#Mandalore the Preserver

[2stepadmiral]

What are the odds that Revan, aware of the grave reality of the symbolic stature he gradually came to embody, aware of the weight that rested upon his shoulders, keenly aware that he and the Mandalorian mask he wore and made his own transformed him into a being of legend, would frequently make silly faces at people (particularly Jedi masters, Malak, and stuffy officers) who would only see the grim and emotionless visage of his mask and never suspect that the butcher, the prodigal knight, the conqueror, was sticking his tongue out at them?

[bojangos]

Happy May the 4th!

I got the opportunity to do some of the character art for "A Wound in the Force - KOTOR 2 20th Anniversary Zine"! Immediately I wanted to do Mandalore because of course I did, and I did two versions.

Check out the Zine if you want to see other cool KOTOR art!

[hulahoopsoupgroup]

playing through kotor 2 for the first time and

isnt mandalore just canderous?

what if this guy is just thinking "goddammit i cant escape this fucking ship" when the ebon hawk lands on dxun

canderous trying to live his life like normal and the ebon hawk just appears like "bonjour"

[valkblue]

[swtorpadawan]

(Please comment if you know the original artist)

[aeskanera]

Star Wars fancast: Hiroyuki Sanada as Canderous Ordo, Mandalore the Preserver

[fecci]

In the description of the blog, I announced KOTOR fanarts, here is one of them. Revan gives the Mandalore mask to Canderus before disappearing. A touching scene in which a mentor and an important person leaves her ward and blesses her for further achievements. (Inspired by the genius KOTOBER 2020 list)

[yes-im-gushing]

Memories

Din djarin x f!reader

rated: M

Childhood friends to lovers meet later in life.....kinda

Bo-Katan said that there were different versions of the creed, Din has come to accept that. As he walks through the ever growing camp of Mandalorians gathering on the land over the decimated ruins of Mandalore.

There is a part of him that has lived in isolation for too long, that cringes at the sight of so many people gathered.

This many living mandalorians is a blessing and Din will not scorn that. Even when the clashes break out. Clans with long histories of conflict have to stand side by side now. If his faction, so secluded even before the war, could stand with those that bare their faces, then the other could see past their differences. Past the colors and marking of their armor. Past the names and faces. Past the petty scuffles.

They are all one now.

He chafes past the expectations of his own creed. He stands besides the Nightowl and unites their people under an elected leadership.

The exact rules of his creed have not left his mind for days. His faction has the most rules, the owls claim. They are the most conservative, the strictest. Their ceremonies are things left in echoes from the race before humans walked this twice dead, twice reborn planet.

The basics of the creed are something they all agree on. Loyalty and honor to your clan. Adherence to rank. To be honest and trustworthy. To always offer aid to another in Beskar. To honor, protect, and provide for your clan. To protect and adhere to the code of finding. To be responsible in all things. And to train others.

It was the finer rules that varied. The helmet and adherence to it was the most obvious. Most factions no longer followed this rule. Only two other than Din's own. Many had differing ranking systems, putting elders and trophy hunters above armorers, Or determined rank through challenge.

Some were loose in their definitions of a clan, they collected members more like a fire team. Not taking any oath or public acknowledgment of their clan. They bore no marks of their clans. They coupled and uncoupled freely without the bonds of marriage. They raised no young but their own.

Din could not imagine growing up without others training beside him. The fighting core had not been a clan. Their version of the creed had also been looser than the watch's, but he was surrounded by others, his own age to spar with, to fight and hate and respect as they were changed.

He thinks that was the last time he was surrounded by so many others. The solitude of his adulthood so different than standing among the ranks. That was the first time he loosed his grip on his identity. Being a cadet instead of Din Djarin. That was before his ceremony. Before he took the creed.

It had been difficult to give those parts up. First his home, then his name, his future, his body, eventually his life.

The other cadets had indulged here and there, drinking in all they could of life until they would be sent back to their clans. Made new under their helmets. The creeds they would take were different then too. The similarities were in the preservation of their fighting spirit.

Some cadets had bragged about the things they would get to keep. Their exposed faces, their families, their homes, lives, their short lived teen romances, freedoms Din knew he wouldn't know.

There was a group of them, the more conservative children. Seven in his grade. They gathered only to avoid the others. To call each other by their names while they still had them. To touch their faces and breath fresh air while they could.

Din doesn't remember any of it. Names or faces, such unimportant details.

He does remember a long black braid and green skin. Mirialans were rare all through the galaxy. They rarely left their home planet and certainly never colonized other planets. To see one with their head uncovered was even more of a shock.

He never knew what color their hair was until he saw her long braid swaying against the movement of her body.

Even among the outsiders like himself she was isolated. Her founder was from an aggressive and strict clan. According to the gossip, he'd found her in a slaver's cage. Normally a Mirialan would be returned to their people, after all the closed borders planet would always welcome a member of their own species back. But her founded was also Mirialan and had wanted an heir. Most clans would consider this a breach of the finder's code, to keep a child that could be returned. Her clan was different.

More than her skin convinced the others that she did not belong.

Din had too much of his own business to mind to reach out to the girl. He was never much of a savior. But he could offer her a tension-less silence whenever they were in proximity.

For as little as he offered her, he can't imagine why she noticed him at all.

She spent most of her time like he did, quiet, alone. training or eating she focused on the task and moved along when it was finished. The model of the perfect student. Not breaking a single rule with the others.

No one even knew her name.

They couldn't tell what she was giving up, maybe nothing. Maybe she already had everything taken from her and there was nothing left to mourn.

Din knew though. He knew because of every other cadet in their grade she had chosen to share it with him.

Not in words.

The girl who had nothing to loose had everything to gain. anything at all.

Some cheeky cadets managed to snag kisses and other scandalous moments together. Some bragged about the ones they would return to when they finished their training. Sometimes arranged pairs and sometimes not. Some bragged of their clans lax rules around such matters.

Din did not. The watch had strict rules of pairing. Outside of the Riduurok. When he was officially a Mandalorian, after he took the creed, they would decide when and if he was eligible to be paired.

And anything before would be risky beyond logic for little reward. The instructors were vigilant in their watch of the cadets, having so many of them housed in such proximity.

running into the Mirialan girl had been nothing more than coincidence. He'd gotten in an altercation with another cadet, cut his face open on the other boys fist. He'd been patched up and sent to the laundry to wash the blood out of his shirt.

She was already there, sheets bunched in her arms, smelling of the blood removing cleaner even from where he stood uncertain in the doorway.

They did not speak. She stepped to the side, facing the table to reapply the solution to the fabric and scrub at the blood. He hesitated before he pulled his shirt over his head and stepped to the table, leaving a respectable distance between them. Silently she passed him the solution and moved to the basin to scrub the sheets with cold water.

Her sheets went in the washer and she held the door open for him to throw his shirt in as well.

He expected her to close the door, start the wash. Instead her hands moved with only a moment of hesitance to her waist and then her pants were off as well, slightly bloody, they went into the wash.

Din was frozen, all the swirling pubescent hormones Waring with the standard he'd held himself to before now.

She turned back to the table and hauled herself to the damp surface, her knees parting and affording him a view of her glistening red slit. He is too young and too far into puberty to resist such an invitation.

outside of sparring she rarely made the effort to look any of them in the eye, but in that moment she looked right through him. Her dark eyes more hypnotizing than any temptation he's ever faced.

He is not a mandalorian yet, and he is breaking no creed yet. He thinks as he swells hard in his pants, the air suddenly too cool on his shirtless chest.

---

It had been a youthful rebellion. He wasn't proud of it. And in his lowest spiritual moments, he was even ashamed.

But it wasn't a memory he could fully cast from his mind. His first encounter with sex was a scene more salivating than many that came later. It wasn't his only rebellious period. A few years after he'd been appointed beroya for the covert he'd become lonely and bitter. He'd allowed himself to become associated with honorless criminals. He fell to a handful of temptations in that time.

But he hadn't enjoyed it. Most acts of rebellion were not dissimilar to intoxicants. Sex, violence, and reckless stunts. There was a certain thrill to it. A temptation to try, but often in the throws of it all Din felt was dissatisfaction.

It was all an outlet for unpleasant emotions, but when they were all drained away there was nothing else to fill the space. He only felt empty.

Moving forward he'd dedicated himself to truly being a pious man. He performed his labor for the covert. Dedicated his efforts to the care and raising of the next generation.

All he had to sustain himself in the quiet moments were his memories. Though sometimes he would use memories of Xi'an and the other woman to get where he needed to go, they were not exactly pleasant memories.

As juvenile as it was, her prefers the older memory. Worn with use and faded around the edges. It holds more than the quick rutting did. It holds sensations. Strong hands on his arms. A smell like strong tea and leather. The softness of skin beneath his bare palms.

He's thought of it so many times, constructed her piece by piece. Green skin flushed dark. A long black braid draped over one shoulder. A heel pulling at his shin. Hands holding his pants by the waistband. A glistening red slit breaking open on his cock.

It's all just fragments. But they're familiar and so deeply ingrained in him now. Even the sway of a dark braid can get him hard. Too many days spent amongst the night owls with their helmets off and he has to close himself into his ship. Fuck his fist until he can behave like a man again.

-

She's made of fragments he's sure of it. The woman in the purple armor. She's the founder of one his students. She isn't of the watch, but she keeps her helmet on. She observes his training, sometimes participates. When her long braid isn't tucked under the strap over her shoulder for combat, it's loose and long behind her back.

Black as night and swaying with her movements. Every inch of her skin is covered and he does not recognize her clan symbol. She is not recognizable. She's just blurry around the edges, unknowable in the same way the girl from his memories is. She adheres to the code. Well enough that he knows nothing about her. As well he shouldn't.

But he can't help himself when she creeps into his memories. The worn out picture of the girl so faded and conceptual in his mind filling out into her shape. It's shameful how he moans at the thought. A tangible women a better fantasy.

He will behave like a man he promises himself. Refusing to let his sight wonder in her direction as she instruct the younger group on blaster safety. He will not leer like some drunkard in the streets. He minds his own group. Keeps his mind on the task.

She does not socialize with him anyway. Preferring to retire to her own room like him. She only speaks to him when necessary. Approaching him the first day to make introductions. "You're Din right?"

He hadn't asked for her name then, but she'd offered it anyways.

He refuses to think about it. Won't let the fantasy become solid all the way through. Won't let himself think the name as he cums all over his lap.

It's just bits and pieces. The way that the girl's braid over her shoulder had become wrapped around his hand like Xi'an's head tail had been. He imagines a boot digging into his shin. Instead of a bare heel.

But he won't let it become the woman. Not fully. Not clearly.

-

The kid would not settle down tonight. It was late now and he still had things to do. His clothes were filthy from the training grounds and there were dishes piling up. He needed to tidy up and have his diner. There were others drinking and socializing in the hall. Some private rooms filled with friends and clan members still loud at this time of night.

Din passed by them discreetly, hoping not to be caught by a friendly drunk. He dropped a bag of garbage down the shoot to the incinerator. Freeing up a hand to palm the sensory for the laundry room door. It slid open revealing an empty room. He shuffled his things into one of the machines checking the pockets as he went. Not wanting anything to damage the machine. He was closing the thing and thumbing the settings when the door slid open behind him.

Boots passed by him, stopping at another machine and stuffing a load in. There was enough blood rushing in his ears that they felt warm.

This wasn't one of his memories. He needed to get a hold of himself. Feeling caught, even though he was only standing there, he continued to start the machine. standing straight when he was finished.

He turned back to the door, not looking to see who else had entered when he noticed it. The red light on the side of the scanner panel. The door had been locked. Din stopped abruptly.

His hand reaching for a blaster that wasn't there. But there was a knife in his boot if it came to it. He did turn now, to assess the danger.

It was the woman in purple. But the edges of the heated fantasy were not blurry and comforting now. They were sharp. She'd locked the door. Locked both of them in here together. It was a petty move really. He could just as easily hit the switch and unlock it. It wouldn't take a second. But he was cautious now.

She finished starting her machine and turned to him now, the table still between them. She rested her hands on the table, tilting her visor at him. "You are Din Djarin aren't you?"

He nodded once.

"Do you remember me?"

He said nothing. Not sure what there was to say in a situation like this. He had no idea what her intentions were. His mind running through so many sinister and sexy possibilities.

She didn't continue. Waiting and watching him. Looking for any tells.

After a moment she stood straighter and backed up until she reached the bit of counter meant for folding clothes, then she braced both her hands on the edge and climbed up on it. Her knees spread open in front of him.

"Do you remember?" she asks again. Breathlessness apparent through the vocoder.

He is a man. He will act like one. But this is better than his memories. This is a real woman. And he is a real man.

He approaches.

His hands pulled to the plates over her thighs. He doesn't even look at them, doesn't know what they look like. The very identity of a Mandalorian is crafted into the angles of their armor. Does she wear knee guards for heavy artilery? Does she have trauma plating? Are there colors or designs there that speak about her life?

He can't tear his gaze away from the tilt of her helmet. The way the visor narrows in the corners like a coy look. The way the braid hangs loose over her shoulder.

Her knees slide around his hips like they were made to fit there. So different than any memory of knobby knees. Everything is being over written now. Cloudy half sensations falling from his mind at this new stimuli.

The heat of her seeps through the fabric of her pants, even under the armor. Her hands slide up his chest plate. Spreading leather covered fingers over his shoulders.

"Do you remember me?" she asks again. Her voice crackling in a strained way.

His hand rises from her thigh and gently curls over the long braid running his thumb down the center of it reverently.

"The laundry room, when we were in training?" he asks, unsure despite everything.

He feels her helmet nod once while his gaze falls to his hand wrapped around her hair.

Does he remember? it seems like such a stupid question. He remembers it every time he wraps his hand around his cock. But maybe...maybe he doesn't. Maybe he only remembers a version he made up, added to over the years as all the real details were lost to time. He doesn't remember her being so warm.

He doesn't remember thighs around his waist like this. Doesn't remember the arch of her throat the way it stretches out before him now.

Her hand slides down his abdomen, muted by the layers he was wearing. But when the heel of her palm presses hard against the line of his cock he can't help the shudder that rattles him.

His hand tugging her braid absently.

"Didn't think you'd remember me." He confesses.

"Never, stopped thinking about you." She hisses.

Din shudders a laugh grabbing her wrist and pulling it away from his bulge before she tries to rub him to completion through his pants. "Couldn't have been that good for you."

She tilts her helmet at him. "The rutting? no. You were good though."

Din is too distracted by the glint of her visor, the bareness of her words, the feeling of her wrist in his hand. That's why her second hand surprises him when it tugs him closer, pressing him tight to the space between her legs.

It takes him a moment to find his voice, "Me?"

She nods. "So quiet and well behaved. Used to slam me into the dirt and offer me a hand up. Eat our lunch together in perfect silence. Never asked stupid questions. Never tried to kiss me behind the climbing wall."

His next laugh is confused. "That does it for you?'

"Respect? Honor, manners, skill? Principles, dedication? Din you treated me like a Mandalorian before I was one. Then I went and gave you my virginity." She shrugs. "It's hard to forget that."

"Why? I never understood that."

She tilts her helmet forward into his shoulder. Not a keldabe but close enough. "Because you didn't ask. Never asked for anything. Never acted like you deserved anything."

"I-I didn't"

Her head raises and Din lets go of her wrist as she leans back on her hands. "Do you now?"

"Do I-?"

"Deserve it? Do you deserve it?"

"No one deserves it."

she hums leaning towards him again, her voice pitched lower this time. "Then, do you want it?"

Din has to swallow around the clog of words that rush up his throat. He manages to squeak out an undignified "yes" as her boot knocks into his calf.

He can feel her grin. Feel it the same way he can feel his own grin behind his helmet. The way he can feel Boba's or even Paz's sarcastic grins.

He feels it like the grind of her heel into his leg as she tilts her helmet back to look him right in the visor. "I'll bet you've learned a thing or two since then. Why don't you show me?"

Din can feel the determination in his hands. In the way that they curl against the metal washing machine. He wants to get his hands on her- in her as quickly as possible.

But there's one more thing in the way. A mandalorian's armor is made to be hard to remove by anyone but themselves. The magnetic mounts were placed in such a way that it was difficult to remove. And their under clothings were similarly unique. A mess of layers and straps. Flack vests and belts and clasps that made it difficult to get underneath. It was a protective measure. And a matter of respect. Only a spouse every knew how to really undress another.

"Will you- will you let me, Mesh'la?"

Her hands find their way to his waist again urging him back far enough that she can slip down from the machine. Her hands are practiced in their movements, only a few tugs until the bottom half of her clothing falls slack. The fabric sagging down. Her Beskar stays in place though and it isnt until he slips his hands over her hips that he realises why.

She's using a magnetic mounting system reinforced by harnesses. The straps of the harness wrap around her waist, resting the weight of the armor against her hips. He runs his thumbs along the straps. Taking a shuddering breath as he wedges a finger beneath, feeling the weight of it.

"Do I need to remove my armor for you, vod?" she teases.

Din shakes his head. "No. don't." He swiped his thumbs along her hip bones again before his hands become suddenly firm. Her boots scuff the floor as he turns her around, facing her towards the machine now.

She may have been about to say something. Or maybe just make another one of those commenting humming noises she keeps using on him. But she's silenced by the thwack of a glove plopping down on the machine beside her. His warm hand finding her hip before it traces its way down to cup her sex.

He takes a minute to press against her. To feel the flesh and learn it. The course hair, the plush give of tender flesh. The silky texture of her innermost fold as his index nudges against it.

He doesn't move. Just feels. Lets his hand warm her. Waits for the heat between their bodies to build up until she feels hot against his palm.

"You just gonna hold it?" Her voice isn't as unaffected as she tries to make it.

DIn lets his helmet rest on her shoulder. "Yes." His hand presses firmer, but not by much. His fingers shifting just enough to feel a hint of moisture cooling in the space between them.

She shifts at the heels. Her hips tilting back at him. "Din." she says firmly.

And he can feel the way her lips slide over his palm, damp but not wet yet. He grunts in frustration but spreads his fingers out on either side of her lips, dragging them gently up and pressing against the junction at the top.

It's a gentle pressure and a subtle gyrating motion. Less focused on the nerves and more on moving all the flesh with it.

"Well you're close. I'll give you than. Why don't I just-"

Din presses his body closer to her hooking his helmet over her shoulder. "Will you just be patient?" He growls. He has her more bent over now, his chest against her back, her body resting on her elbows.

He slides his fingers down again feeling for the spreading wetness that clings to the hair. Dragging is back up with a gentle pressure over and over until he can get her slick all the way up to her clit.

The flesh swole hot and slick under his. Softer than anything against his fingertips. He presses down in a gentle stroke, again and again until her nerves swell to and stand stiff under his attention. Then he circles and slides his fingers down again to keep them slick while he plays with her.

There's a tension in her shoulders as she lets her neck hang. The weight of the helmet a strain from this position.

The wetness is spreading all around where his fingers touch and further still, dripping through the cleft of her cheeks. "So impatient." he admonishes. "Can't wait for me to get my feel."

She huffs a breath, hips shifting against his hands. He can feel the wet trail she leaves all the way up to his wrist. Din tenses his hand grasping her firmly by the cunt. He waits for her to still before he slides a finger into her heat.

She makes no sound loud enough to be picked up by the modulator but this close he can feel it vibrating through her.

"Let me show you." he insists, sliding the finger free and sliding two in together. The angle grinds the heel of his hand against her clit as he pumps his fingers.

"Wish you'd show me something- something else." She's baiting him. He can tell by the way her voice wavers. But he doesn't want to resist her. He wants to fuck her with his hand until it's dripping down her thighs. Show her exactly how much better he's gotten at sex since his first time.

But she wants his cock and he isn't strong enough to deny her. He takes a moment to press it against her for a moment. Her thigh hot even through the fabric of his flight suit. The pressure is so good he's worried for a moment that he might blow this all too soon.

Instead his hand retreats from her cunt, traveling up her body to clutch at her breast plate, dragging her to stand close as he frees his cock.

He wants to slide it between her thighs. Rut there until he can paint his load all over those puffy lips. But he will prove himself. Even if the effort makes him bite down on his tongue.

He grasps it instead. Firmly. The pressure grounding him as he slides just the head through her slick once, twice. Just enough to coat it, then he bends at the knees, positioning the head at the entrance, feeling the swollen flesh give as he presses in. Feeling muscle spread. Hot and wet and so soft.

He can't remember what it was like before. The hot clutch of her. His fist has worn against the memory of that sensation until only his hand remained. But this, he wants to remember this for the rest of his life. The way he has to work past the clench of muscle as she lets him in.

Another noise passes under the lip of her helmet. High and wanting. "You're certainly bigger now."

He wants to laugh. Wants to come up with something sly to say. But Din isn't a man of words. He lets his body respond for him. His hand pressing flat against her stomach while he pulls her back by the breast plate. Making her body arch against him. Their bodies pressed together from top to bottom. Perfectly aligned as he pressed his hips harder into hers.

She's taken most of him. Her legs spread wide enough to make space for him even as he pulls her body to the edge of her balance. Letting him twist her body into position for him. Letting him spread her open on his cock like this. Her helmet leant back against him.

"Better?"

The sounds she makes is half choked off as he pulls her down on him harder. Shoving fully into her for just a moment. Still too much resistance in her muscles to make him believe that's very pleasant.

"hmm?"

"Am I better than last time?"

It takes her a moment to put her words back together. DIn doesn't Stop the subtle thrusts that bully her muscles open for him as he waits for her response.

"Make me cum, then I'll tell you."

He likes the challenge, more than he thought he would. He releases her from the angle, slow enough that she regains her balance on her own. He lets her sag for a moment before repositioning her. Pulling her hips back against him and pressing her down against the machine.

It's much easier to swing his hips into her now. The angle letting her loosen up enough to take him easily. The slick glide too easy, too perfect.

She groans, pressing back into his thrusts. The rhythm messy and desperate as they both work off each other. Meeting in uneven places. Gasps shuddering through her every time he's buried it deep.

"Touch-me."

He has to shift forward. spread his feet and lay across her back. Brace himself with one hand as he fumbles for her clit again. His fingers sliding too smooth through the slick that's gathered there. Just above where his cock is plunging in and out, her clit stands tall. The movement of their bodies alone rubbing her against his hand.

She's dripped down her thighs now. His thighs too. The slick gathering between his fingers and dripping down his knuckle.

That spot behind her helmet where her neck is long and almost exposed without the beskar. The place where she's vulnerable is stretched just ahead of his visor. Her braid snaking out from the fabric.

He wishes he wasn't wearing his now. Wishes he could burry his face into that space and smell her. He settles for nuzzling his helmet there instead. Hoping the hard press of his armor to her vulnerable neck will mean to her what it means to him.

She cries out. sudden and loud and her body shakes as she clenches hard around him. He nearly bites his tongue off trying not to blow his load. Waiting through several more thrusts as her body clutches at him. Sucking him deeper.

It's too much. Too good. Din is only a man.

He pulls out gripping his hot cock in his bare hand as he tugs it. His fist familiar. He cums hard, covered in her slick. Covered in her. Drippin with her as he shoots into the fabric gathered between her thighs.

Every hot twitch of his cock makes white spread behind his eyes but he pulls back anyways, watching as his cum soaks into the dark fabric. Marks up her clothes.

He's unsteady on his feet now. Nearly swaying back as he runs his thumb over the harness on her hips again. Watching the dark fabric drink up the fluid from his hand. The curve of her ass cheeks glistening with their fluids.

"Mesh'la." he murmurs deliriously as the endorphins cloud his brain.

She stretches. No doubt stiff in her lower back from the position, but the stretch just spreads her out in front of him. Her cunt fucked out and still open from his cock. White cum clinging to the hair around the hole.

Her joints pop as she straightens up. Her hands going to pull her clothes back into order. His cum now pressed up against her as she redresses.

His brain is still thick. And his cock is still out. He should do something about that. He winces against the sensitivity but stuffs it back into his pants.

She turns around, Still more disheveled than she should be. Something off about the way her clothes sit now.

She looks him over before shaking her head. "We better hope we don't run into anyone on the way out. We won't fool them."

Din glances down at himself noticing the dark spots where she dripped all over his thighs, something even shining over his beskar. His cock gives a weak twitch that makes him wince.

Her hand is on his shoulder and he looks back up at her, trying to think of anything but her pussy weeping all over him.

"We'll have to pick one room to keep the kids in, if we're going to do that again. can't always meet in the laundry room."

"If?" he says pathetically.

She laughs. "Come on, Beroya."

[solrika]

Food-related thoughts, courtesy of chatter with @mystical-salamander:

Parts of Coruscant, especially in the extra-dense areas, don't have any cooking implements in the apartments besides a microwave and small fridge. (Hot plates are a fire hazard.) Instead of cooking for themselves, residents visit food vendors or buy microwave meals. Prepackaged snacks that don't require refrigeration are also common.

You know those 'microwave hacks' and 'MRE hacks' and 'prison food hacks?' That's the kind of "cooking" that Kallus knows.

In contrast, Zeb learned how to cook both at home and at school, and had an abundance of fresh food to work with. Lasan's dominant government put out standardized cookbooks of healthy, easy to make meals for the home ec classes. These standard meals often vary, changed to match regional tastes, in individual schools.

The Wookies, being close allies and intellectual partners with Lasan, have these cookbooks saved as part of their Lasani Remembrance Archives. Alderaan also made a habit of trying to preserve at-risk cultures, and had copies in their own archives.

There's a big part of the holonet devoted to saving old recipes and adapting them to new circumstances--the Lasani diaspora is just one of many peoples trying to cope with being away from 'home.'

Zeb looks for Lasani recipes and subsitutions for Lasani spices, of course, but he also searches for recipes from Ryloth, Mandalore, and--the hardest to find--the Jedi Temple. When a Spectre is feeling particularly down, Zeb will make them something from their home to cheer them up.

[ironborealis]

I have this Star Wars AU that I've been percolating on for almost a year and I know that this is a detail I head canon that almost no one is going to care about if they ever read it, but it's very important to me that approximately 40 years before the events of the fic (set in roughly prequel RotS) that Mandalorian interior decorating went through the equivalent of a 1980s Laura Ashley phase (think BIG ruffles and floral everything), and the apartments for the senatorial representative for Mandalore were decked out in this down to the custom-colored dusty rose bathroom evacuator.

Mandalore's government of the era had ambitions of rejoining the intergalactic stage as a power player, in spite of the increasingly fractured domestic political situation, and fashionable apartments on Coruscant were a must, even if they couldn't afford a place at 500 Republica.

The La'ra Eshee look came in as a part of a cultural yearning for more stability through a pastoral fantasy reimagining of Mandalore's past, in part inspired by the growing popularity of future Mand'alor Jaster Mereel's Supercommando Codex as well as the fashions of "trad-Mando" influencer Haynah Vizsla.

Unfortunately, due to the political instability that would plague Mandalore for the next two plus decades, the apartments (meant to hold the representative's spouse, children, and several clan members) were never occupied.

Under Dutchess Satine's rule the apartments saw occasional use (although the more modern embassy was the prefered location for short stays, and the improvements in long-range holo communication made long stays increasingly unnecessary). It's only since the attempted take over of Mandalore by the Senate that she's publicly stations a permanent liaison on Coruscant, and the apartments actually get use.

It's a perfectly preserved time capsule of a Mandalore that never was, 40 years or 200 years ago.

I have trapped Obi-Wan Kenobi alone in this dusty chintz hellscape.

[burnwater13]

Image of Grogu using the Force to arrange his clothes in his room when he's in a hurry. Pencil sketch on off white paper by my daughter.

Grogu was trying to organize his stuff when he heard the knock at the cabin’s door. He really hoped that it was just a messenger dropping something off or a friend stopping by to say ‘hello there’ and then leaving to go to their own home. He really didn’t want to be interrupted. He was right in the middle of things and if his dad saw his room right at that moment he’d probably tap his foot so hard his helmet would pop right off. 

Now that was a funny image! Grogu wished his drawing materials weren’t on the other side of the room because he would have loved to just stop for a moment, sketch that image, and then get right back to the work in front of him. He knew that keeping his supplies, equipment, possessions and other stuff in good order was the Mandalorian thing to do. He also knew it was the Jedi thing to do. It just didn’t happen to be a normal sort of Grogu thing to do. 

Oh, he tried every day to put things back where they belonged and to make sure that wherever that was, it kept the stuff from getting damaged or misplaced or simply forgotten about entirely. You’d think that when your whole collection of Mandalorian armor was just two pieces that you couldn’t lose, forget, or misplace it. But that would be wrong. Grogu was very spontaneous and very adept at quick decision making. That turned out to not be the best combination when it came to establishing a routine organizational system. Go figure.

For example, they had visited Greef Karga the previous afternoon and when they returned from that visit Grogu had another sketch pad, some more markers, and a pocket full of snacks that his dad hadn’t noticed him collecting. Given those conditions, the first thing Grogu decided to manage was securing the snacks. His dad didn’t like him eating in his hammock or eating between meals or forgetting about food and letting it age. If Din Djarin caught him with the stuff he’d take it away, put it in some sort of proper container and then store it in a cabinet or the preserver and Grogu would have to negotiate with his dad to get access to it. Uff.

Grogu focused on putting the snacks in a secure location and by the time his dad called to him that it was bath time, Grogu just threw the other items, including his rondel and beskar shirt, wherever there was room for them go, and went to the ‘fresher. The bath had been a lot of fun and very necessary and took a good deal of time. By the time he went back to his room in a fresh first layer, he didn’t remember where the beskar was. Oops. Instead he just pulled his sleep coverall on and trotted back out to the main room. 

When he woke up that morning he realized that he needed to put the beskar on because his dad had suggested, just before he went to sleep the night before, that they might go to the farmer’s market to see what new stuff was available that afternoon.  That resulted in Grogu pulling all of his stuff out from everywhere in his room just to find the two pieces of armor. They, of course, were on top of some shelves that he couldn’t access without using the Force. Apparently that was what he had done the night before because he was in such a hurry. Oops.

But now that everything was spread out, he had his armor on and was halfway through the task, a knock at the door was a bit terrifying. If he was really lucky the person would just go away. If he was sort of lucky they would just take up his dad’s time and Grogu would be able to keep working on his room without his dad even realizing that there was a problem. But if he didn’t have any luck at all, Din Djarin would walk right in and then ‘Poof’! His helmet’s flying off and he’s giving Grogu a look that would explain just exactly how much trouble he was in because they would have to make a special trip to Mandalore just so his dad could sort things out with the Creed… again.

“Grogu. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Get ready to go to the farmer’s market. We’ll be leaving as soon as I get back!”

Yippee!

Fifteen precious minutes. Grogu would just have to focus and do his best to stick to his organizational theory. Everything in its place and a place for everything that made sense. Sketch pads, markers and art supplies all together. Toys, games, stuffies, and playtime activity sets all together. First layers, coveralls, hats, gloves, scarves, boots, slippers, robes, and bath towels all together. Then sketches posted in his room. Easy peasy. 

First things first, Grogu began to put the art supplies away. That took five solid minutes. Well, there were only a few more things to do. He had ten minutes. No problem. 

Except that the toys, games, stuffies, etc. were all different sizes and none of them wanted to share space with the others, at least not without a lot of cramming and jamming. Dank Farrik! That had taken eight minutes! He only had two minutes left and the last two sets of materials were the biggest! 

He quickly reminded himself that he was a Mandalorian and a Jedi. He could do this. With a deep breath and eyes tightly shut, he reached out with the Force and focused. Things needed to go on the walls and other things needed to go in his closet and trunk. Easy. No cramming. No folding. No creasing. 

“Okay, buddy. Let’s get going. Uh… okay. Interesting. Hope this works out for you.”

What?

Grogu opened his eyes which were still tightly closed and looked around his room. Every bit of every wall was covered with clothing hanging from it, somehow, and all this drawings, sketches, and art projects were no where to be seen. The clothing had replaced the art and he hoped that art was just neatly organized in his closet. He supposed he was lucky. His dad didn’t lose his helmet over the results and that’s what really mattered, right?

[bojangos]

it's so incredibly funny every time i'm reading fanfic and someone makes the vaguest reference to canderous ordo i'm just like

HIM!!!!!!!!!!!!

[jellomarsh]

More Mandalores to add on to my previous piece. Created for a lore video I made dealing with Mandalorian history: https://youtu.be/ib4O8yBRoTo

From left to right:

Mandalore the First

Mandalore the Conqueror

Mandalore the Indomitable

Mandalore the Ultimate

Mandalore the Preserver (Canderous Ordo)

Mandalore the Lesser

Mandalore the Vindicated (Artus Lok)

Mandalore the Avenger (Shae Vizla)

[maaruin]

Scenes from an alternative The Mandalorian Season 3

I recently finished a rewatch of The Mandalorian Seasons 1 and 2. For me, the series ends with The Rescue, because I was so disappointed with what Book of Boba Fett and Season 3 did. But sometimes I imagine a better Season 3. The following scenes are from a hypothetical first episode of that season. They are based in an alternative continuity in which Mando didn't appear in Book of Boba Fett. Grogu is still presumed to be with Luke as of the start of this season.

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

Opening Scenes

The scene is seen through a haze like a Force vision. Camera pans over water in the dark, then across some rocks. Labored breathing with short breaths is heard. Finally we hear Din Djarin groan in pain. Cut to black.

THE MANDALORIAN

CHAPTER 17: THE CONFESSION

A large animal is seen walking through a desert landscape along a stream. A rider is sitting on it. A close-up shot reveals the rider as Din Djarin.

[Various scenes that show him working his way towards his destination and braving the dangers of local wildlife. Finally he reaches what he was looking for: A cave which his old covert has located to.

Din Djarin meets the Armorer and tells his story, asking if what he did in his quest means he is an apostate now.]

Scene in the Middle of the Episode

The Armorer: Do you remember why we must always wear our helmets?

Din Djarin: It was Mandalore the Preserver who instituted this rule. He gathered our remnants when we were almost destroyed and declared that to an outsider, we would only be Mandalorians and they would only see us as Mandalorians.

The Armorer: Why then is even taking your helmet off among Mandalorians an offense?

Din Djarin: I... I don't remember.

The Armorer: It is a result of the treaty of Hutta, when we made peace with the Republic a thousand years ago. The treaty forbade us from hunting down apostates, so now everyone in our circles may turn apostate one day. Had I shown my face to you, I would now have shown it to an outsider.

Din Djarin: So I am apostate now?

The Armorer: You described two times when you took off your helmet. The first was a necessity of your quest. You did what was necessary to keep the foundling save and deliver him. There is a precedent for this: When Uluya was conquered and the Republic combed every house to catch any mandalorian, Champion Hea Farr ordered her children to take off their armor and find a way to return to her clan. Her clan accepted them back and forged new armor for them. The protection of the foundling who by creed was as a child to you justified this action of yours.

Din Djarin: But the second time...

The Armorer: When you took off your helmet to say farewell, revealing your face to both those never under the creed and those who don't hold true to it, you abandoned us. You are not one of ours anymore and will no longer be welcomed here.

Din Djarin: But those around Bo-Katan took off their helmet and still call themselves Mandalorians.

The Armorer: Many call themselves Mandalorians, but they believe just because no Mandalore has lead us for twelvehundred years they are free to alter the Creed as they see fit. But everyone here will hold true to the Way of the Mandalore and any rule a Mandalore has given can only be rescinded by a Mandalore. Now, go! Go to Bo-Katan if you wish to call yourself Mandalorian still, but don't bother us who keep true to the Way.

Din Djarin: moves towards the entrence, dejected, then turns around What about this? he ignites the Darksaber

The Armorer: How did you come into possession of this?

Din Djarin: I claimed it from Moff Gideon when I defeated him, who had taken it from Bo-Katan.

The Armorer: Many rulers of Mandalore have wielded this weapon for many generations. Holding it was akin to a claim to the throne. Is that your aim?

Din Djarin: Does it redeem me in your eyes?

The Armorer: No, but it may offer you a path to redemption. If all those tribes and clans that lost our way were to decide to follow you and acclaim you Mandalore, then we would follow you too. Then, if it is your belief that our people can be preserved even if we take off our helmet, this will become our Creed. This is the way.

Din Djarin: I have to become Mandalore to remain Mandalorian?

The Armorer: That is your way, if you choose so.

Din Djarin: deactivates the Darksaber Then I will call on you if that time comes.

Paz Viszla: This weapon does not belong in the hands of an apostate.

Din Djarin: Do you want to challenge me for it?

Paz Viszla: No, I want to take it from you. goes for his vibroblade

The Armorer: Neither of you will spill blood in my forge!

Paz Viszla: Then go outside! Flee! I will give you one night and when the sun rises again I will hunt you down and take this blade and the beskar from your body.

Din Djarin: leaves without a further word

[The rest of the episode would mostly be Paz Viszla trying to hunt Din Djarin down in the wilderness, who uses clever ruses and an ambush to finally defeat him. I think it fits if Din Djarin kills him in a final clash. Then, at the end of the episode, there is another scene without Mando.]

Final Scene

The light cruiser, formerly belonging to Moff Gideon, flies through space. It is partially painted blue and shows the Nite Owl of Clan Kryze.

Bo-Katan is in a training room, duelling a combat droid - let's call him ZH-89 -, both wielding deactivated vibroswords. The droid wears armor in the same shape of Din Djarin's beskar armor.

Bo-Katan: after a few strokes, her blade connects with the breast plate of the droid

ZH-89: Hit on the beskar, no damage.

Bo-Katan: starts a new attack sequence

ZH-89: after a few strokes the droid parries with the vambrace on his arm Hit on the beskar, no damage.

Bo-Katan: takes a moment to focus, than launches an attack that, after two blocked strokes, lands just under the helmet of the droid

ZH-89: Hit on the neck, death.

Bo-Katan: There we go. she takes a guard stance again ZH, restart training sequence, increase difficulty level by one.

Cut to Credits.

[gingerlurk]

Lovers' Crest | Chapter 19: The Bloodied

Din Djarin x f!Reader

Masterlist

Summary: In this time and place, as war descends, it all changes.

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), post season 3, Big Epic Battle, return of the Razor Crest 💙, violence, blood, passing allusion to post-traumatic stress, ho so much action, and so much lore bullshitting just go with me here.

A/N: The walker described in this isn’t any specific canon version. Somewhere between an AT-AT and an AT-ST let’s say. I dunno, picture whatever you want. Thanks for reading!

--

The room fills for the final muster. 

It’s a scene similar to the first time you’d been in here, but now you’re witnessing it from the other side. Armoured and armed soldiers file into the chamber, an audience gathering before the conflict begins. 

This time though, rather than hiding in the shadows by the forge, you’re among the congregation, seeing the Armourer up front waiting as everyone files in. You stick to the back, find yourself shuffled along a row to stand uneasily by Fennec Shand. She leans a shoulder against yours, a gesture of staunch reassurance.

We got this.

Your eyes move over the backs of many helmets, scanning until you spot him. The man you miss more than you would breathing air must have been first in here. Front and centre, Din stands with his back to you and just a little side on. From your vantage point, you can make out the edges of the familiar heat sig sensor on his helmet’s right side. You can’t see any of the T visor, so he wouldn’t spot you staring at him unless he turned full to the right.

He must know you’re in here though. Whether he cares or not, you have no clue anymore.

Over the many broad shoulders between the two of you, you can’t tell if Grogu is with him.

Still, you whisper a silent entreaty, ‘please let them both be okay…’

Footsteps and shuffling whittle down to silence. Everyone waits. The striking figure at the front of the procession pushes her shoulders back, runs a gaze across the crowd, and speaks. 

‘War is here,’ she says. ‘And we are ready.’

The room fills with the beating of wrists. You and Fennec join in, tapping your comms cuff to your new wrist guard. As the sound fades to quiet again, the honorary battle commander continues.

‘We stand on the frontlines to defend our homelands. Mandalore. Concordia. Every place Mandalorians have come together to build a future. Every place the old, dead empire has tried to take from us.’

You can tell her words are meticulously chosen, because the room swells with an earnest pride and a thrum of determined energy.

‘As the Watch,’ she continues, ‘we’ve nurtured foundlings, raised warriors, and preserved our cultures. We have long held true to the words of the Creed. And it has led us through the dark. Now, we each of us have stood in the Living Waters. By the miracle of liberating Mandalore, we grow brighter. The bonds we forge and the strength we gain from them will continue to lead us.’

‘And it is with this revival that we must learn to reach into new space. We honour the Creed, as it speaks of ourselves and our past.’

She reaches behind her and once again draws out that familiar device. The one containing the texts of the Creed, its originals, its translations. The controlling lore of the people collected here. She places it down on her table.

‘Yet we have come to learn that there is more to our ancient Way than we knew. Now we have learned that the Creed goes further. It speaks of our future. And with the royal Clan Kryze guiding us, we have the way forward to meet it.’

The air pulses like a beating heart. The flames of the forge dance across the ocean of beskar. Everyone holds.

‘Bo-Katan Kryze is our leader, and she is also our guide, it is time we followed her on the path to walk both worlds. Each and every world.’

You’re puzzling over what this reverent monologue could possibly mean – what worlds? – when the woman standing before her people does something that beats the breath from your lungs and sends dizzying electric shocks through your body.

The Armourer, the devout and steadfast leader of almost every person in this room, reaches up and – with a soft hiss that echoes over the hushed crowd – lifts her helmet up, and off. An angular face, large eyes and a wide mouth. She nestles the golden mask under an arm and watches.

It remains deathly quiet for a long, agonising stretch. 

Slowly, just one at a time, and then a few, and then everyone in the place is lifting their hands to their own faces. The air is filled with the sounds of unclasping, pressure releasing. Beskar sings against itself as removed helms are cradled and caressed in gauntleted arms.

You look side to side with eyes wide and mouth agape, in crude contrast to the stoic and steady facial expressions of those around you. The unknown features of people you’ve lived and worked with for weeks are still and focused. Like they knew. Like they were prepared.

Then you’re searching. Over the arms raising and heads shaking out hair and sweat, you strain to see it. The helmet you’d held between your own hands and the man behind it. But he’s obscured. Too far away. You’re just not tall enough. Desperate, you raise onto your toes, craning your neck over the crowd.

‘Here,’ Fennec grabs your wrist and drops to a knee. You gawk for a second but she smacks her thigh with the other hand. ‘Up,’ she mouths.

This is ridiculous but you don’t even pause. You accept her boost, grasp her shoulder and let her hoist you up above the heads of the group. Fortunately everyone is distracted, some unspoken rule that no one looks around rippling across the congregation. They all stay focused front and centre, where the Armourer looks at each and every one of her people in turn.

Not at you yet though. From the very back, toppling a little, shaking violently, you sweep your gaze over to the spot you know him to be standing.

And you see it. You see him.

Dark curls. Damp and sticking to the nape of his neck and around his right ear. 

Huh. He has dark, brown hair. The sight slots into the image you’ve tried to hold in your head all this time. The sketch you’d traced out with your hands. 

Din is holding eyes front as well. All you can see of his face is the slight edge of a sharp jawline and nose. The fuzz of a scruffy beard. Hardly enough. Not enough.

Despite yourself, knowing it to be futile, you will him to look around. Look, I’m here, Din. Please, I’m here.

But you have to drop down before the Armourer, or anyone else, spots you. Giddy and a little nauseous. The grip on your forearm tightens as Fennec stands again. She leans in.

‘See what you needed to see?’ she asks.

You just let out the breath you’d been holding, hold up a trembling hand and stare hard at it. Try to steel yourself.

You hadn’t. Not at all.

A long, high-pitched siren cuts into the reverie that had engulfed the room, sweeps across the people who had just taken a step to change forever.

The Armourer speaks, clear voice projecting to every corner of the room, ‘Go, and bring glory to Mandalore.’

The whole room moves as one, helmets going back on and everyone proceeding to their assignments. Perfect, regimented, united.

Fennec Shand claps a hand to your shoulder and peels off, going to her mission, whatever that may be. Jolted back to reality, reminded of your mission, you cast about for Ari Wren, knowing you have to follow her into whatever comes next – no matter what. You spot her helmet first as it lifts up and over her head, spy just a hint of short cropped blonde hair as the mask locks back into place. She sees you too and strides forward.

‘This way,’ she instructs, fully composed like she hadn’t just uprooted her whole identity. ‘Stick with me.’

You let her guide you, all the while still looking back over your shoulder, just trying to get one more glimpse, one more look, just one.

You don’t see him again.

The first phase of the attack is nothing more than a battle of attrition. The enemy throws waves of ground troops at the Mandalorian defences. You stick with Ari Wren, barely holding onto awareness as pure adrenaline and instinct course through your veins and grant you unimaginable speed and strength. 

‘Stay in step,’ she yells. 

Shoulder blades pressed to the hot metal of her jetpack, you move as she moves. Your footwork is doing double-time to keep up with her rapid twists and lunges, the sword and shield seemingly featherlight in her hands. Each time laser fire comes at you, she’s there – shielding and deflecting.

In turn, you incapacitate anyone that gets under her guard. The close quarters lets you take soldier after soldier by surprise, sending them screaming to the ground clutching at ruined limbs.

The two of you make your way across what’s become the battlefield, move through the acrid air and across the ash-soaked scorched earth. Smoke rising all around, you position yourselves in the anticipated trajectory of their ultimate weapon. It hasn’t emerged over the embankment yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

You remain dimly aware of the rest of the battle – cover fire soaring overhead, the other fighters moving in your forward lines, and a pitched dogfight rending the sky above. But for all the chaos that has erupted since the imp forces descended, the world may as well be you and the Mandalorian yanking you out of the path of an oncoming pulse blast.

But then disaster strikes. It’s your fault. A trooper comes at your duo wielding a bayonet-clad phase rifle, the long nasty blade on its barrel glowing red hot with energy. They lay down attack fire on approach and, as Wren deflects each shot, move in to take a swipe with the sharp, searing edge. Your companion bats it to the side. She brings her own sword around fast, but the enemy manages to parry, twisting side-on.

Seeing an opening, you duck under Wren’s extended arm and take aim at a kidney. But she wasn’t expecting it and you’ve moved under her centre of gravity. You stagger each other and the split second of imbalance is enough for your foe to rend a long slice up Wren’s outer thigh, carving a line along the outside edge of her beskar.

She falls to a knee, then slumps back with an agonised cry. The assailant squares up as you stumble to regain balance. Before you can do anything, he’s drawing his rifle up to your face.

‘N--!’ Your cry is cut off by the soldier in front of you jerking sideways, a violent twist as he drops dead to the ground. Behind him, two more troopers are sprinting toward you, weapons drawn. But again, first one then the other jolts as if struck and falls.

Whirling and twisting, scanning the perimeter, your eyes finally look up and you see it. The long barrel of a sniper rifle and the curved sights of the assassin’s helmet peak over the far ridge.

Fennec Shand.

You stare for a moment until Wren barks your name. It pulls you back and you see you’re being surrounded by a rank of attackers, all sporting savage-looking shock batons. Some are already being taken out by Fennec’s pinpoint cover fire. But if you don’t fucking move soon, you and Wren are doomed.

One of the squad lunges in to attack.

Reaching back, the gaffi stick slung across your shoulders swings free and you connect it with the on-comer’s chest plate, the slugged end caving it in and sending him flying backwards. You spin to slice the barbed spear across another’s throat, blood making a crescent streak across the air.

Fennec hits one in the knee and, as he drops, your weapon rises to meet his face. The helmet shatters and your blood roars.

One after another, you never stop rotating. Cries of pain from your weapon and grunts of shock from the impact of a rifle blast work the group circling you down to the ground.

When it’s clear, you look back to Fennec, hoping she can see your nod of acknowledgement through the scope. She raises an arm to you.

Then you fall to Wren’s side, where she’s gripping her wound and cursing in fury.

‘Wren,’ you start, dropping your weapon and trying to assess the damage. ‘Hang on—'

An ear-splitting siren rips the air apart. Its meaning runs your blood cold. The walker is incoming. Wren tugs at your arm, a ‘help me up’ gesture. But you shake your head, lay your own hands over hers at the top of her thigh where blood spurts from the edge of the armour plate. 

‘No, no,’ you urge her back. ‘Don’t move.’

‘Have… to…’ she grits through her helm. But even the small movement she just made causes red to well between your fingers. 

‘Shit!’ you cry. ‘Gods, Wren. Hang on… Help!’ You look around frantically, yell into the deafening chaos of battle. ‘Help!’

Hells, think clearly, would you? You shake yourself and smack your comms. ‘I need help! Wren is down.’

Within moments, two Mandalorians have landed on either side. One, in medic garb, shoves you aside and begins to tend to her leg. They tap the ground to indicate she needs evac and you hear her grunt in abject frustration. Tries to wave them off.

‘No…’ she moans. ‘Need to…’ She tries to sit up but jolts with a cry of agony. She grips a fist tight before shaking herself and slapping her own comms, muttering into her helmet. You can’t hear who she’s talking to – why is she on a different comms channel?

Another siren has you whirling, then craning your neck up, back. A huge mechanised leg raises over the first fortifications only hundreds of feet in front of you, stomps down with a thundering crash.

You cradle your ears. Terror shoots through you. Whipping around, you look for another jetpacked fighter who could get you up there. Someone, anyone. But they wouldn’t know where to place the charges. How to time it. You sense your plan being blown to hell and panic sets in. This is it – that thing is going to wipe you all out.

Another gargantuan limb brings the monster closer and sends a garrison into full retreat. The horrifying sound of the thermal cannons warming up fills your ears with a sickening buzz. There’s no way to stop it. You look up to the heavens with defeat heavy on your chest. 

That’s where you see it. A pinprick at first, but growing larger. The gorgeous old gunship streaks across the sky, threading the needle through cannon fire and laser blasts. In a sharp nosedive, the Razor Crest is on full burn on its approach to you. It turns to make a low bank and passes over your heads. A figure drops from the hold, in a rapid descent to the field of battle not far from you.

Din hits the ground with a forward roll and releases a salvo of his whistling birds into the waiting war troopers. He’s incapacitated them in a matter of seconds as you sprint toward him. Up and fighting any and everything between the two of you, he makes his way to meet you in the middle. You can’t stop yourself from barrelling into him.

He just plants a hand on your waist and pulls you close, ‘Hang on!’ he yells.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and try to stifle your cry as his jetpack engages and rockets you both upwards, soaring toward the body of the walking terror. Nothing but empty air below and laser fire raining all around, you bury your face into his neck. Through the haze of fear and adrenaline, you feel him pull you tighter.

The underside streaks toward you. He manoeuvres to ascend up the thing’s body but, just as you come level with it, the rockets on Din’s pack cut out. Suspended in the air, weightless for one terrifying moment, a scream begins to bubble up as you anticipate a precipitous drop. 

But Din fires his whipcord ahead, planting its grapple at the top and swinging your bodies into the side of the massive unit. He twists his weight so he lands squarely against the side, shielding you from impact. Dangling together from the façade of the stalking, swaying machine, he nudges at you.

‘Climb!’ he yells, urging you upwards. 

‘Your jetpack!’ you shout back. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve got it, just climb now,’ he pushes. You reach up and grab the whipcord. His free hand helps you along, grabbing your legs and heaving upwards to give you purchase. You don’t know how his shoulder isn’t being torn from its joint, but he seems to be holding on. So you grit your teeth, ignore the cord cutting into your hands, and climb.

You hand over hand with the cord and plant your knees into the vertical surface. Push every shred of fear away and focus on what’s in front. Halfway up you glance back and almost scream again. Hundreds of feet below, the monstrosity steps through more barricades, nearing the centre of the fray. But you also see Din, who’s holding fast, looking up, watching you. You turn around and keep climbing. 

The second you reach the top, the whipcord whizzes back. You’re already scrambling toward the pilot hatch when Din’s voice crackles over your comms piece. ‘Just like you planned – you take the personnel, I’ve got the undercarriage.’ 

Gods, so he had been listening. 

Wind whips your face and the roar around you is deafening, but you get to the hatch and pop a thermal charge into the lock. Crawling back and shielding your head, you wait for the ‘croom ’ then leap forward, grip the edge of the opening, and swing yourself inside. The smoke and noise from the explosion has stunned your cabin buddies. They only manage a short shout of alarm before both find their necks snapping at unhappy angles.

You surge onto the portal, jabbing at controls and resetting target maps. The walker groans under the strain of turning 180, but the cockpit’s sights swing around until the advancing forces come into view. You set the target locking system and throw the lever into full drive before sending a quick blaster shot into the control panel. The guns below the cockpit begin a continuous barrage. You watch for a moment as squadrons scatter and tanks implode.

You back away and make for the hatch. Scrambling up onto topside, you hit comms.

‘Din!’ you cry. ‘We gotta go! Din?’

Instead of a reply, the Mandalorian rockets up over the edge and plants his feet metres from you. He strides forward, holding one hand to his helmet, shouting at R5 to bring in the Crest, and reaching his other arm out to you.

You don’t pause, moving in and resuming your grip on his shoulders. He holds for a second, then you’re fighting panic again as you launch upwards. This time though, you manage to keep your eyes trained down. 

You see the walker, marching back into its own lines, sending explosions into troopers and hovercannons. Then, perfectly timed, the detonators Din planted on the underside go off, buckling the legs and sending it tumbling into the central armoured column.

Good.

Then your vision is obscured and your momentum arrested. You start in alarm before making sense of the scene. The Crest has sailed elegantly into your line of ascent and Din has cut the jetpack, landing you both on the aft entry of the old gunship. It’s a heavy impact and the only reason your knees don’t collapse is the strong hold he has on you. You both stumble back into the hold of the ship.

As soon as you’re steadied, he lets go and makes for the cockpit. You give in to a brief moment of uninvited despair when he looks over his shoulder and barks, ‘C’mon!’ Then you’re following.

You allow yourself little beats to revel in being on the Crest again, but not for too long. The janky locker door that never quite shut all the way. The peeling paint on the ladder. The access panel that always flickered and whirred. Gods, you’d missed it so much. 

As you enter the cockpit, Din is taking his seat and engaging the controls from R5. You spot Grogu tucked in his pod, which is securely strapped into his flight seat. He looks over at you and waves his arms, burbling in excitement.

The seat on the other side, your seat, sits empty.

Your heart aches at the sight.

As if the ship senses it, the Crest groans and lurches nose down for a moment, forcing you forward. As Din rights its moorings, you flop back into the chair.

‘Get strapped in,’ he yells over his shoulder. He punches at the controls and brings the ship around to witness the skirmish taking place in the sky. The cockpit’s windows afford you a view of the aerial battle, so high up you can see the curvature of this moon and the combat below looking like a crawling insect colony. The fighters up here are intercepting and taking down enemy craft on approach, preventing any from breaking through to attack ground forces.

‘Just in time,’ Din says. ‘The Guild has arrived.’

‘Oh shit,’ you say, pulling the straps around and craning your neck out the window. You spot it. A hefty old transport frigate, Leaf Ghogal’s little army of bounty hunters, plugging a descent toward the edge of the fray, getting ready to drop a mess of bloodthirsty fighters right into the thick of it.

But Din seems unfazed. It puzzles you for a second before he flips the cockpit comms on and speaks to someone on the other end.

‘You’re up,’ he says.

‘Copy that, Mando my man,’ comes a reply – a painfully familiar voice. ‘Our frenemies will be taking a one-way jump to buttfuck nowhere in 3- 2- get goin’ hahaha.' 

Still eyeing the transport a ways off, you have a perfect view of it shuddering for a moment – the hyperdrive straining in the high atmosphere. With a massive shockwave, it shooms into nothingness. The energy fallout from its rapid departure collects the edge of a soaring tiefighter, taking its portside wing and sending it careening to the ground. 

‘Woo! Two fer one!’ The disembodied voice hollers and it hits you. 

‘Wha— Torre? ’ you sputter.

‘Hey dove,’ Torre’s voice echoes around the cockpit. ‘You made it.’

‘What are y-- what is-- what?’ 

‘Making up for my bullshit, hon,’ he says. ‘Or a little of it, at least.’

Din interrupts, like you aren’t in a full tailspin over this little fucking alliance going on right now.

‘Another mercenary outfit inbound,’ he says.

‘On it,’ Torre chirps, the clacking of keys being hit in rapid succession accompanying the transmission. 

You start to say ‘where?’ but Din just points. Another transport carrier trundles just behind where Leaf’s ship was. Your eyes track it as the Crest banks across the range. Huge, fit to carry upwards of two hundred combatants. Worlds, you think. If they land it’ll be a bloodbath.

But Torre’s counting down again and the boat – blip – bends out of existence. Just like that. 

‘That’s cleared,’ Din says.

‘Roger, roger,’ Torre responds.

This is too surreal. ‘Torre,’ you shout. ‘ What-- why are you doing this?’

A long sigh slips from the speakers.

‘Your Mando came and got me,’ he tells you over the comms. ‘Told me about how that fucker Cephlate used me. And how he got to you. Fuck. For that, and for the rest… Well, ‘m sorry.’

A beat of quiet as you absorb that. Then the Crest chimes in with its alert system, alarms blaring around you.

‘And speaking of the Devil,’ Torre says. ‘His craft is inbound.’

‘What?’ you yelp. ‘Cephlate is here?’ 

‘Indeed,’ Torre answers you. ‘Got his private little army in on this shitshow.’

Ice slides up and down your spine and sends cold shards to your extremities. The freeze of a carbonite unit crawls over your skin. Him. Your side aches right where your scar has steadily faded away. But it now throbs as if fresh. Your face, where he’d held onto your chin and threatened you, burns.

The only thing stopping you from succumbing to wild panic is the T visor that’s swung round to stare at you.

‘He’s not gonna touch you,’ Din snarls low. ‘Ever again.’

You lean into your chair, breathing deep into your belly as he turns back to the ship’s controls.

‘What can you do about it?’ Din asks.

‘Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve tried hacking in but he knows my tricks. All I can give you is something to aim for.’

A string of data rolls across the Crest’s targeting system, forms into a ship holo. An ugly, heavy-duty gunner-craft. Cannons and railguns weigh the beastly thing down. The holo rotates to reveal a glowing patch on the underside. Small and tucked against the exhaust latchings. You lean forward to get a good look at it. 

‘The stitch that will unravel his shields,’ Torre explains. ‘Aim for that. And he’ll be done.’

‘Okay,’ Din says. ‘I think you’re good then.’

‘Copy that.’

‘You gonna cause trouble?’

Torre’s chuckle rumbles over the speakers. ‘No worries there,’ he says. ‘Old mate Greef here hasn’t taken his pistol’s sights off me for a single second.’

‘I’ve got him, Mando,’ the high magistrate’s voice follows on. ‘We’ll take him back when the fight is over, won’t we IG?’

‘Bye then, dove,’ Torre’s voice sinks into you. ‘I’ll always be sorry.’

The transmission cuts.

Distracted by the insanity of what just happened, you miss Din’s question. He’s fiddling with settings on the HUD and, at your silence, looks back.

‘Huh?’ you ask.

‘I can’t aim for something like that and fly at the same time,’ he says. ‘So which do you want to do?’

‘Which do I--?’ You notice for the first time an addition to the instrument bank next to the flight chair you’re buckled into. A set of ship controls, twins to the ones Din’s got a hard grip on up front. Protruding just within reach. 

‘Had to get another ship mechanic to help install it, ‘m sorry,’ he says, watching you. ‘It was fiddly. The Crest did not want to cooperate. But we did it.’

‘Wh--,' you’re speechless. You reach over and they glide easily outward so you can orient them in front of you. Giving each an experimental twist, you feel the hefty tilt and take in the trigger buttons just by where your forefingers rest. ‘Oh wow… Din. But- I can’t--’

‘You can,’ he says. ‘I know it.’

Aware you can’t waste time on doubt, you heave a deep sigh. Looking at the ship holo, at the tiny opening Torre’s given you, your fingers hover over the triggers. Something inside you makes the choice. 

‘Aim,’ you say. ‘I’ll aim.’

Nodding, he spins back around and flips a switch. The controls under your palms hum with energy and a HUD blinks in front of you. The Crest shudders as its weapons system primes itself.

Hells, how are you going to fucking do this.

‘I’ll draw him onto us, tell me when you’re ready and I’ll give you an opening,’ he says. Without further ado, he pulls his own controls back and the Razor Crest soars. 

How are you going to do this.

The Mandalorian pilots his ship through a mess of crossfire and the occasional spacecraft trailing smoke and plummeting to the earth. The menacing looking ship of the outer-rim warlord comes into view and Din positions the Crest right in front of it, racing ahead and catching the enemy crew’s attention. Pulls serpentine manoeuvrers to dodge the laser fire that begins a bombardment.

How are you—

Static crackles over the comms and the sickly, savage voice of the figure you’ve had nightmares about fills the space. Delighted, arrogant and bloodthirsty. Cephlate waxes lyrical about finally having the opportunity to ‘destroy you Mando, and all you hold dear’.

But you’re barely taking it in, fixated on the targeting system and trying to fathom how you’re going to do this.  

How, how, how—

Spiralling thoughts are interrupted by a feather-soft tendril of energy nudging at the edge of your mind. It swirls against your consciousness and seems to await permission. 

You look over at Grogu, whose eyes are shut tight and hands twitch with power. The sense of connection within you grows brighter, promises aid. Begs entry.

‘Ready?’ Din calls.

‘We have this,’ you shout. Looking at the child, you let him and the Force flood your mind, whip through your senses and snake into your arms and hands, held firm on the controls. They hum harder, some awareness deep in the bowels of the ship slips into you, a quiet there you are, where have you been? You set your shoulders and shout, ‘Now!’

Din hurls a lever back and reefs on the controls. The Crest drops into a free fall. The rear thrusters cut and tip the boat so you’re looking up into the sky. Laser fire passes overhead as does Cephlate’s ship. The glint in the underside, the break in the shield, is plain as day to your heightened senses.

You, Grogu and the Crest lock onto it and your fingers move of their own volition, releasing a single pulse that streaks ahead. Where it hits home, exactly on target, a burst of crackling, festy grey energy widens from the spot, shimmering over the whole ship. The entire shield system drops away in a few heartbeats.

‘No!’ the warlord bellows. ‘You--!'

Din smacks the comms to another channel over the top of his cries. ‘Move in,’ he commands whoever’s on the other side. To you, ‘Keep firing!’

You’re already setting up to unleash an angry broadside along the bottom of the vessel. He hauls the thrusters back on and gives you a perfect bank for the barrage to take out its engine array. When the Crest clears the front of the ship, it wheels around and you can take aim at the top-mounted cannons.

You see several other Mandalorian jets and fighters move in weapons free, your little T-Wing among them. It and the rest send explosions to impact on all sides of the vessel. Your ship makes another turn and you get to pass again – feeling feral, you zero in on the bridge and send the bow of the ship up in flames.  

It’s not long before the monstrous dirigible is listing, tilting away from the centre of the fight, toward the chordal coast where the imps’ forward party had been encamped. It disappears over the rim of the small mountain range bisecting the landscape. Moments later, a spectacular explosion reaches toward the skies.

You watch it as the Crest’s trajectory evens out, sails across the cleared air. You scan the radar, friendly craft soar around you. 

Only the roar of wind and the groan of the ship fill the cockpit. You loosen your grip just slightly on the controls as a wide grin spreads across your face. You glance up at Din, seeing his shoulders steadily drop as he relaxes. You laugh.

‘Well that, felt incredible,’ you say. He starts to turn toward you.

A burst of static covers what he says back. A boisterous voice thunders over the speakers, declaring glorious victory and the imp forces scattering like baby womp rats, the jet-packed Mandalorians running them down with ease.

You listen, fidgeting a little as a weird pang starts to bother your side. 

The comms cuts to reports of mopping up but Din turns it to low, moving dials and flipping the landing gear into standby.

You keep your hands on the gunner grips in case any last-minute moves are needed, but try to sit up a little straighter to stretch out the tightness that is drawing your abdomen into a knot. The tension of the fight setting in, maybe?

Din leans back. ‘Guess we can head in,’ he says, moving to turn to you again. Your heart beats harder, damn near straining against your chest. ‘And maybe we can t—’

‘Ebbe!’

The tiny, panicked shriek from Grogu causes you both to whip around to him. Your concern twists your guts. A strange nervous vibration is working its way up your spine, into your skull and clouding your vision. Your mouth is filling with icy shards and your ears start ringing. 

‘Grogu?’ you say. ‘Baby, wha—’

‘No!’ Din surges from his chair.

‘Is he okay?’

‘Oh Gods, no, no, no!’

That’s when you realise that he’s not lunging at Grogu but toward you. And Grogu is fine, but he’s pointing to your middle with fear-filled eyes.

Din kneels before you and chants your name. ‘Hang on. Please just, hang on, love. Stay, stay with me, hey! Stay with me!’ His confusing demands grow fuzzy and further away as he talks.

You finally look down. The haze and hot tendrils clawing at your eyes make it hard to see, but that’s definitely something sticking out of your stomach. You move a hand to it. It’s hot, and vibrating with a quiet menace. Your fingers come away bloodied. ‘Ohhhh wha…’ You fade out.

--

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Forgive me.

Thank you so much for reading this weird little story.

[constantlymisspelled]

The Mandalorian Peace Lilly, which only grows flower buds and new growth when a drought breaks. If the good waters last too long, the lilies go to dormant, having gathered enough water to keep leaves growing, but don’t flower past the first year. If the waters disappear, they go to seed, and spread themselves in the cracks and crevices of the old deserts of Mandalore. Peace Lillie’s have not been seen on Manda’yaim since the Dral Haran, and cannot be propagated by any sentient. They only survive in the woods of Zanbar, Concord Dawn’s southern desert regions, and the Ordo Minor Plateaus.

They require a minimum of a full week of rain fall to germinate, and require full sun on their leaves, and full shade on their stalk, resulting in these lilies growing in puddles, cliff faces, water falls, fallen trees, and the cracks in buildings. They are considered the symbol of Mandalorian Harmony, or the closest many Traditionalists will come to peace. None of the plant is edible, although it is not poisonous. The known uses of this plant are for special events as decoration, offerings to Mandalorian Deities such as Death, Hard Won Victory, and Catastrophe.

Known colouration of this plant’s flowers are white, yellow white and orange, and white, red and purple. The stems are often a vivid green, made of soft celled forming plant matter with high water content and a waxy coating, and the leaves a dark, striped green that often spiral out of water by up to a meter, with a waxy top, and a lightly furred underside to preserve moisture from the once hot but still liveable sun of Manda’yaim. The stamen is usually a rich, vibrant yellow gold, and it is no longer known what animal once pollenated the species.

It shares similar features with the common herbs used on Mandallia for sanitation and wound care, although knowledge of its preparation was lost with the Temples of Mandalore. Although considered a weed on Concordia, most citizens of other planets view it as sacred, and a sign that Mandalore is still full of soul.

Due to its inability to grow on Manda’yaim, that planet of its origination, the planet is often considered cursed, even during times of relative peace.

[All Fanon. I wanted symbolism for my growing pantheon, and I took inspiration from Satine’s many jewels and decorations and decided that some of them once meant something specific to the Faithful of Mandalore. I’m pushing Mandalorian Culture and Religion as less western, and more towards something of a mix between some forms of Hinduism in practice, and what we know of Viking and ancient Nomad Warrior Culture. I want it to feel like Mandalore (as a place and a people) is old, but still ever changing - like the white sands that now cover their home, there is so much more left to become. If the galaxy only lets them be.

Let me know what you think! And if you have any ideas or head canons as to what biomes and vegetation Ancient Mandalore supported.]