to the barn, “Don’t laugh, it’s not funny.”

“Why are you mad? It’s rain.”

“It’s cold. Mando, a fire, please?” Cara’s concern and her request for fire make Okan laugh again. Passing the baby to Cara, she sits cross-legged on the floor by the pyramid of wood, landing a little more heavily than she intended, and pulls a glove off. The hand from inside it is trembling. She frowns at it and shakes it to straighten herself out. Warmth rushes to the tips of her fingers, but it hurts, and it shrinks back as though frightened. Okan shakes her hand again. The logs catch fire, a flame leaping not from Okan’s hand but from the flamethrower built into Mando’s vambrace.

“I had that.” Okan protests. The helmet tilts, mocking, before it turns to Cara, 

“What’s wrong?”

“She can’t regulate temperature like we do, Mando. If it’s cold outside, she’s cold inside. Blankets?” Mando nods towards Okan’s bunk. She’s requisitioned most of the blankets over time. He’s let her. Cara puts the baby down, moves to pick up an armful of blankets, and then crouches behind Okan to help her with her coat. She’s struggling with it, her hands trembling more.

“I’ve never been cold. Not like this.”

“What does it feel like?” Cara’s words aren’t unkind, but they’re not particularly concerned either. Indifferent, as is much of her outward self. Okan’s the opposite. Mando can see the shine in her eyes, bright like Winta’s eyes had been, as she cracks a smile at Cara.

“Not just on my skin, in my bones. I’ve never felt that. It was beautiful,” Beautiful, she says that about everything, “It has tired me.” her breaths come with some effort, as though she’d been running.

“Yeah, mouse, if you’re cold your whole system’ll shut down. Cara drops a third blanket around her shoulders before she settles next to Okan. Not close enough to touch. 

“I apologise, I-”

“It’s okay, you’re fine,” Cara says generously. She reaches for her bag and pulls out containers woven from leaves, “Omera sends food, and thanks.”

“Thanks?” Okan repeats.

“Winta doesn’t usually like the rain this much.”

“She was pretty excited about it this morning.” There, just there, Cara smiles. It only lifts one side of her mouth, but Okan catches sight of it.

“Sit.” Mando sighs in response but Cara cuts in, “Yeah, we know, just sit with us. That one’s for the kid.” Cara nudges a fourth container, smaller than the others, towards the child who had been watching her with undisguised want for the food he had undoubtedly smelled. Mando does settle, leaning against the central column in the barn, while Cara scoots back to rest against the side of Okan’s bunk. Okan, for her part, stays close to the fire. She holds her hand in the flames and marvels at how the warmth settles back into her skin, stinging like a needle that’s missed its mark. As the warmth fills her fingers it pushes the cold up along the pathways her veins form in her arms. Fascinated, she stares at herself as though she can see through her skin.

“Eat, Okan.” Modulated voice, a reminder. The child has already thrown himself into his box, head first. A few krill have fallen out in his enthusiasm. Okan lifts the lid of her own container and steam pours out of it. A small device has been woven between the leaves, radiating the heat that has kept the food warm. Rice, vegetables, krill. The baby crows as he discovers a bread roll, tinted green by the flour the farmers make.

“Hey, sprout. You gonna share?” Okan calls to him. The baby’s head tilts in a movement that mimics Mando, “I’ll give you my fishies.” She plucks a single krill from the pile of rice with the smooth pieces of wood the people of Sorgan use for cutlery. The child considers this for several moments, head turning this way and that, before he shoves the bread roll into his mouth whole. Cara laughs, short and sharp though somewhat muffled by the rice in her mouth, making Okan giggle in turn before she sets to picking individual krill up with her sticks and pushing them into one corner of the container. Mando laughs too, that little half-huff that doesn’t always filter through the helmet.

“What’s the plan for you now?” Cara asks eventually, once the small-talk of a meal time is done with. While asking she waves a hand rather vaguely, indicating all members of the party rather than addressing Mando in particular. He hasn’t said very much since this morning, so Okan takes the responsibility,

“We’re going to stay for a while, I think. There’s no danger here anymore now, right?” her words are a little stilted, her accent stronger, showing her tiredness. The helmet wobbles from side to side, just enough for Okan to notice, “But how long will things stay quiet? People in the town are going to notice the farm is making money again, I guess. They’ll know something’s going on,” she concedes, “I think we should still stay. The baby likes it here,” this isn’t going to sway her friends, she knows, “And if we leave we don’t get our wages from their fresh harvest.”

“Good counterpoint,” Cara admits with a nod and an approving finger pointed in Okan’s direction, “It is quiet here. Almost too quiet.”

“I think we like quiet, huh, buddy?” This Okan addresses to the child, as he toddles his way over to her. He plumps down directly beside the container that now holds nothing but krill and a few grains of rice. Before he can try to rescue some crumbs of food, Okan slides the container quickly and cleanly across the floor towards Mando. A few seconds later a box slides back in her direction with his leftover vegetables, which she snatches up before the child can notice. He squawks when he realises food has been airlifted away from him, but is distracted by the little silver ball Cara rolls across the floor for him. All heads turn to follow him as he gives chase.

“What is that thing anyway, he loves it.” Cara asks.

“It’s from the ship.” Mando mutters.

“It’s the handle of one of those. Lever things.” Okan answers Cara and aims her next words at the Mandalorian, “But you said he could keep it.”

“Until we get back to the ship.”

“You’re going to be the one to take it from him then, ‘cause he’s going to cry.” Okan tells him. Teeth clamped around her cutlery, her hand shoots out to catch the ball that’s streaking through the air like a comet, “Sprout, be careful, please,” she implores the child before rolling the ball across the floor again. He crawls towards Mando’s bunk in pursuit of it. Okan’s little laugh is shaken by a shiver that makes her head twitch, but she assures her friends that she’s alright. She’s not sure when she started using that word for them. Friend. Mando had used it, referred to her as his friend rather than his employee, before they came here. The last time she had multiple friends she didn’t even know the word for it in Basic. She thinks Cara’s her friend. Cara treats her kindly, works with her rather than against her. Cara, like Mando, like Kuiil, understands what it is to be alone. That understanding builds a connection. That’s what a friend is, as her memory serves.

“Hey, Nokanish,” Cara’s voice, disturbing her ruminations, “your charge has disappeared.” Giggles burst out from under the bunk, becoming muffled then clear as the child rolls around. 

“He’s fine.” Okan assures her.

Mere moments later a lizard rockets out from under the bunk, dragging a shrieking child behind it.

“Venomous!” Cara barks, hitching herself up onto the bunk in a whip. The other two both dive in the same direction, Okan’s shoulder colliding hard with the beskar helmet. She curls around the child and rolls while Mando seizes hold of the lizard, at the base of its chunky tail, and pulls. The child’s little hessian robe tears at the feet. Mando pushes to his feet, lifting the lizard as far away from the floor as possible as it snaps at thin air and thrashes to try and bite his captor’s arm. 

“Get off the floor.” Okan follows this order without resistance, deliberately skipping across the room to join Cara on her own bunk and tucking her feet under herself. Turning the child in her lap and whipping what’s left of his robe off, she begins the process of checking his limbs for bite marks. “Cara, bunk.”

“I’m not going near that thing, what if there’s a nest?” Cara protests while the lizard is disposed of through the window.

“What if there’s a nest and they get out and bite the baby?” Okan counters. Cara sighs. Looks at the kid, who is rather confused as to why he’s being held upside down. Okan has defaulted to her own language, which Cara can’t remember enough of to understand, to narrate her actions.

“Fuck, fine.” Cara grumbles, but she does get up and go over to the bunk, waiting until Mando has blaster in hand before she takes hold of the bed and heaves. She uses a foot to roll the little silver ball out onto the open floor.

***

The weeks on Sorgan pass faster than light, the rice Okan had helped Caben plant during the first few days growing four full feet in the blink of an eye. Omera had sewn her a krill-dyed dress and a patchwork-rag shirt. Winta’s first big sewing project had been a new robe for the child. There are gifts for Mando, too, from the farmers, mostly food and decorations for the barn as though it’s their house. People like giving him cushions. They tend to give Cara the first jugs of fresh batches of spotchka. The child, of course, is the favourite. Children donate their toys to him, feed him their treats and make up new games every week. Cara and Mando end their combat lessons with the farmers, but Mando insists on picking a fight with Okan every few nights which inevitably ends in burned and broken spears.

In short, they settle. Okan, it transpires, has a talent for establishing routines quickly, tweaking them until they work, and sticking to them. She’d formed a routine on the Razor Crest, and she had formed a new routine on Sorgan. Now the bandits are gone, the people are free to explore the woods again. Small groups have been going out, in areas scouted by Mando and Cara beforehand. Okan spends hours that amount to full days among the trees with the children and stays outside as long as Cara will let her when it rains. She collects leaves from the trees - one of the farmers shows her how to dry and press them properly so they don’t crumble to dust when held - and makes posies out of wildflowers for the children. The rose the Bothan had given her on Nevarro, streaked with sunrise colours, has been planted in Omera’s garden as a gift to Winta on her birthday. It wouldn’t have survived for much longer in its delivery bubble.

Routine. Each day begins with muffled debate through the curtain over who is due to change the baby and ends with meals painstakingly split between the adults while the child gnaws his way through a bread roll. It’s calm and quiet, but in a way that’s different from the calm and quiet of the desert. There are other people here, that’s what the main difference is. People who will always present them with something else to do. There’s no time for sitting and staring into space, except for mealtimes and nap times. Everyone is sufficiently tuckered out by the end of the day. 

Okan spends a full day in the woods with some of the older residents foraging for mushrooms, wild garlic and radishes, though she does get sidetracked and collects a fistful of ferns and ties them together with a string to take back to the barn. She helps them cook the evening meal when they return to the farm, joining the group that gathers round the fire every night. She and Mando aren’t often a part of this group, sitting on the edge with Okan picking at her food while the child eats with the other kids. This night, the sun is fighting to stay up longer than the other night. Cara has requisitioned a crate and a bucket as a chair outside Omera’s hut, and Mando’s settled into his usual relaxed stance of leaning against the wall and kicking one foot out. Cara already has the spotchka out, and pours a cup for Okan when she sees her, trading it for her dinner. Okan leaves Mando’s food by the jug.

“Everything okay?” she asks because they’re quiet. Sure, quiet is normal, but at this stage she usually expects a greeting, or at least thanks for the meal, a question about her day.

“We’re fine.” It’s Mando that answers, not Cara.

“Sure?” Okan looks to Cara deliberately, waiting until her friend nods before she settles onto the wooden decking around the house, leaning against the wall in a sun-trap enhanced by the rays of light bouncing off Mando’s armour.  

“Where’s the kid?” Mando asks. Okan points towards one of the krill ponds, the one the children are crowded around,

“Frog legs for dinner. That is a human thing, right?”

“Right,” Cara answers, “Mon Calamari and the Quarren like ‘em too.”

“Calamari, you have Calamari credits, right, Mando?” Cara asks. Mando obliges her, rooting in the drawstring bag he keeps spare pennies in and bringing out small objects to drop in Okan’s hand.

“They call it flan. Like the food.” Cara explains. Okan turns the credits over in her hand. They’re round, marbled blue and white, stamped with a sign she doesn’t understand. More malleable than regular credits made of metal, she bends a unit between her fingers almost in half before she holds them out to Mando.

“Keep it. I’ll get you the rest later.”

“Wages?” Okan asks. Mando nods.

“Where are my wages?” Cara asks, with the cheeky smile that Okan has now seen a good few times when she’s found something funny. This joke, about the wages, is one of Cara’s favourites.

“You get paid by the farmers, same as I do,” he explains, “She just gets a cut of mine.” Okan jingles her own drawstring bag, the one that holds the credits Mando tosses her way once a week. She doesn’t have permission to go into town yet, so the credits are being saved until she’s allowed to go through to the other side of the woods. Every time Caben and Stoke go to market they report back to Mando. There are still mumblings about the sudden and entire disappearance of the raiders, so it’s been decided that trips to town still aren’t safe yet. 

“Guess I can’t complain about getting paid to sit around and drink, can I?”

The next day, the rice is due to be threshed, an opportunity that Okan’s never really had as a farmer. The process of growing and harvesting rice is unfamiliar, though she’d bought the stuff by the sack on Arvala-7. Or stolen, due to hiked-up revenge prices set by locals. Omera works in the krill ponds, so Okan’s put under Magda’s supervision. Magda, sleeping toddler strapped to her back, gives her one of the specially-designed knives her grandfather used to make for the whole village and teaches her the history of the knife while she teaches Okan how to use it. She picks it up pretty quickly, quite adept with blades, and sets herself into a pattern with Magda, who spends the time telling Okan about the history of the farm and its people. The other villagers are passing their day in a similar way, divided between the krill ponds and the little paddy fields of rice. There are droids, too, wading in the ponds with large baskets to drain the krill. The children are left to roam free, their parents no longer keeping their families within eyesight in case they get raided, the kids themselves not having to scout for hiding places every time something in the woods moves.

“Hey, uh, lunch break?” Not Magda’s voice. Cara, who has been left to her own devices as she usually is.

“You don’t have any lunch.” Okan points out, squinting up into the sun that Cara’s standing in front of. 

“Just get over here.” Cara tells her. Okan looks to Magda to make sure she’s heard. Magda asks her to take her son to the nursery building, and undoes the wrap keeping him in place to pass him to her in exchange for the knife and bag of rice shoots. Okan wipes her gloved hands on her trousers one by one, keeping Magda’s son upright against her shoulder to try and keep him asleep while she follows Cara away from the knot of workers. Cara’s hand goes to Okan’s elbow to guide her, “Sorry, mouse, I just gotta give it to you straight.”

“Give me what? Is something wrong?” Okan asks, voice low to match Cara’s. Cara glances back towards the pond, where Mando is in conversation with Omera, and pulls Okan behind the nearest hut. She seems…conflicted.

“Tin can’s movin’ on.” These words are blurted out reluctantly.

“No, we’re not leaving, we’re not done with harvest.”

“He spent all morning packing his shit, Okan.”

“I’m not packed.” Okan frowns, not quite understanding what’s happening. 

“Because you’re not going with him. He’s leaving you and the kid here, he told me last night.”

“The kid? What? No, no, he can’t leave us, Cara,” Okan’s shaking her head, frowning, shifting the toddler she’s carrying from one shoulder to the other before she hands him to Cara, “Take him to the nursery.”

“Hey, I don’t do the kids,” Cara protests, but Okan’s already let go and she’s taken hold, “Okan, can you take him, I don’t want to hold him…”

Okan’s gone, left Cara with Magda’s toddler. She passes the group of children playing with the baby, pausing to brush a hand over his little green head, before she locates Omera and Mando.

“Omera, can I have a minute here?” Omera, the gods should bless her, smiles and retreats. Okan moves into the space she had been standing in, directly in front of Mando. Her fingers prickle inside her gloves as she stares up into the helmet. “You’re leaving.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes. I can’t stay here.”

“What about him?” Okan gestures towards the children. They’re sitting quietly together, sharing stories.

“He stays here. With you. With Omera and Winta. Where it’s safe.” Short, simple sentences, as though he’s reminding her of a pre-existing plan.

“Safe? You won’t let us go into town.” Okan’s voice rises in pitch, though she tries to keep her voice quiet.

“I said I would take you somewhere safe, I didn’t say I would stay.”

“Mando. Barshtok, I set things on fire if I think too hard. He levitates if his porridge is the wrong temperature,” The prickling climbs up her arms, bringing red tendrils of colour with it, “I hid when the raiders came. I hid on Arvala. I ran on Nevarro. What am I going to do when all those bounty hunters do eventually find us? How am I meant to get us off-planet?” 

“They’re not going to find you. You hid for nine years before. You stay here, you stay low, and-”

A gunshot. Okan’s already sprinting towards the kids when Mando gives the order to cover them. Most of the farmers have scattered, reminders of the raiders forcing them into old hiding places. Okan keeps as close to the ground as she can, Mando dashing in the other direction as if to try and catch up with the shooter. Winta’s protests can be heard over the panic, she’d been lifted by a passing farmer and whisked away from the child. The child, who has been left alone, confused and afraid. Okan skids the last few feet to him on her knees, keeping her back to the woods.

“You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you. I have you, ha’be.” Panting between her words, Okan wraps the child in her cloak to keep him close and keeps running.

Mando finds her in the barn, screwed up in the corner behind the crib. Trousers streaked with mud, yellow ringing her elbows. The child is firmly swaddled in her cloak, clutched to her chest like a precious necklace. She’s found his vibroblade, and holds it out, hand shaking, when he steps into the barn, only lowering it when she hears his voice.

“If you leave,” Okan’s breathing is still laboured but her words are firm, “You take us with you.” Mando throws something that lands at her feet, hitting her shoes. A tracking fob. Broken, smashed, but still recognisable as a tracking fob.

“We’re leaving.”

#second star #star wars #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian oc #okan the unknown #rae's ocs #baby yoda #grogu #mando #original character #rae's writing

[thesinglesjukebox]

OKAN - "ORIKI OSHUN"

Dorian offers us a prayer...

[8.25]

Dorian Sinclair: OKAN's invocation of the goddess Oshun has real power to it, and, as befits a deity so strongly associated with water, real depth as well. The layers of percussion, synth and violin are ever-changing, finding new ways to refract off each other as they wrap around Elizabeth Rodriguez's vocal lead. And what a voice it is -- expressive, forceful, and somehow simultaneously commanding and vulnerable. I don't speak Lucumi, but Rodriguez easily conveys both loss and resilience, as the shifting tides of the instrumentation pool around her. [10]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: The religious services that I have always found meaning within are all exercises in tension and release -- the interplay of hunger, memory, and forgiveness embedded within the day long arc of a Yom Kippur service, the slow, trance-like waking of the early-morning Thai Buddhist rituals my mother and aunt would take me to as a kid. "Oriki Oshun" is not of those particular traditions, but it captures in its four minutes a similar build, sticking tight to a perfectly struck groove until the track flowers into something more, a feast of guitars and chants and rushes of drums that feels like exaltation. [8]

Will Adams: The urgency and energy cultivated in the song's main section -- with bustling percussion, Rodriguez's commanding vocal, that blazing guitar solo -- feels like it could be sustained for over ten minutes. OKAN know better, though, and restrict themselves to four minutes, allowing the silence following the prayer to speak volumes. [7]

Ian Mathers: That guitar solo feels a bit late period Santana-core in context, but in context it actually really works for me. Even without reading the description on YouTube and knowing the (personal, harrowing) context behind its creation "Oriki Oshun" feels like it earns the sense of drama and grandeur that builds and builds throughout the song. [7]

Peter Ryan: Magdelys Savigne's blistering percussion is so overpowering that it took me a few listens to key into Rodriguez's vital rhythmic violin-work that underpins most of the track, two obvious virtuosos propelling each other from vibey ceremonial first half through a tenacious conclusion. More prayers should have this urgency. [8]

Michael Hong: As prayer music should be, OKAN's offering is lively, trading electric guitar licks and urgent drums in exchange for a demand for protection. If the chant offers something repetitive, Rodriguez forces her voice to offer something more, wailing as if wondering if it's all enough. [6]

Nortey Dowuona: One of the many public narratives about Lido Pimienta was her leadership capabilities for young brown girls. But the best example of leadership is by example; Lido brought OKAN on tour with her, four months after their first album dropped. And in the time since, they have released a second, even better album, collaborated with Bomba Estéreo and Lido again, featured on Miss Colombia and lost a child. They now ask Oshun for protection for their new child's life, with a stunning violin solo that winds across the branches of the drums and trunk of the bass into an outstretched hand, waiting, the ebbing synth notes a question mark on whether they have received the blessing. A prayer we are all allowed to hear because of Lido. [10]

Tara Hillegeist: My fondness for popular culture often runs me at odds with my personal interest in leaving a stranger's grief at their doorstep, out of my earshot, where I believe it belongs unless I've already been invited in to share, communally, in their lives beforehand, to such degree that I can no longer credibly accuse myself of being unknown to them anymore. I am not willing to play the thief of another's sorrows nor call that performance "compassion." As such, upon being presented with the very real experience inspiring this song's creation, I personally felt it would be too inappropriate to engage with the song within the confines of the Jukebox format, and thus... I chose to set it aside, until or unless I could find a means to reconcile my own convictions about the use case or lack thereof for a blurb and the material at hand. It's been about a month since then. What changed my mind? Well -- I couldn't stop listening to the song itself. And it was somewhere in those listens that I realized I was making a stiff-backed fool of myself for the sake of my principles. It's difficult to hear something as welcoming, as open, as purely delightful-as-in-"full of delight" as "Oriki Oshun" and feel something besides invited in. This is songcraft as community-healing practice, whatever its origins: a plea rooted in hope, motivated by its grievous origins to kick up a righteous enough noise that it can chase that pain far, far away, where its echoes can reach home no longer. And I, at least, shall not continue to fear dancing with it, together. [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

#okan #music #music writing #music reviews #music criticism #the singles jukebox #Youtube

[ceydagayane]

Tunç Okan- 1975

Modernizm ve asimile olmaya hazır olmayan, sadece para kazanmak için göç eden kendi insanı tarafından kandırılan Türk insanları bu filmde anlatılır.

The Turks, who are not ready for assimilation and modernism, are deceived by their own people who migrated just to earn money in this movie.

Otobüs onları diğer kodlara taşıyan bir sağlayıcı gibi gözükse de aslında dil bilmeyen ve ana rahminden koparılan beden, yeni yerde kendinden bir şeyler bulamaz. Yaşamak içinde ölmek deyimi bu bilinmez yolculukta gerçekleşir.

Although the bus seems to be a provider that carries them to other codes, the body, which does not speak the language and has just been cut off from the womb, cannot find anything of itself in its new place. The idiom "to die alive" takes place on this unknown journey.

***Amerika’dan gelen nir fotoğraf makinesiyle göç edenleri aldatan şöför bir hatıra fotoğrafı çeker, ve makineyi över. Bu kısım, Fotoğrafcılık derslerinde ilk girişte mizansen olarak kullanılabilir.

***The driver, who deceived immigrants with a nir camera from America, praises the camera by taking a souvenir photo. This section can be used as a mise en scene for the first introduction in Photography classes.

#art #cinema #movieland #otobüs #year: 1975

[sweet-pinkitty]

Title is S級恋愛

➡️It's Love♡Choice

This work starts from the place where the overwhelming visual "fake" spirit medium and the main character start spending time together by chance. It is an exciting romantic comedy that fosters friendship and love by challenging strange rare cases together while being tossed by those who do not have the common sense of love in the world.

The highlight of this work is that the story that starts from a feeling of less than love is colored with beautiful illustrations and movies, and you can feel the surprise and unexpected breasts that have never been seen in love stories so far.

Release Date: Septiembre 13, 2021 (JP)

_

Synopsis

They live dirty in a corner of Shinjuku, and they are "Fake" spirit mediums.

Deceive ducks with a visual S-class smile and earn a lot of money!

For some reason, to act with those who are not credible-

"So what do you do? Do you want to raise my liking?"

The love template of the world

It's unknown how it rolls ──…!??

I am protected and loved by the reverse heroine

Can't you be? (Crying)

_

Character Introduction

Suzumu Mado Quibble Armed Gold Dead

|

Harushige Chikuma Lake Biwa Hardship Okan

|

Ayataka Shiki Transcendental Beauty eradication Chairma

|

Taro Akuchi Silent and Unfriendly

|

Aiji Mamonaka Obsessive Monopoly Lust Snake Man

_

Here the attention of 「S級恋愛」

Attention point of the work!

Working on one of the most popular characters in "100Koi+" This is a new title by a gorgeous production team.

Overwhelming visual men will appear.

It makes you want to pause for each scene A beautiful movie colors the work.

The reading time of the prologue is about 30 minutes. We will deliver a rich and voluminous story.

Attention point of the story!

"Love (?) X Mystery = Inquisitive Medium Master"!?? A story of a combination that has never been seen before.

By chance, you are the only red point in the group. While acting with them, the feelings changed--?

At first, start with feelings less than love. You can enjoy the movement of your heart ♥

"Why do you squeeze in such a place...?" There are also surprising and surprising breast knuckle points!

Overcoming strange rare incidents and nurturing with him Friendship, love, or ── ...!??

#S級恋愛 #窓鈴虫 #Suzumu Mado #干曲ハルシゲ #Harushige Chikuma #四季絢貴 #Ayataka Shiki #圷太郎 #Taro Akuchi #幻中愛治 #Aiji Mamonaka #Voltage Inc #100シーンの恋+ #100恋+ #Love♡Choice #Japanese Version

[transtranscendence]

2010-2011 - We will not be silenced. We must fight back against transphobia.

For Dandara, murdered on July 4, 2010, in Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil.

For the unknown person murdered on July 6, 2010, in São Bernardo do Campo, São Paulo, Brazil.

For “Juan Carlos” Crespo Molina, murdered on July 7, 2010, in Terraplén, Loíza, Puerto Rico.

For Natasha de Souza Oliveira, murdered on July 8, 2010, in Uberaba, Minas Gerais, Brazil. 

For Scarlety, murdered on July 8, 2010, in Balsas, Maranhão, Brazil.

For Michele da Silva Bulhões, murdered on July 12, 2010 in Uberaba, Minas Gerais, Brazil. 

For “Uziel” Figueiredo Araújo, murdered on July 22, 2010, in Salvador, Bahia, Brazil.

For Paola González Mendez, murdered on July 25, 2010, in San Francisco, Zulia, Venezuela.

For Jessica, murdered on July 27, 2010, in Guerrero, Mexico.

For “Alcebíades” Alves de Melo, murdered on August 12, 2010, in Caxias do Sul, Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil.

For Dani Bananinha Feitosa de Andrade, murdered on August 14, 2010, in Caruaru, Pernambuco, Brazil.

For Karen Mendonça, murdered on August 18, 2010, in Fortaleza, Ceará, Brazil.

For Lorraine, murdered on August 19, 2010, in Teresina, Piauí, Brazil.

For “Sidney” Nascimento, murdered on August 21, 2010, in Campo Grande, Mato Grosso do Sul, Brazil.

For Jaqueline Eunapio Garcao, murdered on August 22, 2010, in Dores, Sergipe, Brazil.

For Elane, murdered on August 29, 2010, in Salvador da Bahia, Brazil.

For Keila Rios, murdered on August 31, 2010, in Mata S. Joao, Bahia, Brazil.

For the unknown person murdered on September 4, 2010, in Maceió, Alagoas, Brazil.

For “Gypsy”, murdered on September 6, 2010, in Houston, TX.

For Letícia Soares, murdered on September 10, 2010, in Curitiba, Paraná, Brazil.

For La Flaca Soto González, murdered on September 13, 2010, in Juana Diaz, Puerto Rico.

For Michele González García, murdered on September 13, 2010, in Juana Diaz, Puerto Rico.

For Irem Okan, murdered on September 20, 2010, in Bursa, Turkey.

For Duda Fernandes, murdered on September 21, 2010, in Piracicaba, São Paulo, Brazil.

For “José Anacleto” Honorato, murdered on September 23, 2010, in Caruaru, Pernambuco, Brazil.

For the unknown person murdered on September 26, 2010, in Chihuahua, Bursa, Mexico.

For Ademir do Nascimento Silva, murdered on September 27, 2010, in Belo Horizonte, Minas Gerais, Brazil.

For “Jefferson” Dias Nicasso, murdered on October 10, 2010, in Apericida de Goiania, Goiás, Brazil.

For Luisana Gaspar Rojas, murdered on October 10, 2010, in Asunción, Distrito Capital, Paraguay.

For Paloma da Silva Raposa, murdered on October 17, 2010, in Terra Rica, Paraná, Brazil.

For La Tuerta Santana Morales, murdered on October 17, 2010, in Quindió, Colombia.

For the unknown person murdered on October 21, 2010, in Maracanau, Ceará, Brazil.

For Débora Durán Correa, murdered on October 22, 2010, in Machala, El Oro, Ecuador.

For the unknown person murdered on October 22, 2010, in Fortaleza, Ceará, Brazil.

For Cleisiane, murdered on October 27, 2010, in Teresina, Piauí, Brazil.

For the unknown person murdered on October 28, 2010, in Guerrero, Mexico.

For Erica Luna, murdered on October 31, 2010, in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

For the unknown person murdered on October 31, 2010, in Michoacán, Mexico.

For “Julio Adelino” Rodrigues, murdered on November 3, 2010, in Recife, Pernambuco, Brazil.

For the unknown person murdered on November 6, 2010, in Sheikhupura, Punjab, Pakistan.

For the unknown person murdered on November 7, 2010, in Sheikhupura, Punjab, Pakistan.

For Emanuelly Colaço Tabordo, murdered on November 9, 2010, in Praia de Leste, Paraná, Brazil.

For Rani, murdered on November 11, 2010, in Surat, Odisha, India.

For Serap, murdered on November 12, 2010, in Iİzmir, Turkey.

For the unknown person murdered on November 13, 2010, in Matão, São Paulo, Brazil.

For the unknown person murdered on November 14, 2010, in Baugio, Philippines.

For Jurema, murdered on November 25, 2010, in Ipirá, Bahia, Brazil.

For “Fernando”, murdered on November 25, 2010, in Ipirá, Bahia, Brazil.

For Adriana, murdered on November 27, 2010, in Quito, Ecuador.

For Valentina, murdered on November 29, 2010, in Ibague, Tolima, Colombia.

For Sandra, murdered on November 29, 2010, in Brasilia, Distrito Federal, Brazil.

For Marcinha, murdered on November 29, 2010, in Santa Maria, Brasilia, Distrito Federal, Brazil.

For Alison, who was murdered on November 30, 2010, in Salitre, Guayas, Ecuador.

For Kirat Pal, murdered on December 1, 2010, in Greater Noida, Uttar Pradesh, India.

For “Charm Ashwan” Williams, murdered on December 3, 2010, in Kingston, Jamaica.

For the unknown person murdered on December 3, 2010, in Hidrolandia, Goiás, Brazil.

For “Reinaldo Davino da Silva”, murdered on December 5, 2010, in Benedito Bentes, Maceio, Alagoas, Brazil.

For Mica, murdered on December 7, 2010, in Umarizal, Belem, Pará, Brazil.

For “Jocivaldo Alves”, murdered on December 9, 2010, in Ibirapitanga, Bahia, Brazil.

For the unknown person murdered on December 13, 2010, in Cali, Valle de Cauca, Columbia.

For Nataly Rojas, murdered on December 13, 2010, in Candelaria, Valle del Cauca, Colombia.

For Pamela, murdered on December 13, 2010, in Cali, Valle de Cauca, Columbia.

For the unknown person murdered on December 15, 2010, in Moreno, Pernambuco, Brazil.

For Farlen, murdered on December 17, 2010, in Nova Serrana, Minas Gerais, Brazil.

For Lorenza Alexis Alvarado Hernandez, murdered on December 18, 2010, in Comayaguela, Distrito Central, Honduras.

For Diana, murdered on December 18, 2010, in Valle del Cauca, Colombia.

For the unknown person murdered on December 18, 2010, in Planalto Serrano, Serra, Espirito Santo, Brazil.

For Lady Oscar, murdered on December 20, 2010, in Tegucigalpa, Distrito Central, Honduras.

For Mirela, murdered on December 21, 2010, in Curitiba, Paraná, Brazil.

For “Carlos Bispo dos Santos”, murdered on December 23, 2010, in Goiandia, Goiás, Brazil.

For Erica Pinheiro de Siqueira, murdered on December 25, 2010, in Pajucara, Maceio, Alagoas, Brazil.

For Luisa, murdered on December 27, 2010, in Dr. Silvio Leite, Boa Vista, Roraima, Brazil. 

For Cheo Reana Bustamente, murdered on December 29, 2010, in Tegucigalpa, Distrito Central, Honduras.

For Jelwin Tolentino, murdered on December 31, 2010, in Aklan, Philippines.

For Reana ‘Cheo’ Bustamente murdered on January 2 2011, in Tegucigalpa, Distrito Central, Honduras

For Génisis Bridget Makaligton murdered on January 7 2011 in Comayaguela, Distrito Central, Honduras

For the unknown person murdered on January 7, 2011 in Santos, São Paulo, Brazil

For the unknown person murdered on January 8th, 2011 in the Philippines 

For the unknown person murdered on January 8th, 2011 in Ocoyoacac, Estado de México, Mexico

For the unknown person murdered on January 9th, 2011 I  Apatzingan, Michoacán, Mexico

For Adriana murdered on January 12, 2011 in Cariacica, Espírito Santo, Brazil

For the unknown person who was murdered on January 15, 2011 in Centro, Joao Pessoa, Paraíba, Brazil

For Laisa murdered on January 16, 2011 in Quindio, Colombia

For Angela murdered on January 17, 2011 In Maracaibo, Zulia, Venezuela 

For Fergie murdered on January 17, 2011 in San Pedro Sula, Cortés, Honduras

For Marcia murdered on January 18, 2011 in Centro, Jaragua do Sul, Santa Catarina, Brazil

For the unknown person who was murdered on January 20, 2011 in Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico

For Mini Britany murdered on January 2011, in Santa Cruz, Bolivia 

For the unknown person murdered on January 22, 2011 in Capao Bonito, São Paulo, Brazil

For the unknown person murdered on January 23, 2011 in Jameiro, São Paulo, Brazil

For Natasha murdered on January 24, 2011 in Cidade Industrial, Curitiba, Paraná, Brazil

For Ivo Valentin murdered on January 25, 2011 in Curitiba, Paraná, Brazil

For Mariana murdered on January 25, 2011 In Oran, Salta, Argentina 

For the unknown person murdered on January 29, 2011 in Zapopan, Jalisco, Mexico

For Angie murdered on January 30, 2011 in Cali, Valle Del Cuaca, Colombia

For Alejandra Marin murdered on January 30, 2011, Valle Del Cauca, Colombia

For 2 unknown trans women murdered on January 31, 2011 in Barinas, Venezuela 

For Carla murdered on January 31, 2011 in Penedo, Alagoas, Brazil

For Geruza  murdered on February 1, 2011 in Joao Pessoa, Paraiba, Brazil

For Laura Renan murdered on February 2, 2011  in São Sebastian, Minas Gerais, Brazil

For the unknown person murdered on February 2, 2011 Recoletac Bueno Aires, Argentina

For the unknown person murdered on February 4th, 2011 in Pinheiros, São Paulo, Brazil

For Lorraine murdered on February 4, 2011 in Senador Canedo, Goiás, Brazil

For the unknown Person murdered on February 7, 2011 in Charallave, Miranda, Venezuela

For “Esteban Gonzalez Gomez” murdered on February 7th, 2011 in Alvaro Obregon, Michoacán, Mexico

For Fernanda murdered on February 9, 2011 in Hidrolandia, Goiás, Brazil

For the unknown person murdered on February 12, 2011 in Torres del PRI, Ciudad Juarez Chihuahua, Mexico

For “Luis Fernando Ormeno” murdered on February 13, 2011 in Quito, Ecuador

For Nicol Balanta murdered on February 13, 2011 in Valle del Cauca, Colombia

For Capenga murdered on February 14, 2011 in Salvador, Bahia, Brazil

For Moni murdered on February 14, 2011 in Moreno, Buenos Aires, Argentina

For Poh Hiao Peng murdered on February 15, 2011 i Georgetown, Penang, Malaysia

For the unknown person murdered on February 17, 2011 in Mielenko Drawskie, Drawsko, Poland

For Mireya murdered on February 17, 2011 in Cuidad de Panamá, Panama

For Aline murdered on February 20, 2011 Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil

For unknown person murdered on February 22, 2011 in Sinaloa, Mexico

For Cruz Escorcia murdered on February 22, 2011 in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala

For the unknown person murdered on February 28, 2011 in Santa Barbara, Pangasinan, Philippines

For the unknown person murdered on February 28, 2011 Malasiqui, Pangasinan, Philippines

For the unknown person murdered on February 28, 2011 in Baguio, Benguet, Philippines

For Val Graças Souza murdered on March 6, 2011 in Morumbi, São Paulo, Brazil

For Casandra murdered on March 8, 2011 in Cunduacan, Tabasco, Mexico

For Andrea murdered on March 8, 2011 Medellin, Antiouquia, Colombia

For Shakira murdered on March 10, 201- in Taman Lawang, Jakarta, Indonesia

For the unknown person murdered on March 11, 2011 in Sumaré, São Paulo, Brazil

For Tininha murdered on March 11, 2011 in Atibaia, São Paulo, Brazil

For La Jenny murdered on March 12, 2011 in Chiabal, Cancun, Quintana Roo, Mexico

For R. Suresh murdered on March 13, 2011 in Chennai, Tamil Nadu, India

For Andrea murdered on March 17, 2011 in Valle Del Cauca, Colombia 

For the unknown person murdered on March 17, 2011 in Ipojuca, Renambuco, Brazil

For “Javier Ortega Rodriguez” murdered on March 18, 2011 i  Salamanca, Guanajuato, Mexico

For the unknown person murdered on March 18, 2011 in Sumaré, São Paulo, Brazil 

For the unknown person murdered on March 19, 2011 in Callie Libertad, chihuahua, Mexico

For “Osimar Sebastião de Souza Junior” on March 21, 2011 in Passos, Minas Gerais, Brazil

For S.P.  murdered on March 22, 2011 in Izmir, Turkey

For “Marco Jose Pereira da Silva” murdered on March 22, 2011 in Ibura, Recife, Pernambuco, Brazil

For the unknown person murdered on March 23, 2011 in Tepoztlãn, Morelos, Mexico

For the unknown person murdered on March 24, 2011 in Antioquia, Colombia

For Leidy Garcia murdered on March 27, 2011 in Bogota, Colombia

For Jessica murdered on March 27, 2011 in Santa Fe, Colombia

For Brenda Vanessa Viveros Peralta murdered on March 29, 2011 in Valle del Cauca, Colombia

For the 3 unknown persons murdered on March 31, 2011 in Anori, Amazonas, Brazil

For the unknown person murdered on April 2, 2011 in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

For Zharick murdered on April 6, 2011 in Bogota, Colombia 

For Grace da Silva murdered on April 6, 2011 in Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil

For Paulinha César de Oliveira murdered on April 9, 2011 in Minas Gerais, Brazil

For Rafaela Thompson murdered on April 11, 2011 in Vilhena, Ronzdõnia, Brazil

For Beyonce Nascimento dos Santos murdered April 14, 2011, Itupua, Salvador da Bahia, Brazil

For “Armando Cabrera Martinez” murdered on April 15, 2011 in Puebla, Mexico

For Inete murdered on April 15, 2011 in Campina Grande, Paraiba, Brazil

For Waseem murdered on April’s 16, 2011 in Hydrerabad, Telangana, Pakistan

For Kali murdered in April 16, 2011 in Hyderabad, Telangana, Pakistan

For Cristal Sodi murdered in April 18, 201- in San Cristóbal, Dominican Republic

For Narin B murdered on April 19, 2011 in Izmir, Turkey

For the unknown person murdered on April 19, 2011 in San Pedro Sula, Cortés, Honduras

For Bibi murdered on April 27, 2011 in Sao Pedro, Rondônia, Brazil

For Ale murdered on April 27, 2011 in Buenos Aires, Argentina

For La Domenicana murdered on April 30, 2011 in Caracas, Venezuela

For Kimberly Rubí Bianconi López murdered on April 30, 2011 in Caracas, Venezuela 

For the unknown person murdered on April 30, 2011 in La Laja, Guerrero, Mexico

For Barbara murdered on May 1, 2011 in San Andres Chiluba, Puebla, Mexico

For Preta Gil murdered on May 1, 2011 in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

For “Jean Carlos Pereira da Sailva” murdered on May 1, 2011 i  Tapera, Ceará, Brazil

For Naomi murdered on May 5, 2011 in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic

For the unknown person murdered on May 11, 2011 in Contagem, Minas Gerais, Brazil

For “Felipe Roberto” de Freitas Silva murdered on May 12, 2011 in Lagoa Santa, Minas Gerais, Brazil

For Luisa Nicol Valera murdered on May 13, 2011 in El Rosal, Caracas, Venezuela 

For the unknown person murdered on May 18, 2011 in Recife, Pernambuco, Brazil

For Paloma murdered on May 21, 2011 in Itaguai, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

For “Milda Rusel Aguilar Donis” murdered on May 24, 2011 in Santa Rosa de Lima, Guatemala 

For Alicinha da Cruz murdered on May 28, 2011 in Cuiaba, Mayo Grosso, Brazil

For “Roberto Confessor da Silva”  murdered on May 28, 2011 in Joāo Pessoa, Paraiba, Brazil

For Levinha murdered on May 31, 2011 in Salvador, Bahia, Brazil

For “Alexandre dos Anjos” on May 31, 2011 in Bahia, Brazil

#transgender #trans pride #trans #trans day of visibility #trans day of rememberance

[porta-decumana]

Codex Entry: Hana & Sükhbaatar Malaguld, the Mystic and her Beloved

Hana Okane-Malaguld, runaway of Doma and mystic of the Malaguld.

Sükhbaatar Malaguld, Warrior of the Steppe.

Sükhbaatar and Hana are Kaida’s paternal grandparents.

Hana was born to the Okane clan, who were considered to be members of high society in Doma.  They made their fortune in selling a variety of luxury items, which they traded all throughout Yanxia and Nagxia.  Their customers were the richest of the rich and thus their coffers were filled to the brim with gold.  The Okane clan had a mansion in Doma, which was fully staffed by servants that tended to their every need.

Hana was the eldest of her four siblings and she was to learn everything about her father’s trade.  Unfortunately, Hana was quite disenchanted with the life her father had laid out for her.  She did not want to learn how to manipulate the market and swindle her way to the top, promising honeyed riches to those with gold and power.  Truthfully, Hana was fascinated by the occult, having a love for geomancy and a fascination with divining one’s future.  She was fascinated enough by magic that she stole funds from her father’s vault and bought herself a tutor that would instruct her in private-- an elderly woman who knew the light and dark sides of magic.

However, her father would have none of that and when he discovered what Hana had done, he forbade her from continuing her training.  Hana’s mentor was sent away from Doma and it is said the patriarch of the Okane had her killed.  Hana was then forced into an arranged marriage with a man she did not love and was twice her age.  Hana knew she could not bear such a life and opted to run away instead, hearing tales of the Xaela and a tribe that took in strays if they could prove their mettle.  

Hana found the Malaguld tribe and though she showed no promise in terms of combat skills, she was clever, her healing magicks were welcomed, and they liked her sharp tongue.  She picked up on their way of life quickly, adjusting from her rigid lifestyle to one of unknown tomorrows.

Sükhbaatar was born in the Malaguld tribe, knowing from a young age that he would be a warrior of their clan.  He grew up with an eagerness in his heart for adventure and fun, oftentimes getting into trouble, even with other tribes.  His life was full of misadventures and his parents were quite concerned he would not make it to adulthood but through a miracle and Nhaama’s mercy, he did.  And not long after did Hana come into the tribe.  He was smitten at once with her.  The two wild souls found instant chemistry and before long, they were wed.  Sükhbaatar was said to be happiest in those days, his joy only growing when Hana bore him two sons-- Erden and Batu.  

A few years on the Steppe found Hana change from the Doman girl of high society to a shaman, a favorite among the tribe’s children.  She even partook in the Naadam several times, supporting her husband as they fought for glory.  She did think to get in touch with her family once.  When she did, she found that her father had passed on from illness and discovered that she had been stricken from the family tree, which gave her little concern.  She had long discarded the name Okane for Malaguld and she never wanted to go back.

Unfortunately as her sons grew into their early pre-teens, Hana contracted an illness that made her stamina gradually wither.  She had difficulty keeping up with the rest of the tribe, resorting often to having to be carried by Sükhbaatar or atop one of their horses.  Eventually, she did pass away, surrounded by loved ones.  Sükhbaatar was devastated, never falling in love again and vowing to spend all the time he had teaching his sons how to be the best warriors in the tribe.  Erden eventually left the Malaguld way of life, adopting the Doman name Sadao.  He did so after a chance meeting with a woman near the Ruby Sea, a lady named Norita, who was of the hidden Blue Village under the ocean’s waves.  Sükhbaatar was sad to see his son go but he encouraged him to do so, telling him that love was the greatest thing in the world and a worthy cause to fight for.

Batu and Sükhbaatar remain with the Malaguld tribe to this day.  Sükhbaatar has earned a reputation for specifically raiding Garlean convoys, using stolen metal to make weapons for his tribesmen.  He is just as spirited as he was in his youth.  He thought once to send a message to Hana’s family to tell them of her passing but decided against it, believing she would have rather them never know of her fate.  Sükhbaatar still sends messages to Sadao whenever he can.  He reassures his son there will ever be a place for him in the tribe should he choose to return with his new wife and children.  He has yet to meet his grandchildren formally but is happy to know of their existence and hopes someday they will visit him on the Steppe.

#hana malaguld #sukhbaatar malaguld #verse; the little dragon #verse; the unfavored #verse; the atonement #verse; dawn's last light #kaida asagiri #queue'd #lore; codex entries

[u-allstartrio]

MLA Verses

These are WIPs but the main ideas (I’m writing this down for later) are-

Parhelion and Binary- join for the ideal of strength. Their parents were weak, so they died. Parhelion was weak, and Binary got injured (of course, Binary thinks her injuries are also, partially, her weakness as well but doesn’t voice it). To avoid being hurt again, they join the MLA to hone their strength. Code names unknown, if rank and file members get them. (Toying with Radiance for Parhelion, and Interface for Binary- or something more than just quirk names, more likely).

Mari: Escapes from the Commission and is easily lured in to the kindness of the MLA’s members. They give her what she’s lacked for so long- that affection. Could have a similar role to the Commission role- silencing voices against them. Codename, Stinger.

Masumi- Likes the pro-heteromorph thing (don’t judge others by their Quirk), even if they’re an ‘acceptable’ one as opposed to their mother and some of their siblings, having only a tail and ears instead of a body much more like an upright fox. 

Satoru- Lost his father at a young age; he thinks the same as Parhelion and Binary (IE, that Soundwave/the older Okane died because he wasn’t as strong as he could be due to the villain overpowering him. If the Army takes over, can’t he ruin the villain who killed his father, and prevent more from being orphaned?). Uses his idol career to subtly spread the word. Codename: Siren, maybe.

#verse info

[the-wonder-duo]

LiveWire’s doing well! Or as well as can be expected, in his current circumstances.

It took a little while to prove that he’d been coerced into poisoning heroes at the Billboard Ceremony. His case actually bears a striking similarity to a few others who were targeted throughout the hero community these past few months— even on an intentional scale. 

It turns out that LiveWire had been singled out a few hours before the ceremony. After supplying LiveWire with Trigger, a masked party had told him that they had eyes on both him and Chargebolt, and that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill Chargebolt if LiveWire was seen engaging any of the other heroes in conversation at the event, or if he approached any other authorities in any means.

He was shown evidence of this when he attempted to contact the police shortly afterward. He dialed a direct line within the Hosu Police Department. He contacted an officer that will go unnamed for now. 

This officer had appeared to have taken a liking to LiveWire, even though he’d been disliked by many in the department— many of the others still remembered the days when they’d arrested LiveWire, you see, and weren’t shy to show their dislike of him. This young officer was a recent recruit and didn’t have a history with LiveWire. He seemed to be open and kind, and LiveWire had built a tentative trust with him during his apprenticeship at the Endeavor Hero Office. 

The young police officer told LiveWire to hang up and await further instruction. 

A moment later, he received another call, and he froze when he recognized the voice. The unknown party told him to look into a nearby alley. LiveWire watched, stunned and unable to move, as a citizen was gunned down silently in front of him. The party told him to keep walking and reminded him that they would be monitoring his calls. They assured him that Chargebolt would be the next to fall if he attempted to speak out again. 

LiveWire did as he was told. 

Unfortunately, the citizen had been convicted of several petty crimes in the past, and the department had written the death off as a result of gang violence. 

After ascertaining that his phone hadn’t actually been tapped, LiveWire became convinced that the police had been infiltrated by the same group that had threatened to kill Chargebolt. If he turned himself in, he was certain that he would be jailed once more. He was afraid that he would be unable to defend himself against any corrupted police officers that may come to finish him off. 

Perhaps those fears weren’t unfounded. 

Some of you may remember that last year, corruption was discovered within local police departments. 

Senior Commissioner Wairo Okane and his chief secretary, Sha Satsujin, were even arrested— and while I realize that the group has gained popularity, I can’t help but point out that Satsujin committed these acts in the name of the Anti-Quirk Liberation League. Even if President Kenkaku has denounced her, many AQLL followers are devoted to the same principles. 

In any case, nothing ever came of LiveWire’s call. It wasn’t shared with other officers. Nobody was ever notified. The logs have been modified. And the young recruit who’d seemingly taken a shine to LiveWire abandoned his post in mid-January of this year. 

His whereabouts are unknown as of this time. 

You may recall that Triomphe, a popular French hero, faced similar circumstances around last March. He admitted that he’d undergone duress to join the group that unleashed Quirk Quash upon the city of France during last year’s World Leadership Conference. 

There are a few more worrying connections that have been made between these instances. These ties are being investigated now, and we hope to have more news for you all soon. 

#bakudeku #katsudeku #izukatsu #livewire is in good hands now #he's proved that there was a clear and immediate danger present when he acted out against the ceremony attendees #that he had a well-grounded fear #and that there wasn't an opportunity for escape #or an opportunity for escape that wouldn't have endangered the life of another respected pro hero #and he's okay now #we hope to have more news for you all soon! #deku signing in

[blade-and-shield]

“LOCK”

Basic facts

FULL NAME: Lockariss Shoraan FACE CLAIM: In game face.

Visual:

HAIR COLOR: Dark grey, nearly black.  EYE COLOR: Rusty red with black rings along the outside.

SKIN COLOR: Medium grey with a hint of pink-ish undertone along certain features.  DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Ram-curl horns, angular jaw and cheekbones, long hair (his hair reaches down to the small of his back when unbraided), ear piercings- twice in each ear. HOME COUNTRY: Seheron HOME TOWN: An unnamed village. RACE: Qunari (Vashoth) HEIGHT: 7′5″ (226 cm) WEIGHT: 359 pounds (163 kilos) BODY TYPE: Tall, muscular, but lean. He loves to take advantage of his brute strength, but also focuses his exercises on ability to move quickly. Most of his training is core exercises, rather than strength training.

Visual: (Except he has some chest fuzz and a bit more body hair.

GENDER: Male PRONOUNS: He/Him/His SEXUALITY: Greysexual/Biromantic. VOICE:  Peter Dreimanis PERSONALITY: Fairly calm and lax- it takes a lot to get him worked up. He usually comes across as mellow and unphased by many things that would cause a fuss in others. That said, he’s very protective of the small handful of people that he cares about, even if he doesn’t form connections to people or things easily. PSYCHOLOGY: No current ailments, aside from a distaste for organized culture, be it politically or religiously. PHYSICAL HEALTH: No current ailments. PARENTS: Kubri Shoraan (mothers, alive), Sten (no, not the Sten from Origins) (father, deceased).  SIBLINGS: Okaner (Brother), Sanan (Sister), Sume (Half-sister) . EXTENDED FAMILY: Unknown. ACCENT: Seheron-like at moments, but a lot of Ferelden slang has drifted into his dialect. OCCUPATION(S): Mercenary, assassin. TALENTS: Skilled with close-range dagger combat, and more acrobatic than typical qunari. He can also sing, but he’ll likely never do it in front of anyone; usually only while he’s bathing or something else idle/mindless. TITLE(S): None, really. NICKNAME(S): Lock. ALLERGIES: Capers. FAVOURITE COLOUR: Red. FAVOURITE FOOD: Any type of shellfish.  FAVOURITE ANIMALS: Wolves. PETS: None. BEST FRIEND: Saber. FRIEND(S): Other than his mother and siblings, none, really. He rarely stays in one place long enough to make friends.

Tagged by: @kaaras-adaar Tagging: @dalathin, @dryadalismagicae, @pcrseverance, @felandaristhorns, @abracafockyou and anyone else who wants to do it. Tag me so I can see. ♥

#⚔ - Memes #⚔ - Headcanons

[redwylde]

|| UmaMusume Race Comparison Archive ||

One of my favourite things about Uma Musume is how closely the anime staff maintained the events of the show to the real life careers of the racehorses the characters are based on. The staff managed to write entire character arcs and exhilarating subplots solely based on how and when each race was run, and I that that’s amazing.

I’ve always found it quite interesting and exciting to watch the actual races as they happened in real life and compare them to the episodes, so I’ve decided to put together a key with links to videos of the actual races run in the show! Complete with race numbers and extra trivia notes for the details the anime decided to change for the sake of the series.

The videos I’ve found are of each major race that was run by characters on-screen with the official course and track names. Minor races with no names mentioned in the show are not included.

See below!

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

Special Week’s Debut Race and first win, 1997.

(Special Week #14)

https://twitter.com/jinouganyan/status/981919555147542528

OP Note: I could not find this video on YouTube but an edited version of the race was uploaded to Twitter.

-----

Special Week’s 2nd Race and third consecutive win in the 1998 Yayoishou 2000m at the Nakayama Racecourse.

Rival: Seiun Sky

(Special Week #13, Seiun Sky #10)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KuOGZqckOxI&t=224s

Trivia Note: This race was actually Special Week’s 4th overall race and 2nd consecutive win after finishing 2nd to Asahi Creek in the 1998 Shiraume Shou right after his debut win.

----- 

Special Week’s First G1 in the Satsukishou 2000m at the Nakayama Racecourse.

Special Week finished 3rd behind Seiun Sky and King Halo.

(Special Week #18, Seiun Sky #3, King Halo #12)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qU70PZxgiTg&t=390s

----- 

Special Week wins the Japan Derby (Tokyo Yushun) 2400m.

Rivals: Seiun Sky, King Halo.

(Special Week #5, Seiun Sky #12, King Halo #2)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1W1-xsSBH4

Trivia Note: Unlike in the episode, El Condor Pasa did not take part in this race and Special Week took the Derby as a solo win.

-----

Silence Suzuka wins the 1998 Mainichi Okan.

Rivals: El Condor Pasa, Grass Wonder.

(Silence Suzuka #2, El Condor Pasa #4, Grass Wonder #6)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7TgsFfuizs8&t=6s

Trivia Note: It’s unclear in which position Grass Wonder finished in the episode, but in in actual Mainichi Okan he finished 5th behind Sunrise Flag and another horse..

----- 

Silence Suzuka’s Last Race. The Tennoushou Fall, 1998.

WARNING: UPSETTING IMAGERY, ANIMAL INJURY. On the fourth turn leading into the home stretch, Silence Suzuka sustains a fracture in his left foreleg after passing the large zelkova tree at the edge of the course and begins to lope along the track. He is pulled up by his jockey as stable hands rush to his aid, and Silence Suzuka is later put to sleep due to the severity of his injury.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QT4MSb_TWdw&t=2s

Trivia Note: In the episode, Special Week races onto the track and catches Suzuka before she comes to a complete stop, lifting her left leg to prevent her from putting any weight on it and worsening the fracture. Due to this, Suzuka is later able to recover and continue racing, which was unfortunately not the case for the real Silence Suzuka.

El Condor Pasa and most of the other chosen racers in the episode did not run this race, and the 1998 Tennoushou Fall winner after Suzuka’s forfeit was Offside Tap.

----- 

Special Week finishes 2nd in the 1999 Takarazuka Kinen.

Rival: Grass Wonder

(Special Week #9, Grass Wonder #5)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXqW-RfZ9Pg

Trivia Note: It’s not mentioned in the show, but Grass Wonder and Special Week were major rivals during their racing careers.

----- 

El Condor Pasa runs the 1999 Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe in France and finishes second behind French racer, Broye/Montjeu.

Rival: Broye/Montjeu.

(El Condor Pasa #5, Broye/Montjeu #11)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPuDRkMZyLY&t=10s

Trivia Note: Broye is actually not the name of the French racehorse El Condor Pasa and later Special Week compete against. For unknown reasons, the name was changed. The horse’s actual name was Montjeu.

----- 

Special Week runs and wins the 1999 Tennoushou Fall.

Rivals: Seiun Sky, King Halo.

(Special Week #9, Seiun Sky #7, King Halo #16)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OACeSNkbR_o

----- 

Special Week wins the 1999 Japan Cup, 2400m.

Rival: Broye/Montjeu.

(Special Week #13, Montjeu #14)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=847QsRK280k&t=28s

#uma musume #umamusume #racehorse #racehorses #horse racing #special week #silence suzuka #el condor pasa #grass wonder #broye #montjeu #seiun sky #king halo #team spica #team rigil #archive #comparison #videos #sports

[i-was-bored-so-this-happened]

Second Star Chapter Nine: The Walker

Fandom: The Mandalorian Wordcount: 5.6k Warnings: Canon-typical violence, badly written fight scenes

The farmers of Sorgan prepare to battle their local bandits. Mando and Okan bond [?] over childhood trauma while he pushes her to fight for herself

Read on AO3 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a while before Mando joins Okan outside the hut, helmet most definitely and firmly on. She very deliberately doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at him. Mando mirrors her, leaning back against the wall and crossing one leg over the other to shift all weight onto one foot.

“What’s happening?” he asks, voice modulated. As it should be.

“They’re playing. He’s loving it.”

“You play with him.”

“I’m no match for other children. I can’t really remember playing with other kids,” Okan keeps her eyes fixed on the baby. Some of the Sorgan boys and girls have been called away by parents, but Winta and a few others stay with him, drawing swirls in the dusty ground and dangling spare krill in front of his nose. A girl, younger than Winta, offers him a little white flower and breaks into peals of laughter when he pushes it into his mouth, “What kinda games do Mandalorian foundlings play?” 

“Not many,” Mando replies, “Here.” Okan has little choice but to turn her head to see what he means. He’s offering her his plate, clean but for pondweed, yellow beans, buttered bread. His other hand reaches for Okan’s own plate which still has a pile of krill on it. Her grip on her plate loosens enough for him to take it and leave it on the windowsill between them.

“I…” she stumbles over the unexpected kindness, “Thank you, Mando.” He nods, and Okan allows herself to slide down the wall to sit while he stays standing. A hunk of bread in her mouth, she gestures towards the children, “What game is that? I don’t know it.” One of the boys had drawn a strange configuration of boxes in the ground, outlined them with stones and grass, and the children are taking turns to jump through them in a specific order.

“You never played hopscotch?” Mando asks.

“You did?” Okan counters.

“It’s a good balance exercise. The idea is to jump through the boxes on alternating numbers of legs without falling.”

“Oh, that does sound like a good balance exercise.” Okan nods. She’d never seen the children on Arvala play it either. The child, too small and close to the ground to participate, starts to trundle back towards the adults. 

“Hey there, bud.” Mando greets the child while Okan chews, crouching to put the plate of krill down on the ground at his level and pausing mid-air to let Okan sprinkle beans onto it. The child pats his boot, as he often does to say hello, before settling himself between Mando’s feet and busying himself with the food presented to him. “What do you remember? From your home?” The question is jarring, unexpected. No, not entirely unexpected. Okan knows the bare bones story of being from a different planet than other Mandalorians, it’s only equal that he should know more about where she came from.

“Not much. My father had a beard. My mother had this nose, the same bump,” Okan practices the little motion Mando’s seen her do a hundred times, rubbing the side of her nose, “There were trees. Different from these. Taller. Ishdan. And there was rain,” she allows a sigh to escape here, a spare glance up at the sky for clouds, “Our houses were open, a bit like these ones, and there was glass everywhere. The most beautiful glasswork. It was my grandmother’s birthday the day they came for us. My brother had paid to have us painted in glass, artisans could melt the stuff with their own hands…'' There's a memory here, a brief one of her grandmother’s house. The red-stained wood of the table, scorch marks made by the fingers of her grandchildren. The ceiling caving in, the entire second floor crushing the table to splinters. The ringing of temporary deafness as projectiles buried themselves in the ground outside, screams and smoke fading in and out. The smell of a relative’s clothes. A shard of glass in her foot.

“You have a brother?”

“I did. I was the only one of my family who got out.”

“So was I.”

Okan allows herself to look up at him as the child crawls over her knees and into her lap.

“Thank you. For doing this for them.”

“It’s likely I won’t have to do much.”

“You brought them hope. That’s more than anyone else has done.”

“Cara and I are going to scope out the woods when it gets dark, see if we can find where these raiders are camping out. I want you to wait for me at Omera’s.”

“You do?”

“I don’t want to leave you and the kid alone.”

“I thought this was the middle of nowhere.”

“And I thought we were here to hide from people who want to hunt and kill you.”

“Very sensitively put, Mando. Remind me, though, whose fault is it that they’re hunting me?”

“Again, I admit that it’s my fault. Now please, go to Omera’s.”

He walks her to Omera’s hut at sunset, as if he’s worried Okan’s going to make a run for it. Run where, when everything she could want is here. Most of everything she could want is trees and grass and water. She can’t go into the krill ponds - nor does she want to - but it’s good to know they’re there. Mando delivers Okan to Omera like he’s turning her in after curfew, with clipped instructions and the briefest explanation of his plan possible. Omera, on the other hand, welcomes Okan and the child into her hut with warmth and kindness. She offers spotchka, tea, and the only chair she has, but Okan elects to settle on the floor.

“If I may ask, what is your role in the plan if you’re not needed to find the camp?” Omera asks. Her voice is as gentle as it had been in the morning, her movements smooth and slow as she takes up an embroidery hoop and begins to outline it with teal thread. She never takes her eyes off Okan’s. She herself had brought her embroidery project, the flowered nightgown she had just begun when Mando had found her. She’s finished the yellow flowers on the hem and has begun the next tier, crawling green leaves she once heard Mando say looked like ivy. 

“I was hired to look after him,” Okan points a foot towards the child. He’s playing with the wooden snake again, still trying to figure out the subtleties of the movement that will make it wiggle, “Mando…” She briefly remembers his habit of picking the child up by the back of his robe, “he’s learning.”

“Childcare is neither easy to learn nor teach.” Omera nods.

“You’ve done well. Winta is a wonderful child.” Okan smiles at the girl, who looks up at the sound of her name. Winta smiles back before returning to her game with the child.

“That is kind.”

“You are kind, Omera. Few show us as much kindness as you have today. I think Mando’s stumped by it. He’s used to fear.” Okan dances carefully around using we. 

“I’m grateful to him. We all are. Our families have lived here for generations, we couldn’t abandon this place,” Omera hesitates, looks up from her needlework to ask, “Where is your family?”

“I don’t have one.” Okan answers simply, trying to mask the memories that had surfaced earlier that day, but she’s never been able to hide her emotions and Omera’s face falls in reply,

“I’m so sorry-”

“It’s alright. The war took something from all of us. The closest thing I do have to family is on Tatooine, in the middle of the Dune Sea. But I’m glad to be here, I like it. I like the green. And the blue,” Omera’s brow is still crinkled with pity, so Okan asks, “Omera, will you help me with something?”

***

It’s late, very late, when Okan looks up from her sewing and finds Mando standing in the doorway, nothing but shadow. She pushes the ball of light she’d been holding above her head back to the candle it had come from, by Omera’s chair. The flame spreads warm light over the woman’s face. She’d fallen asleep in the chair a short while ago, after tucking Winta into her bunk, partitioned away in its own little room. Okan had watched as another candle had been lit and a shade put over it to cast the shadows of fish on Winta’s walls and listened as Omera had sung her daughter a lullaby. The child had clung to Omera while she’d done so, and is still in her lap. Mando grabs the child by the back of his robe. Okan coughs. He adjusts his grip so the baby’s sitting in the crook of his arm. Okan lifts the hood of her cloak and scoops her sewing project up to drape it around her shoulders. It’ll be cold outside.

“Where’s Cara?” Okan whispers, taking care to pull the curtain closed over the entrance to Omera’s home.

“Probably asleep already.”

“What happened?”

“Wait.” Mando swerves away from the huts, and Okan follows almost entirely in his shadow. Their cloaks flick at their heels behind them, Mando pausing to check Okan has her shoes on before stepping off the wooden pathways between the homes of the Sorgan farmers and towards the woods. A faint light comes from a tent at the fringes, electric light. Cara. “We found the bandits,” Mando starts once he’s decided they’re out of earshot, “There’s at least twenty of them, with a well-established camp pretty deep in the woods.”

“That’s not too different from what you expected, is it?”

“No, it’s not. What I didn’t expect was the AT-ST.”

“The what?”

“Do you know what an AT-AT is?”

“Yes, I do. The walkers.”

“An AT-ST is another kind of walker, but with two legs instead of four. It’s better suited for rough terrain, like this. It’s more maneuverable, it takes less people to pilot, but it’s just as heavily armed.”

“You and Cara can’t take something like that.”

“No, we can’t.”

“Can I help?”

“Do you feel capable of helping?” Mando asks, not exactly unkindly but certainly pointedly. Their heads turn towards one another and Okan shakes her head. She can’t trust herself. “And this place, it’s barely defensible. There’s no concrete perimeter, and these people hired us because they knew they couldn’t protect themselves. They’re farmers.” Their voices had lowered again as they’d drawn nearer the huts again, and stay quiet as they step into the barn.

“Farmers are strong by definition, Mando,” the helmet tilts, “What’s the next move?”

“They can’t stay here, if the bandits want to take this land they will.”

“Where are they going to go?” Okan asks. She takes the pile of cloth from around her shoulders and throws it up into the air, trying to get it over the beam that splits the barn in two. Mando catches the other edge with his free hand and pulls it over the beam.

“We’re going to tell them tomorrow. See if they can think of anything else. I doubt it,” this last part is mumbled as he sets the half-asleep child in the borrowed cot and lays a blanket over him, “What is this, anyway?” He turns to find Okan trying to arrange the fabric.

“It’s a curtain. I used some of the more worn blankets, and Omera had old curtains herself. If we pull it across here no one can see you from the door or the window. You can take the armour off and no one would know. So…so you don’t have to sleep in it. That can’t be comfortable,” Okan glances at the floor and tugs at her glove cuffs, “I thought we’d be staying longer.”

“It isn’t. Comfortable,” his eyes drop to the floor for a moment too, “Thank you. Like I  say, we’ll talk to the villagers tomorrow. I know you like it here. I think he does too, but if it’s not safe…”

“I understand,” Okan nods, pulling her cloak around herself as she drifts towards her bunk, “You should rest. We don’t know what tomorrow holds.”

Tomorrow holds distressed farmers. Okan knows Mando’s not the most sensitive humanoid around but she hopes he’ll at least sugarcoat things a little-

“Bad news. You can’t live here anymore.” Dank farrik. Okan had given him suggestions of ways to break the news. Clearly he hadn’t taken them. She stares at Cara, hoping she might step in, and thank the makers she does, speaking above the murmurings of the farmers, 

“I know this is not the news you wanted to hear, but there are no other options.” That’s. Not much better. Omera pulls Winta closer to her, and Winta in turn hugs the child tighter. Okan feels a tiny hand reach up and grasp hers and fights against everything that tells her to pull away. A toddler, Magda’s son. Blond. Confused. Okan’s gloves squeak as she squeezes his hand in return. Someone, Okan thinks it might be Caben, reminds Cara of their contract, which she counters, “That was before we knew about the AT-ST,” the confusion is complete, resulting in raised voices, “The armoured walker with two enormous guns that you knew about and didn’t tell us.” Cara clarifies. Protests come from every adult in the group, pairs turning towards one another. Someone asks for their money back while the others simply ask for help.

“We have nowhere to go.” Omera, her voice calm and clear. Mando’s helmet twitches. If he respects any of the farmers, it’s Omera.

“Sure you do. This is a big planet,” Cara points out, “I mean, I’ve seen a lot smaller.”

“My grandparents seeded these ponds!”

“It took generations!” Caben, Stoke, splitting their sentences between them.

“I understand. I do. But there are only two of us.” Cara reasons. Magda’s son tugs on Okan’s hand.

“There’s at least twenty here!”

“I mean fighters. Be realistic!” Cara’s voice disappears under those of the farmers, latching onto Caben and Stoke’s idea and insisting that they can fight, “I’ve seen that thing take out entire companies of soldiers in a matter of minutes!” For the first time, Okan sees emotion that isn’t smugness or indifference on Cara’s face. It quiets the crowd. All but Omera, 

“We’re not leaving.”

***

Everyone in the village is exhausted by the end of the week. The children from play fighting and entertaining the child, the adults worn down by Cara and Mando’s training. At least everyone can identify the sharp end of a stick, as Cara had put it shortly before zipping herself into her tent with a jug of spotchka. Okan is probably the most awake of all of them, sitting outside the barn with Mando eating his leftovers. They’d been trading food like this since the first day, his bread and certain vegetables for her krill. He likes this place too, Okan can tell. He lets himself stretch out on the grass and lean on things instead of standing ready all the time. Sometimes when he sits and relaxes she can’t tell if he’s awake or not until he moves. Once he’d scared Magda’s son who had been standing watching him for twenty minutes before he spoke. 

“Are you done?” Mando asks, interrupting the night chorus of the insects and the rustle of the trees. 

“Why?” Okan swallows the last of her yellow beans and sets the plate on the wood surrounding the barn.

“You haven’t been training with the others.”

“No. We agreed I would stay with the children when the time came.”

“I expected you to join them.”

“You should have told me that, so I could have said no,” the helmet turns towards her, “I’ve been practicing with my power, but I need to practice alone. I need control, Mando.”

“Okan-”

“I need time.”

“We don’t have time. This isn’t just about these bandits, I need to know you can protect the child if I’m not here.”

“Why, are you leaving?” Okan pushes herself up from the grass, the quietly comforting feeling of sitting with Mando gone.

“Okan.” He doesn’t usually use the moniker, so she does turn, to find him holding out one of the rough spears the farmers had made at the beginning of the week. Mando stands, keeping his arm outstretched. Okan sighs.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“You wear beskar, you’re not made of the stuff.”

“It’s a stick.” This he says so matter-of-factly that irritation prickles hot at the back of Okan’s neck. He’s not going to drop this. So she takes the spear. Wonders how much she remembers about combat. Not much. She lets the spear sway back and forth in her hand as Mando moves himself to stand ready for a fight. He’s going inch by inch, as if he’s expecting Okan to watch and copy him.

“Don’t you get a stick?” Okan asks. She gets a little shake of the head in reply. Mando begins to count to three, to give her a start. At two she lifts her foot and gives the butt of the spear a sharp tap with her heel, letting the momentum of that and the sway she’d been building up pull the spear in an arc over her head to land squarely on the top of Mando’s helmet. Three is forgotten as Mando puts his hands out to stop Okan’s foot from making contact with his ribs. She’s stronger than he’d expected, and pushes back against him hard, drawing the spear back at the same time. He knows her aim with a blaster leaves a lot to be desired, but it’s pretty hard to miss a target two feet away with a long pole of wood, so he drops her foot in favour of blocking the spear. The spear glances off his vambraces, but a knee smashes up into an unprotected part of his thigh before the spear pulls back again and finds its mark at his waist, the blunt end sinking between the planes of armour.

Okan knows more than he thought. Mando stops blocking. She knows how to work a spear, the wood an extension of her as the Stormtrooper prod had been. She’s not fantastic, by any means - her blocks delayed, too-quick movements throwing her off balance - but she manages for a little while. Inevitably, she ends up in the grass. She lands unfortunately, her back curved so that the burned area hits first, and she comes up wheezing. 

“You’re too wild. You need control.”

“Isn’t that what I told you?” Okan allows herself several moments for the pulsing pain to dissipate before she takes the spear from Mando again, “That fucking hurt.” That apologetic helmet twitch. Another few moments to push down the warmth in the bones of her hands, reacting to the outburst of pain, before she tries him again. She doesn’t last as long this time, and it annoys her. She doesn’t like having to prove herself like this. She shouldn’t have to do this. If it weren’t for him, she’d be safe in her bed in the middle of the desert and no one would have any idea who she was. The worst thing is that, given the choice, she knows she would choose this. This path took her back to trees. This path, the one that’ll probably kill her, gave her a purpose again. At the cost of her freedom, at the cost of her anonymity. Irritation pushes up to her elbows and Okan doesn’t even know who she’s annoyed at.

“You haven’t set anything on fire yet.” Mando says. In reply, Okan points past him. Her spear is smouldering in the grass, hissing against the damp soil. She moves over to it, taking off a glove to pull the flames out of the wood and into her bones. Her hand is tinged orange.

“I’m trying, Mando, but I can’t just erase the last ten years. I need time.” She stalks back past him and towards the barn. Mando follows at a distance watching as, one-handed, Okan pulls off her cloak, her tunic. By the time he steps into the barn she’s down to her last few layers of clothing, those that expose the burn. It’s doing better, but it still hurts from time to time, particularly now. When she hears Mando’s boots Okan holds out a hand, the one still gloved. Wordlessly, Mando fetches the water jug Omera had left, a clean rag from the pile he’d been using to clean his blasters before dinner. He holds the jug while Okan dips the rag into it and squeezes the water out of it before pressing the damp cloth to her back. 

The closest he’s ever come to verbally apologising yet was that night on Nevarro, but he has his ways. A few extra minutes in a water shower, taking a second turn getting the baby when he wakes, holding paint pots so she has a choice of colours. Handing her medical supplies. It works. He stands, she sits. Water from the cloth drips onto the bunk. Okan switches hands, moving the ungloved one over the blanket to dry it. It’s an attempt to regain control. Though her fingers shake, the glow leaves her nails. The bones of her arms ache and she does her best to stretch those limbs out. Something in her shoulder pops before she looks up. Mando’s still hovering, though he’s moved closer to the window. Okan nods, just a little, and he tips the water out onto the grass. Leaving the jug on the sill he reaches for the cord that will close the shutters,

“Can you make a light?” he asks. Okan snaps her fingers and her hand is engulfed in fire, which takes a few seconds to snuff. She tries again, and it doesn’t take. The third attempt, she squints and manages to produce a small, manageable flame that she holds above the collection of taper candles Omera had given them. Mando closes the shutters, cutting silvery moonlight out of the room in favour of the soft halos of yellow the candles produce.

“You’re just making me practice more now, that’s not how it works,” In silence, Mando walks back over to take some of the candles before he disappears behind his curtain, “Goodnight, Mandalorian.” She can hear the quiet thunks of armour being set on the wooden floor, softened by something, maybe that ratty old cape. He’s not coming back until morning. Okan shoves a handful of saltmint leaves in her mouth before she pushes her other glove on. The candles by her bunk wink out as she curls under the blankets.

***

Mando and Cara declare the farmers of Sorgan ready several days later, when the perimeter fence has proven strong and everyone can hit a barrel with a blaster. The day is tense and close. Winta tells Okan this is how it feels before a thunderstorm, but the sky doesn’t break. The people are antsy and anxious, pacing back and forth, resetting targets and shooting over and over again, and there are more than a few splintered spears lying around.

All the blankets in the barn have been spread out over the floor, piles of crates deconstructed into rows of makeshift chairs. Toys cover the blankets, a few datapads. The children of the farm have been here all day. It was decided weeks ago that the children would take shelter in the barn. Parents have been popping in, not expecting Cara to send them straight back to their posts. She’s been sitting here for the last few hours, keeping Okan company. Okan, for her part, is firmly wrapped in layers of clothing and her cloak while she interacts with the children. As a security measure or for her own confidence, Cara isn’t sure. The children leave Cara in her own space, having learned over the last few weeks that she’s not one for playing, so she can sit at peace and watch Okan pass round the sandwiches that have just been dropped off. The food gives the Okanops a break too, and she retreats to sit next to the Alderaanian on her bunk, the green child curled up on the pillow partway through a nap.

“How are you holding up?” They ask the question at the same moment, and it makes them smile at one another. When Okan smiles, it’s always wide and scrunches her nose. Cara’s smile is small, but it brightens her eyes. 

“I am where I’m meant to be.” Okan gestures towards the rabble of children, quiet for a moment while they eat. She herself, after thoroughly inspecting her sandwich, pushes about half of it into her mouth after she answers the question, leaving space for Cara,

“They’ve got a fighting chance, I’ll give ‘em that. This…might just work.”

“Will you stay? When it’s over?”

“I wouldn’t mind. Dunno if they’ll have me, though. I’m not as clean as you are.”

“I wouldn’t say I am. And I think they would have you. They like you. You’ve made them stronger.”

“You’re too nice, mouse. It’s gonna get you killed one day.”

“I know. But it’ll save them.” Okan’s gaze turns back to the children, just as a little boy of perhaps four years toddles towards her. She puts down the remains of her sandwich and flexes her fingers before holding her hands out to the boy, who puts his arms up in the universal question to be lifted up. “What is it, sprout?” the four year old climbs quietly into her lap and pushes himself into her chest, tucking his head under her chin, “Tired? You can sleep there. You sleep there.” Okan pulls the outermost blanket from around her shoulders and wraps the little boy in it, shifting him so he might be more comfortable. 

“Okan, it’s getting dark.”

“I know, Winta. We have to be brave in the dark, don’t we?” Okan says quietly, kindly, passing a hand over the little girl’s hair, “I’m not going to leave you. Does that help?” Winta nods, glances at the child, and returns to her little knot of friends. Okan looks to Cara, “It’s time, isn’t it?”

“I think it is.”

“He’ll be at Omera’s.”

“He likes her, huh?”

“She’s the only one he talks to but us.”

Cara lets her hand rest on Okan’s shoulder for a moment before she stands and picks her way through the tangle of children, ducking past the curtain that covers the door with a brief goodbye, a wish of luck, and a reminder that she has left Okan a spear and Mando has left her a blaster in case of emergency. A few of the children call out to her as she leaves, and Cara spares them a wave on her way out, but then they are alone.

“What do we do now?” one of them asks.

“We keep waiting. In a little while, I will have to go outside and wait there, so I can see what’s happening,” Okan stands then, carefully cradling the little boy she holds, and whistles a low note. This has become the signal for quiet, and the children fall into silence one by one, “You all remember the rules? Hands up for number one?” most of the hands push up towards the ceiling, “No matter what, you do not leave the barn. You stay together in here. Number two?” some of the hands shrink back down, “You must try to be quiet. There’s going to be lots of noise, but that doesn’t mean the bandits can’t hear you. I’m going to add one more rule, you can put your hands down,” all hands are pushed back into laps or onto the floor, “If you hear me say the word ‘close’ I want you to close your eyes and cover your ears until I come back in. Is this clear? Hands?”

Waiting outside the barn later, pacing back and forth in front of the door, Okan feels the pinprick of heat signatures the fourth time she pokes her head inside to check on the children. With a quickly hissed reminder of the rules she ducks back outside and grabs the stormtrooper prod from where she’d left it, leaning against the wall. She can see the perimeter fence, the outlines of the farmers crouched along it. And she can feel something, something burning hot in the forest. It flares up, then dies, and flares again. Canon fire. It must be. A bolt firing, then sinking into the forest floor. The walker. Shouts come from the perimeter that signal Mando and Cara’s return. Okan can see their figures weaving through the opening they’d left, then she hears Cara’s voice. After that, the mechanical footsteps of the walker, its eyes burning red against the night.

It stops. It doesn’t fall. It hasn’t tripped into the trap. The plan hasn’t worked. She’s been over it with Cara and Mando several dozen times. They don’t have a chance if they don’t take out the AT-ST, the walker can mow them all down in minutes. It’s searching now, a spotlight roving across the perimeter fence. A light has never seemed so frightening. Okan’s caught between the shouting of the adults, the scared whispers of the children. There’s a scream when the walker fires, and a hut explodes. An echo of the fire blooms behind Okan’s ribs, the warmth rushing straight to her hands. Further yells come from the perimeter as the woods empty themselves of raiders, the bandits racing towards the fence. Everything is going wrong. She hates it when a plan goes wrong. She doesn’t know what to do. She hasn’t had to do this in a long time. Even on Nevarro, she worked off what Mando did. Now she’s on her own. If the plan had gone right, all she had to do was stand outside the barn. Now it’s going wrong, and she’s on her own protecting all the children of the village.

“Right. Right. You have to do something. You have to.” Okan mumbles this to herself over and over, shaking her shoulders until she comes to a conclusion. There’s one thing she can do. She drops the prod and peels her gloves off, tucking them into her belt. The walker is firing intensely hot bolts that are causing huts to explode. The fire is going to spread. The children can’t get hurt. Sorgan is a cool planet, Okan needs time in the sun to warm up in the morning, but right now it feels just like Nevarro, the undercurrent of heat pulling at Okan’s stomach. Deep breaths. One. Two. Three. Four.

Another hut explodes and instead of flinching, Okan pushes a hand out in answer to it. It’s close enough to the barn that the sparks from the explosion twist towards her instead of up into the sky, pricking her skin as each spark sinks into her palm. The warmth pushes through her fingers and up the bones of her arm, her hands flushing orange.

She hears the footsteps far too late. She reacts too late, turning to the quickly oncoming enemy just as they launch and slam into her, knocking her to the ground. A bandit. A species she doesn’t know. They’ve either broken through the perimeter guard or forced their way through an unguarded section of the fence. Okan’s not sure which would be worse. At present, she doesn’t have time to think about it.

“Close!” small squeaks and whimpers come from the barn in reply to the yell. Okan rolls onto her back in time to see the bandit slinking slowly towards the barn. They’ve heard the children. They can’t get to the children. A string of flame leaps from between two of her fingers and latches onto their ankle. They buckle at the knee and twist back to Okan with a roar. Their club sinks into the ground where Okan had been a moment before. She’d crawled back towards the barn as quickly as she could, scrambling to her feet and grasping the prod. She’s ready for the bandit when they relocate her, the business end of the prod quite easily finding their ribs. The bandit shudders as the electricity courses through them, and then they fall. The prod breaks down into ash where Okan’s gripping it. She lets the middle piece drop and tries to push the heat in her hands into her stomach. She can’t lose control. She’s done well to get this far without setting another hut on fire, but her arms itch something terrible.

A second bandit emerges from the shadows just after Okan melts back under the cover of the barn. She waits until they pass her before she leaps forward and cracks what’s left of the prod over their head. That itself isn’t enough to knock them out. Their nose crunches under Okan’s fist and their legs take bad burns before they hit the ground. Okan shakes her hands once they’re down and sparks fly from her knuckles. Several more deep breaths are taken while Okan refocuses. Panic has brought a yellow sheen to her hands, the orange having sunk into her veins and spread up her arms. She has to calm down before she goes back to the kids.

The walker has stopped firing into the village. The huts are still aflame, but there are no new explosions. Now it’s concentrating fire around its own feet, at the pool it’s overdue to fall into. As though there’s someone in there making themselves an annoyance. Which of her companions it is Okan doesn’t know, but she’s pretty sure it isn’t a farmer. Her breathing goes returns to its regular pattern. Mando and Cara are handling the walker. The farmers are handling the bandits. Okan is handling the children. This is the plan. This is working. The walker falls.

#second star #star wars #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian oc #okan the unknown #rae's ocs #baby yoda #grogu #mando #original character #rae's writing

[lobotheduck]

I am going to let you in on a little secret. I hate being mixed. I hate being misidentified.

I hate feeling inadequate for either culture—like an outsider looking in even though I know I belong there. I hate not being able to see myself in either of my parents. I hate feeling like I cannot reach out and touch the things that will bring me closer to home:

The Cherokee roses drenched in blood upon Native soil.

The thousands upon thousands of feet blackened and bloodied, blistered and screaming, ‘NO MORE!’ as they were forced to march into unknown terrain.

How many fell, crying out for gods in a tongue that residential schools would later go on to beat out of their beautiful, proud children after cutting their hair and claiming them free of their inherent savagery.

A red apple bitten white; families torn asunder.

Ripples in once steady waters.

Ravens openly mourned for their kindred spirits, their breasts heaving with a heartfelt cry that can still be heard today.

May the Nolichucky claim us all in its secret whirlpools that trap us all into the afterlife. The boulders rolled down the sides of mountain tops to evade being stripped from homes past down through the centuries of maternal lineage, grieving for those who were stripped away.

Mothers knew and held all knowledge.

———

The flor de maga worn behind the ears of the women who hid and fought, both beautiful and brave and covered in what once was a serene paradise, full of rich fruits and lapping waves. The rings of gold worn in their friendly noses that the Spanish secretly coveted with a smile upon their face, and a bottle of rum in their hand.

They did it in the name of their God.

They did it in the name of a King who would later wash their hands of us once we had nothing left to give, abandoning us with nothing but their tongue. The chains of my ancestors that were stripped from their African homeland when too many of the Taíno’s were lost to the Spaniards cruel games and mistreatment that tried with their last breath to hold on to their native tongue and teachings as they succumbed to brutal lashes of God ordained whips and rape that produced children others could look fondly at, never understanding the pain they carried; the pain they continued to pass on generation after generation.

Trauma is a dominant trait.    .

The mingling of mangoes and blood, of saltwater and gunpowder.

———

You named us Blackfoot as you took and took more of our land—away from the fresh water you wanted, and the wild plains we called home. We have our own names spread far beyond your borders where you hunted down all our buffalo for sport and glory and not for food or clothing—You use the cheapest of materials to mock what you think we look like. We rode wild horses free in our own bands of hunters and gatherers.

Can you spell Niitsitapi or Siksika? I won’t ask you to pronounce it.

That is just one of our names, in one of our borders, spanning one of your “countries.” The chokecherries marked the Okan, or Sun Dance. Our God, you see, used to be nature. The people regrouped for their major ceremony; the Okan the only time of year when the four nations would assemble. The gathering reinforced the bonds among the various groups and linked individuals with the nations that dwindled before our elders tear-soaked eyes.

We fought as we were taught with guns and bullets we didn’t quite understand how to use, and we were forced to sign papers we could not read nor understand as you held the pens in our hands. We were moved to lands that were not our own, cut off from the life-giving aura that always surrounded us. We watched, in horror, as our children were abducted to be “assimilated.” Never to come home.

You mocked our Warbonnets, meant for out most prestigious warriors and chiefs. Crafted from eagle feathers, a brave bird marked for a brave warrior. You mock the Split-Horn headdress for its unusual aesthetic purposes, though it is made from the last of the bison years upon years ago. The two of them are still worn with pride at special ceremonies and community outreaches.

They are worn when we plead for someone to do something about the Indigenous women and girls who are abducted, raped, and murdered on and off the Reservations at a rate higher than any other. If you take anything away from this, keep this in mind before you joke about how much money we must reap in from Casinos that few control; keep this in mind before you make the assumption that we get into any college we want of for free; keep this in mind before you make the assumption that we get hundreds of dollars for doing nothing but sitting on out asses drinking ourselves to death.

Reservations are nothing more than spacious prisons, and we are dying.      

#personal #ndn #native american #indigenous #native girls #latina #latinx #colonization

[sciencespies]

We finally know where the megaliths of Stonehenge really came from

https://sciencespies.com/humans/we-finally-know-where-the-megaliths-of-stonehenge-really-came-from/

We finally know where the megaliths of Stonehenge really came from

Stonehenge, a Neolithic wonder in southern England, has vexed historians and archaeologists for centuries with its many mysteries: How was it built? What purpose did it serve? Where did its towering sandstone boulders come from?

That last question may finally have an answer after a study published Wednesday found that most of the giant stones – known as sarsens – seem to share a common origin 25 kilometers (16 miles) away in West Woods, an area that teemed with prehistoric activity.

The finding boosts the theory that the megaliths were brought to Stonehenge about the same time: around 2,500 BCE, the monument’s second phase of construction, which in turn could be a sign its builders were from a highly organized society.

It also contradicts a previous suggestion that one large sarsen, the Heel Stone, came from the immediate vicinity of the site and was erected before the others.

The new paper appeared in the journal Science Advances.

Lead author David Nash, a professor of physical geography at the University of Brighton, told AFP he and his team had to devise a novel technique to analyze the sarsens, that stand up to nine meters tall (30 feet) and weigh as much as 30 metric tons.

They first used portable x-rays to analyze the chemical composition of the rocks, which are 99 percent silica but contain traces of several other elements.

“That showed us that most of the stones have a common chemistry, which led us to identify that we’re looking for one main source here,” said Nash.

(Hulki Okan Tabak/Unsplash)

Next, they examined two core samples from one of the stones that were obtained during restoration work in 1958 but which then went missing until resurfacing in 2018 and 2019, respectively.

They performed a more sophisticated analysis on these samples using a mass spectrometry device, which detects a bigger range of elements at a higher precision.

The resulting signature was then compared to 20 possible source sites for these sedimentary rocks, with West Woods, Wiltshire found to be the closest match.

Only the 17th century English natural philosopher John Aubrey had previously postulated a link between “Overton Wood,” probably a former name for West Woods, and Stonehenge.

Enormous endeavor

Previous work has found that Stonehenge’s smaller “bluestones” came from Wales, about 200 kilometers (160 miles) to the west, and the new study says that they and the sarsens were placed at the same time.

“So it must have been an enormous endeavor going on at that time,” said Nash. “Stonehenge is like a convergence of materials being brought in from different places.”

Just how the early Britons were able to transport the boulders weighing up to 30 tons a distance of 25 kilometers remains unknown – though the prevailing idea is they were dragged along sleds. The site’s significance also remains mysterious.

“I think you’re looking at a very organized society there,” added Nash.

As for why they picked West Woods, he said, it could have been a case of pragmatism as it was one of the closest sites.

But the area was also a hive of Early Neolithic activity.

It is home to a huge ancient burial site known as a barrow, a large circular earthwork, prehistoric cultivated fields that are now woodland, and a polissoir – a rock used to sharpen ancient stone axes.

Nash said that the technique the research team had devised could help answer further archaeological questions, such as the route used to transport the boulders – which can be inferred if sarsen chippings are discovered at waypoints.

He and his team also hope to use the techniques on other ancient sarsen sites scattered around Britain.

© Agence France-Presse

#Humans

#Humans

[sleepybelle-writes]

Beautiful Destruction

I thought it about time that I share something a bit more substantial than a few bits and pieces, so here it is - by far my favourite piece of writing I have ever written (for now).

Word Count: 2436

Warning: contains mental health issues (depression/anxiety), eating disorders, and suicide. Please don’t read if you think it may affect you badly.

Everyone has flaws, has imperfections. Nobody can be perfect, after all.

It's funny, looking at yourself in the mirror. One day you'll love the little splattering of freckles along your nose, or the way your clothes fit just right, or the way your hair falls into perfect curls. The next day, those freckles could be the ugliest thing you've ever seen, your clothes the bane of your existence, your hair a mess unable to be fixed.

I stopped looking at the mirror a long time ago.

Waking up each morning with a new bruise on my legs, a chill that just wouldn't leave no matter the season, and emptiness deep inside, unable to be filled. I didn't want to see it, to see how terrible I looked, how far I had fallen.

Every day was a struggle, a fight against myself – and I was losing.

I still am.

They say you never know you have a problem until it's too late. I knew I had a problem after the first time I noticed my ribs could be seen without sucking my stomach in, after the tenth time I spent my shower marking my thighs, after the hundredth time of saying 'I'm fine.'

It's scary, the first time that urge to hurt yourself arises, to willingly open up your skin and allow that vital ingredient that is keeping you alive to spill free from its home.

I've heard it as being described as 'the best feeling in the world' and how it 'dulled the numbness in my heart'. There's always this sense of poetry when you read about it in books. Long, flowery prose that almost romanticises the act.

There is absolutely nothing romantic about it.

It's disgusting and it's cruel and it's ugly. It's a stinging sensation that doesn't cut through the numbness, doesn't dull it, it just makes it worse. It's sitting on the shower floor as you're blinded by tears and choking on sobs. It's hiding blades in books and under drawers as you hope that no one finds them. It's the looks of disappointment, of disgust, of pity.

It's still doing it anyway.

Some people consider self-harming as a way of seeking attention, most consider it a method of coping, albeit a poor one.

I consider it just another way to destroy myself, to take control of the mess I've become and make it even messier.

Depression almost always accompanies self-harming, and with it, anxiety is sure to follow. And they're almost always following an eating disorder.

It's certainly not glamorous, despite how the books seem to make it.

The mirror can attest to that.

Well, it would if it saw me. I know I never saw it.

It's also quite a lonely lifestyle. You never realise just how much social gatherings are based around food.

There's this little bookstore just down the road from where I live. It's run by this elderly Austrian man, Okan Winkler, who could spend hours telling you stories of his time fleeing the war with his family, how he built a new life here, a new family after meeting the love of his life who had a passion for books and could no longer remember him yet still smiles each time he reads to her, her favourite books.

It started as me simply going there for a new book, but I soon found myself going almost every day, helping him when it became busy, tidying when it became messy, keeping him company when he was lonely. A friendship was quick to form, and with it a job offer that I wasn't allowed to refuse.

Across the road is a family-run coffee shop. It's quite a popular coffee shop, and because of that, we found ourselves receiving more business than the small shop had seen in years. It wasn't long before I found myself going over each morning before Okan opened, and again during my break. There was just something so enticing about the smell of roasted coffee beans that made me want to take perch in one of their winged armchairs in the corner with a nice book and just waste away my time – something I ended up doing quite often on the weekends.

Over time, it simply became a habit, a nice routine to fall into and give my tired mind a break. But then, there comes a time when your routine must break, always.

And break mine did.

~*~*~*~

It's almost seven in the morning, the first time I find myself standing in front of a mirror after years of avoiding it.

There I stand, staring back at me, a mere skeleton of what I used to be, of what I should have been. Dark circles hang under my eyes, my hair is somehow both dull and oily, my ribs looking as if one wrong move would have them tearing out from beneath my skin. It isn't pretty.

I don't think I've ever gotten dressed so quickly.

From there on, my world seems to crumble around me, the routine I have so happily fallen into no longer existing.

I skip going to the coffee shop, of getting the elixir of life that was coffee. This itself is a mistake, considering that it was the only thing I seemed to be consuming at the moment.

To be completely honest, I'm not sure that I care enough to consider the consequences. Although, at the same time, I'm not sure that I don't care.

It's funny how an eating disorder distorts your perception of what's normal, is it not?

Okan arrives at exactly eight am, as he does every day. We're quiet as we enter the shop, Okan still ridding himself of the last tendrils of sleep, whilst I'm too occupied with the thoughts of what I'd done to myself.

You know those moments when you just look at something, and all you can think is, 'what have I done?'

That's what I was going through. Except usually, people want to fix their mistakes. I'm not even sure I do. And in all honesty, it scares me.

The day becomes a blur of anxiety that fills my chest in a balloon that is just waiting to burst. A disconcerting mess that hurts and is scary and all I want to do is hide from the world.

But I can't. Not yet.

Instead, I find myself standing at the register, barely able to get a greeting past my lips as I put each purchase through the machine. I brush off Okan's words of concern with a half-hearted 'I'm fine' whilst my break is spent with unfocused eyes staring at the words of an unknown romance novel.

Or maybe it was one of adventure?

Time passes in an odd mixture of fast and slow, a blurred mess in a foggy haze, and it's not long before my shift is finished and I'm standing outside the bookstore, the cold air stinging my cheeks.

I stumble past parents and teens alike as my breath comes in short, sharp gasps, being torn from my lungs. I can feel their gazes, burning into my skin, as I fumble with my keys and tears sting my eyes. The stairs become a mountain that I climb with numb legs, my head getting lighter with each step, each gasp for air.

The door is slammed behind me, lock clicking into its place. The sounds are muffled and the world is blurred. My cheeks no longer sting, but are instead burned by tears. Sobs are torn from my lungs, choked and painful. It's with the last of my strength that I collapse onto my bed and pull the blanket close, up over my head, shrouding the world from view – hiding from it.

The average panic attack will last between 20 and 30 minutes. On the rare occasion – in extreme cases – it can last up to an hour.

No matter the severity however, it always seems to last an eternity.

Once the panic subsides, only numbness is left. My cheeks are dry and stiff, my eyes sore, my nose blocked. The sounds of the street below can easily be heard, the world clear and sharp once I remove the blanket from my head.

I don't want to move – too tired to move. I feel empty, lost almost, as if I'm missing something, like I've been left stranded with no clue on how to continue, but unable to fall back, back to where I was before – back to being the epitome of ignorance.

Ignorance is bliss after all.

Knowing is anything but.

Looking around, I can't help but notice the porcelain doll sitting on my shelves, clearly out of place, yet still carefully nestled between two books, their covers worn and faded with age and use.

She was once a quite fair doll, with golden curls and wearing a deep blue dress, with matching shoes. She was a gift to my mother, given to her by my Babushka upon her wedding, given to me upon leaving home.

It's a bit of an odd thing to re-gift to someone, especially considering that what was becoming a family heirloom should have gone to my older sister, but I'd always had a fascination with the doll, of its beauty eternally frozen in porcelain. I grew up idolising the doll, wanting to be just like her, to be pretty - to be perfect.

It appears neither of us are pretty anymore.

Sun has aged the porcelain, staining it yellow, whilst her hair has faded to grey. The deep blue dress was no longer so deep, dust woven between its threads.

Staring at her now, there was no love for her. There was no fascination, no desire to be just like her. There was just an emptiness.

It seems everything has become empty.

The bed dips next to me, the weight of another resting against my back.

I don't recall to have left my door open – or me actually closing it for that matter. Already, the past few however many hours have become a faded blur.

"You okay, 'Mitri?"

I shuffled around so I can look up at the intruder from out beneath the covers. I don't know what I was expecting, but to see Alex there, his lips downturned slightly, brows furrowed in the centre, was sort of surprising.

"You're home early," I say in lieu of an answer.

"I am actually home on time," he states.

Oh.

"I think I messed up." My voice cracks and tears sting at my eyes. I find myself burying back under the blankets – a safe haven of sorts, protecting me from facing the truth.

"How so?"

I shrug as best I can. It's as if I've forgotten how to speak, the words lost on my tongue.

Alex leans back, draping himself over me. It's comforting, a heavy weight that eases the raw energy that seems to be buzzing under my skin.

He's older than me, Alex that is. Only by a couple of years – enough that he's already almost completed his first year of university. I'd moved in with him last year, after certain events made it no longer possible for me to stay at home.

It's sort of funny how one thing can change a person's entire perception of you, isn't it?

We had met the year before last, through a school run program that was designed to help students work through their problems in "a safe and supervised manner." Of course, it took the suicide of a "well-loved and respected" student for them to even consider it.

Because you only matter if you're really smart and/or athletic.

Not that they'd ever tell you that of course.

Of course not, after all, every child is a special little snowflake, aren't they? Only, some are more special than others, and sometimes, being special is seen as a thing of wrongness, something to be removed from this world – after all, we don't exactly live in a place of fairness, now do we?

"You're thinking too loudly."

I groan and wiggle from beneath him, but he doesn't budge. Thinking about it, I don't understand how he's finding the position comfortable. Sure, the blanket adds some sort of padding, but it's only a couple of centimetres – not enough to dull the sharpness of my bones that were sure to be digging into him.

"Do you think –" I trail off. What am I even asking? If I ask if I'm good looking, he'll probably say no, won't he? I mean, I'm nothing more than a skeleton at this point, if the mirror is anything to go by – and the mirror never lies, does it?

No, it does not.

"Do I think what?"

"Nothing. Never mind." Even to me, the words are soft, and are sure to be lost amongst the layers of fabric they'd travel through to reach Alex's ears.

"If you say so." Huh, so he did hear. "You know, you can always come to me for any troubles you have, right? I mean, I may be a bit busier in the next couple of weeks because of assignments and all that, but, I've always got time for you, even if it's something that you think is completely and utterly stupid."

For some reason, I can't find myself able to believe him.

It's not like he's never given me a reason to disbelieve him, quite the opposite in fact. But, I just –

I can't believe him.

Not yet anyway.

Not on this.

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

Oh.

That –

I wasn't meant to say that. Please don't have –

"Why would you think you're stupid?"

He heard.

Of course he heard.

I don't – what am I meant to say?

Nothing.

I say nothing.

Instead, I scramble out from beneath the covers, away from Alex and his impending questions and the concern that will cover his pity and disgust, yet at the same time will have the words spilling from my lips without my permission.

Time seems to have slipped away from me once more, and I find myself standing atop the railing of a bridge, clinging to one of the columns that keep it standing – that keeps me standing.

There's a commotion behind me – shouts and horns blaring in protest – but I focus instead on the storm-angered waves below, a swirling mass of blackness that beckons for me to join them.

It's sort of funny, how everyone always says it's the ones that you'd least expect.

It's not always to ones you'd least expect though.

Sometimes it's the ones you'd expect.

My eyes slip shut.

I let go.

I fall.

#eating disorders #anorexia #my writing #suicide #mental health #depression #anxiety #panic attacks

[coruscorp-blog]

DEAR, MS. ( MITSUE ONISHI )

We are pleased to have you back for another year as an UPPER SECOND YEAR STUDENT at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We sincerely hope your classmates in RAVENCLAW treat you well.

sapporo, hokkaido. 1988. odori park is where onishi rikizou and matsumura kanon meet under the fleeting flowers of spring. two people lost to the heart of a work culture that demands constant overtime and obeying of seniors, their minds only know of exhaustion. one silently craves death, telling nobody of their thoughts. if the two of them had not met, forced to share a bench to eat their respective lunches, then perhaps this story would come to end in a tragedy.

conversation strikes solace. then a friendship blossoms while the brief sakura wilts above them. among the emerald and turquoise of summer, rikizou decides to ask kanon out on a date. the cicadas almost drown his voice out, but she hears. he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a smile that shone so beautifully in his life. she can’t wait to offer him many more, scattered throughout the future.

kyoto, honshu. 1998. “nee-san, nee-san!” there is a loud thump of a body hitting the floor, but the excited boy in question does not feel the pain from the soft tatami. he scrabbles over to a nearby coffee table, to slap his sister’s arms. “okan and otoun are coming back! i see them right out the window!”

“amato what did i say about keeping calm?” his sister hisses without much malice for she too is excited, leaving the table to head to the door. it only takes a few seconds for the door to unlock and there enter two proud parents. kanon is cradling a precious bundle against her chest.

“amato. yuika. come to meet your imouto mitsue.”

kyoto, honshu. 2003. “mitsue, what did i say about climbing the gingko tree?”

“but nee-san i can’t think as well when i’m on the ground.”

“are you a bird? why do you need to be high up to think better?”

“maybe it’s the sky…” the little girl reaches her hand out towards the broad blue carefully. "because when i look at the sky it spreads out infinitely and it makes me realize how much i don’t know…but also how much space my mind probably has. like the sky.“

“is that what a five-year-old should be saying? maybe amato was being serious when he said you’re smarter than him,” there is a giggle, a brush of leaves against branches as a familiar figure sits beside her to stare off into the distance. but unlike her younger sister, yuika is unable to see the same colors and thoughts.

but though she won’t tell mitsue beyond a fond stroke of the younger girl’s hair, yuika knows that she doesn’t want to live the same life. a life of obsessing over details, solving riddles and theorizing things that extend even beyond a simple explanation of imagination.

kyoto, honshu. 2004. “mitsue is what? a witch?” kanon pulls her daughter closer to her on the couch, but the little girl is not paying attention to her mother’s movements. she’s focused on the sudoku book in her laps, but she can hear distress. she can also hear the stranger’s words.

there’s some things about magic which now explains to the little girl why she’s often been able to stare at something long enough for it to float. or the few times that she’s been angry at her older siblings she’s made the ceramic on the dining table crack much to her entire family’s further displeasure.

weird things happening. emotions correlating to power. there’s an answer to it all. there’s always an answer to things, it just depends how easily everything can be reached. the stranger does’t take long to convince kanon and rikizou of their daughter’s behaviors and soon she is sent off every morning on umi tsubame to an unknown island with unknown people.

unknown, but they are just like her somehow.

minami iwo jima, ogasawara. 2008. “mitsu! what book have you lost your nose in this time? put it down! we’re going to be late to the entrance ceremony.”

“hai, hai, i’m coming!” mitsue sighs but she’s not actually annoyed by her friends calling for her, tucking away the milky way road by miyazawa kenji into her gold colored robe she runs after her them. opening ceremonies are nothing new, but this will be the first time she attended mahoutokoro as a boarding school and not something simply for the day.

it’s the first time she’ll be away from her parents and her two older siblings. it was the first time she saw amato cry too when he hugged her goodbye, but the girl had promised him when he handed her his stack of mangas that she’ll read them all and message him back about it before they meet again over christmas holidays. there was no way she wouldn’t go back and risk missing her mother’s osechi during the new years.

“are you excited to live here mitsu?”

“stuck on an island with you? i don’t think so,” she earns a sharp jab in the ribs by a rough elbow but the laughter in the air as the flock enters the building is enough to explain everything about them all.

minami iwo jima, ogasawara. 2014. “takeru you’ll get water all over your bangs.”

the boy leaning over the water foutain looks up at her with a goofy lopsided grin, mischief glimmering in his eyes. she sighs at his response, reaching into her robes to pull out a simple red hair-clip. her fingers are careful when they brush aside wet bangs, clipping the stray strands into place with a satisfied smile.

“is this the school idol onishi mitsue that i know? the famous mahoutokoro quidditch manager being a lot more approachable than rumors say and even doing a few things beyond playing tactician? shocking.”

“what are you saying? are you an idiot,” mitsue scoffs at takeru but she doesn’t break eye contact from the warm familiar brown hues that she’s come to call a piece of her home. comfortable silence fills the space between the two of them, then it too is pushed out of the way as he leans in to close the distance between the two of them. her eyes close. briefly, a sensation like honey floods her entirety for eternity. but eternity is always so painfully short.

“hmmm, i wonder? what am i saying to my girlfriend?”

“girlfriend,” mitsue tilts her head to the side playfully. “quidditch captain, i wasn’t aware that someone like you could actually get a girlfriend?”

she screeches when cold water hits her robes but the noise dissolves into a fit of giggles under the sunny warmth.

minami iwo jima, ogasawara 2017. “onishi-san, as you are the valedictorian of your year and someone who holds an excellent extracurricular record, i would highly recommend you to attend the new program at hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry,” there is a short but loud snap of a folder snapping to a close. mitsue sits in her gold, knees pressed together and hand on her lap. maple irises are reading the headmaster’s every expression.

hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. another transition to another world.

“kouchou sensei, i’m honored you believe that. but are you positive about this? it’s halfway across the world and i have never stepped one foot outside of japan. i may know english, but i know nothing about the people there. the culture. i don’t think i’m suited for it, i would be so lost.”

“remember when we first met?” there is a warm hand on her shoulder, offering her a comforting squeeze, “i told you that i wanted you to become like the sakura trees and blossom beautifully. but you told me you didn’t want to live such a short fleeting life. that as someone born to a regular family, you wanted to become a tanpopo. one that can survive anyplace anywhere. people may call you a weed, but they would also be the ones holding hands with the wind to spread the seed of your legacy. that was almost ten  years ago when you told me this mitsue. you wre still a child when you said such profound words. now tell me, where is this dandelion now?”

a pause, there is a small shuffling noise that comes from her aureate robes as she finally stands up from the couch to bow down to the senior.

“preparing for a journey across water and land to scotland.”

highlands of scotland. 2017. i can already tell, you’re a smart one. but i have one question for you, do you like quidditch?

“no, i’ve never been athletic. sweating’s gross and flying’s not as fun on a broomstick.”

interesting, but when i look into your memories i see a lot of the sky.

“when i’m high up, i think better. i tell myself the sky is endless and that the only part stopping me is the horizon itself. same goes for the human mind. we’re stopping ourselves.”

the sorting hat murmurs something she can’t quite catch then it roars into the great hall.

RAVENCLAW.

#CR!Follow #CR!Ravenclaw

[i-was-bored-so-this-happened]

Second Star Chapter Thirteen: The Rodian

Fandom: The Mandalorian Wordcount: 3.3k Warnings: None

Okan and the child spend their day with Peli, who takes them through Mos Eisley to discuss business with a Rodian

Read on AO3 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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Mando returns to the hangar about half an hour after Okan manages to coax the child asleep again, keeping him close to her chest with a cleverly tied scarf. Surprisingly, Okan had actually understood some of the terms Peli had used to talk her through her plans for repairing the Razor Crest. Hanging around mechanically-minded kids when she was last on Tatooine in an attempt to learn Basic has paid off in some small way. Peli’s working on the fuel leak, having hooked some sort of old and gaspy machine up to the ship to try and keep what fuel is left in so Peli can mend the tank. Okan is sitting cross-legged in the sand. She’s pulled her bandana up over her nose again, and covered the child’s head with the scarf. Peli had given her goggles, and Okan had put them on. Sparks wouldn’t hurt her, but Okan’s not prepared to blow her cover as a human. Peli had set her to cleaning sand out of various instruments she’s going to use, a rather time-consuming task she’s happy to foist onto Okan to comply with Mando’s “no droids” rule.

Okan has fully readjusted to the Tatooine suns again and is revelling in basking in so much heat, hunched over the bits of metal and gently blowing sand from all the little crevices it’s been caught in. She hears the hangar door slide open and looks up with a smile even though no one can see it. Mando. He looks to the table, where the pit droids are still sitting. One turtles at the mere sight of him. He…really doesn’t like droids, Okan guesses. She waves, and he changes direction to move towards her instead of the Razor Crest. Okan puts down the suction hose Peli had given her and reaches up with the now-free hand, asking Mando to help her up so she doesn’t jostle the baby too much. She knows he’ll relent, it’s not the first time she’s asked, and sure enough firm fingers wrap around her wrist and take on her weight to get her to her feet.

“Thanks for letting us know we’d landed.” Okan says dryly once she’s standing, tucking one arm under the child sleeping on her chest. She remembers the goggles and bandana covering her face and pulls them off.

“You needed rest.”

“The kid woke up before me, wandered off.” She tells him.

“He did?” That tension’s in his voice again, he hadn’t entertained that possibility.

“Found the mechanic. She’s alright. Good thing, too,” Okan lets her chin lift a little to avoid the glare coming off the helmet, but not enough to make it seem like she’s having to look up at Mando, “That could have gone really wrong, Mando. You should have woken me. I can’t look after him if I don’t know what’s going on.” She waits for this to sink in, to process before asking, “Did you find a job?” Mando nods and begins to walk towards the ship,

“Working with another hunter. Guild, but he doesn’t seem to know what happened on Nevarro. He gets credit for the bounty, I get the money.”

“Thought you were blacklisted.”

“He’s new. Should be here with a couple speeders soon.”

“Do you have my credits yet?” This is Peli, having noticed that he’s back.

“Thank you. For looking after him.” Mando nods towards the child. Peli lets out a surprised sound. At that, he takes off into the ship as though to avoid any further conversation.

“So…what?” Peli asks, confused.

“He’s got a job, heading out as soon as possible.” Okan tells her, smiling. When she smiles she can feel the indent around her eyes the goggles have left behind. The baby shifts in his sling and pushes a hand out, making little grabby motions with it. Okan offers him a finger, but he rejects it. Carefully, she undoes the sling, quietly conversing with Peli until Mando returns with the bag he takes on hunts. 

“Here, he wants you.” Okan tells him, holding out the child. To his credit, Mando doesn’t even sigh this time, just takes the child. Once in the crook of Mando’s arm the child relaxes again, turning into the man’s chest and taking hold of a piece of fabric he’s managed to find between edges of beskar.

“He’s not going to have me for long.” Mando tells Okan. She follows him when he moves towards the hangar door. Peli, realising her communication time with her client is swiftly coming to a close, darts after them, 

“I’m doing it by hand, as requested, but it’s costing a lot of money to just keep my droids powered up, you know? This one’s good with people, not so much machines,” this she says indicating Okan, “No offence.”

“None taken.”

“And it’s going to take me a long time to do these repairs, which will in turn cost you-” Peli’s ramshackle sales pitch stops when she steps outside her hangar and finds someone else already there. A young man, with dark hair, an earring and two speeders.

“Hey, Mando, what do you think? Not too shabby, huh?” He sounds young too, the blue leather of his jacket squeaking and showing its newness when he rolls his shoulders. Without a word, Mando steps forward to inspect the speeders. They’re old and dusty and rusty. Okan, no expert herself as only recently demonstrated, doesn’t have much faith in them either. The speeder Mando’s looking at clicks in places it shouldn't click when he touches it. The young man must feel the disdain over the two feet of space between them.

“What d’you expect? This ain’t Corellia.” He says to Mando, shrugging. Okan clicks her tongue and moves forward. She speaks in broken Rodian, which she knows he should understand despite her lack of correct grammar,

“Will they still run? I know I do not know many, but I have watched children build better Beggar Boats…” the helmet tilts in that way that asks her to elaborate, “People collect scraps out of the Canyon Beggar, where they used to have races, to build with.”

“They’ll run.” Mando decides, speaking in Basic.

“Of course they’ll run.” The young man says, almost laughing. The sound of the scoff wakes the child. His eyes open and he starts wriggling, until he realises it’s Mando that’s holding him and giggles. 

“Okan.”

“Yes.” She holds her hands out to the child, and he leans out far enough for Mando to let go of him and let him fall into Okan. She spins in a circle, playing one of his favourite games, Rockets, squealing with the child, “Good afternoon, baby!” The young man pushes himself off the speeder he was leaning against, she hears it creaking, and when she finds herself facing him he’s holding out a hand as though to shake hers. She’s spared from this when the man realises her hands are full with the child, and he attempts to save his awkward gesture by lifting his hand to push it through his hair while he introduces himself,

“Toro Calican,” he bows his head in Peli’s direction, “Ma’am.” He casts a confused glance at the child while Mando ties his bag to the speeder, but doesn’t say anything.

“Back before dark?” Okan asks, still in Rodian, playing the foreigner role.

“Yes.”  He answers. Okan nods, as if giving him permission, as if he won’t go if she says she doesn’t like the idea. The speeders creak more when the men sit on them. One of them has a false start, but then they’re gone. Okan twists to look at Peli, who waves at the child in that way you do with babies, fully opening and closing your hand, with a wide smile,

“You speak Rodian, huh?” Peli asks. Okan shrugs. She’s not very good at it. “I could use someone who speaks Rodian.” Okan raises her eyebrows,

“Uh huh. What for?”

“There’s this competitor of mine, real piece of work. He’s got a contact at the public spaceport, so when anything new comes in on the cargo ships he gets first pick. Trouble is, his contact is Rodian. Difficult for ‘em to speak Basic, right? I mean, even what you’ve got is just an approximation, we ain’t got the right biology-”

“You want me to talk to this Rodian so you get a good pick of the salvage that comes through?” Okan surmises, “For what?” she adds. Nothing is free on Tatooine.

“Well, if you help me out, the value of the parts I’d get would cover the cost of the hangar while you’re here. That sound fair?” Peli proposes. Okan considers. Looks at the child as though he’s part of this decision. He tips his head to the side, his ear folding against Okan’s arm. She mimics the head movement.

“We didn’t have any plans for today, did we, sprout?” she looks at Peli, righting her head, “If you help me strap him in, I’ll help you.”

“Strap him in?”

With Peli’s assistance Okan constructs a carrier for the child out of scarves and lengths of leather Mando hasn’t yet fashioned into belts or armour straps. Covering the knots of material across her back with her cloak, she can keep the child secure against her chest while having both of her hands free to move. Okan ties her bandana around her nose again, masking the lower half of her face, and tucks the end of it into the neck of her shirt.

“I need something to cover his face.” Okan says to Peli. The mechanic doesn’t question it - many people on Tatooine disguise their faces when going about their everyday lives, and they are travelling with a Mandalorian after all. She scrambles, digging through various piles of scrap metal until she finds a helmet. Round, blue with a yellow-tinted visor, big enough to take the baby’s ears. Big enough to hold his whole body, really, it falls past the ears and Okan has to wedge her fingers between it and the scarf under the child’s chin to keep it from falling off entirely. Ah, well. At least she’ll have one free hand. As a last measure, Okan pushes her hair behind her ears and lifts the hood of her cloak.

“You’ll cook in that,” is Peli’s only comment, and it prompts her to delve back into a pile of scrap and pull out a bottle. A short straw is attached, long enough for Okan to slip under her bandana or fit under the child’s helmet, “There ain’t much water in the town anymore, but last time I was there a stall had orange juice…that was a couple years ago, though.”

“Don’t leave the hangar much?” Okan asks.

“Oh, I don’t go further than the cantina. This is the safest place on the planet,” Peli slaps the wall of the hangar fondly. A large sheet of corrugated iron at the other end of the structure falls down, “I’ve been meaning to fix that cladding. Ya ready to go?” When Okan nods, Peli twists to yell, “R5! Engage security protocols! Passage only for us and the Mando, got it?” a distant droid makes a high whee noise in response. The trio of pit droids, seemingly Peli’s constant companions, clatter their way over to the pair to accompany them out of the hangar. The baby giggles at their gangling forms.

***

Tatooine. Okan had never been to Mos Eisley, and Mos Espa only on very few occasions. The little drawstring bag of credits Mando refills for her at the end of each month rests not in her bag but in the pocket closest to her body, anything else that could be considered valuable left with the R5 droid at the hangar. Okan’s fingers are still propping up the helmet covering the baby, and he seems quite content to latch onto one of those fingers and watch the world go by. The pit droids have arranged themselves in a loose triangle around Okan and Peli, the latter keeping up bright conversation with them as though they’re people.

The Outer Rim remains untameable, Okan sees, Stormtrooper helmets impaled on wooden stakes. Likely the heads are still inside some of them. The mix of species that roams the town where desert is all but indistinguishable from pathway is more diverse than on Nevarro, plus the higher ratio of droids-to-humanoids. Nothing sleek and new that would be dismantled before you even saw the Jawas, mostly dusty pre-Empire. The Jawas do still hover on the outskirts, picking through piles of scrap to bargain with. Peli approaches a group and starts to squeak at them in their own language. The Jawas squeak back, obviously familiar with the mechanic. They’re having a simple conversation, not a negotiation, and soon Peli moves on, taking care to stay level with Okan at all times. The air is more aggressively hot out here - nowhere near the heat of the Dune Sea but warmer than the hangar with its cooling fans. Okan welcomes it, feeling her temperature rise degree by degree as they move further beneath the suns.

“The fleshmarket’s that way, terrible smell,” Peli says at a junction, turning in the opposite direction of her pointing finger, “Tannery’s two streets over, that’s almost worse, but this way’s the general market. Not much pretty there, but you can get something for the little one to drink.”

“I like to explore markets on other planets.” Okan tells her, poking the child’s nose when he sinks his teeth into her glove.

“You been to many? Planets?” Peli asks, confidently pushing her hands deep into her boiler suit pockets.

“A few. I like to see the people, the flowers.”

“Not gonna find many flowers here.”

“No, not many. There used to be some sandweed and asters in the Sea.”

“Out by Mos Pelgo?” Peli asks. Okan nods. “There used to be trees, too. I hear the Tuskens can still find wood to use out there.”

“I’ve heard that too.” Okan replies. The stalls here aren’t cheerfully coloured like on Nevarro with merchandise jingling in the breeze, nor closely connected by permanently fixed wooden beams like on Sorgan. They’re plasticky metal, easily foldable and light to travel with at the end of a day, and distanced from one another. It’s less a community effort and more a competition. Each one is covered by a cloth awning in a different shade of brown or occasional orange. Most fabric on Tatooine is brown, or eventually turns brown to match the dust. Strong reds are the exception, though in time the suns fade them to orange. Okan doesn’t stand out too much in red cloak and bandana, brown trousers, brown hair trailing from the hood. Nor does Peli, orange-and-brown mechanic suit. Even the pit droids are a dark, rusty red. They’re painted in the Tatooine colour palette. 

Grains of sand shift under Okan’s bare feet and crunch under Peli’s boots and the droid’s treads. A few times a hot, flat stone presses into the sole of Okan’s feet, and the warmth from it sinks into her and rushes up the skin of her leg. She’d missed hot planets. Sorgan had been lovely but she’d always been tired there, never quite warming up no matter how long she spent basking in the sun. Here, drinking in every drop of sunlight Okan feels awake, alert, more alive. If she were to stop, close her eyes, concentrate, she thinks she might even be able to feel the blood in her veins as the heat circulates. It makes everything a little more bearable - less like claws making her itch and more like the touch of someone tracing the lines of her bones. The discomfort of being out of her ideal temperature zone had been something new and strange to adjust to, and warming back up had taken longer than expected.

“Oh hey, that juice stand is still here!” Peli is pleased with herself, that’s clear, and she doesn’t hesitate to barter with the vendor over how many half-frozen spheres of orange juice they can get for ten credits. She gestures to Okan for the bottle and once she has it rattles it at the vendor who’s trying to convince her to also get a cup. With sticky exasperation she asks the vendor if they’re really going to deprive a child of hydration. This is when they give in and take the bottle, filling it with the bright, pulpy globs of orange. Peli hands over her ten credits and they move on. The mechanic shakes the bottle vigorously before giving it back to Okan, saying she’s breaking up the spheres to make it easier for the child. Okan pushes up the straw of the bottle and pushes it under the helmet, nudging it against the child’s mouth until he realises what it is and stretches his arms out to hold the bottle himself. “Starport’s just up ahead.”

“What’s the Rodian’s name?” Okan asks, “I suppose the best way to begin negotiation is with an introduction.”

“In Basic? Rocky.”

“What can you offer him that’s better than your competitor?” Okan asks. Peli snorts,

“Droid servicing, for a start. This other guy, he’s banthacrap. Those droids are as dry as crackers, ‘bout as fragile too. They’re primarily customer-service droids, least they could do is crack a joke,” Her pit-droids elbow each other and whistle in agreement, “Here we are. No ferries due for a while, should give us some time. See that building?” Peli points towards the sandstone tower that sits in the centre of the circle of docking spaces, “That’s the control base, he should be in there,” she casts a sidelong glance at Okan, “Take the hood off? You’ll look more trustworthy if he can see your eyes,” Okan raises her hand to her nose, “You can keep the bandana on, he shouldn’t question that, ‘s long as he can understand you,” Peli marches up to the door with her seemingly unfaltering confidence and hits the door rather than knocks it. The long eyestalk of a security droid pokes out, “Peli Motto and Okan to see Rocky, I have a business proposition.” The eyestalk retreats, and shortly there are metallic grinding noises interrupted by the occasional bout of sandy gears. The door swings open. 

Thin stripes of light along the walls lead them up the twisting staircase to the top of the tower. The building is featureless except for the glass cage at the top. This is circular, each sector of it matching a sector of the starport. There are six identical segments, one for each of the docks. The sandstone tower pierces through the room itself, narrowing as it reaches the ceiling, punches through and stretches another few feet higher to end in a chisel shape. There are two workers at each station of control  except for the one directly to Okan and Peli’s right. Here there is a single Rodian dressed in grey, his headset already pushed down from his ears. He greets them in the same dialect Okan knows, the blend of Basic and Rodian. Okan replies in kind, doing her best to correctly order her words,

“I am Okan I Don’t Know…Okan Unknown. I speak for Peli Motto, who believes the more polite way to talk to you would be in your own words, but I apologise because I am not the best…speaker.” She stops here, not wanting to make things any worse. But the Rodian laughs, in a way that sounds like the hoover Okan had been using not long ago, and speaks a few short sentences.

“He appreciates the effort,” Okan tells Peli, “Despite the fact I sound like a hatchling, he’d rather than you pretending he’s human. He would like to hear your offer,” Rocky adds something, so Okan adds it too, “And, uh, he’d understand Basic better than me.”

#second star #star wars #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian oc #okan the unknown #rae's ocs #baby yoda #grogu #mando #original character #rae's writing