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kalevalakryze · 28 days

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talyc mir’am

“Yield.” The smooth monotone rumbled against her back, warm and steady like the rhythm of the golden woman’s heart, thundering beneath the confines of its cage. “Never” Bo-Katan spat, spittle sprinkling against the insides of her helmet. AO3: Here!

For Nitearmor Week Day 1!!!

There was no long list of things that Bo-Katan Kryze wouldn’t do for her people. She’d given Mandalorians and Mandalore everything she had on more than one occasion. With her sacrifices, an unshakable way of thinking was born in the embers of her home as it burned to the ground.

They can hurt you, they can break you, and they can kill you, but they will never rule Mandalore.

When Din Djarin had returned to the planet and found that the only poison in its atmosphere was the sickness in the minds of the survivors, she would have assumed it out of a nightmare, rather than a dream. But they’d returned to the planet, and she was granted the ability to set foot on its ruined surface, to feel the freezing depths of the living waters on her skin once again, and, right from the legends, to see a Mythosaur in all its glory, and to find solace in… Well… They weren’t her people… but they were Mandalorian. And they made her into their people.

She moved through the Children of the Watch with unease, still felt an unknown anxiety clawing at the depths of her innards with each conversation she had with their people, could feel the way sweat perspirated on her brow and dampened the seal around her throat. The planet’s heat didn’t make it much better, and the whispering around each corner only ignited the scorching inferno into a blaze she could not control.

“Cautionary Tale.” Murmured one green and blue painted warrior. “...foredoomed.” She heard another whisper with conviction, as if the woman herself was a walking omen of failure upon failure.

The weight only grew stronger on her shoulders with each meal eaten alone, with each night that found her soaking the aches of warfare in whatever ales she could find hidden aboard her ship. For a rainy day Koska would joke, as if they hadn’t been camping on Trask when she’d created each stash.

The burning of her clan and planet would fade all the same, each night she found solace aboard her Kom’rk and drew shades over the transparisteel, allowing her solace in the comfort of solitude, a perfect attendance for her pity party.

She settled her weight heavily into her pilots chair, allowing her helmet to clatter as she set it at her feet, seat creaking as her head dropped back and the springs adjusted to her weight once again. The neck of the bottle was cool enough to sink into the thick material of her gloves, condensation swating off the glass and pooling in the creases of goraslug leather. “This ones for you, Satine,” She grumbled, low and hoarse as she took a pull from the bottle.

Even the burning of Corellian whiskey couldn’t sate the holes in her bones, was unsuccessful in quenching the fires of a thousand tears from pricking at her heels urging her to run. You’ll burn them too.

There was a rapping of knuckles at the metal ramp to her ship. Desperate to chase away the ghosts she’d made along the way, Bo-Katan had only just remembered to grab up her helmet, allowing the glass bottle to take its place on the floor. Consoles beeped as she smacked the hydraulic release, allowing the ramp to lower as she straightened her demeanor.

Artificial lights caught on the almost bronze gold of a helmet, highlighting the different colors of sunkissed fur along the Armorer’s fur cape as she strode up the ramp. Even in a place where she did not seem as if she belonged, the woman took up space, her presence was one that demanded to be known, even if the deity herself was one accustomed to shadows.

Like a band snapping back into place, Bo-Katan found that her muscles tensed, her knees locked against her better judegment, and her chin rose. A way to say I belong here, even when the evidence proved otherwise. “Can I help you?” The Nite Owl queried, fighting to keep her hands stagnated at her side as her chin bowed, watching as the Armorer came just within a step of herself.

The shorter womans head did not move, she couldn’t make anything out with the damned helmet concealing every reaction she was trained to read. All she could do was wait with bated breath until she could watch the other woman’s hands move just a fraction away from the tools at her belt. “I would like to see you in action…” Her smooth timber seemed to echo across the durasteel walls all around them.

Bo-Katan paused then, brows furrowing beneath the protection of her helmet. “The pirates…” She allowed herself to trail off then. Saving Ragnar, bringing the covert younglings… It was yet another example of how she could just never give enough of herself to satisfy anyone…

“In a controlled setting. I would like to see you in action where a life is not at stake.” The Armorer clarified, there was nothing mocking in her tone, but a playfulness, something almost like a familiarity that resided in the discordant notes of her vocoder. Bo-Katan bristled in unease when she realized she could not tell if she hated being seen, or if the first pair of eyes to see her through that dark tint was enough to crack through her own metaphysical beskar.

Swallowing thickly, Bo-Katan nodded her agreement; she’d never been one to turn down a fight, perhaps a one-day fatal flaw of hers, though one she had no intention of giving up anytime soon.

When the Armorer turned to sweep from the depths of self immulation and despair, Bo-Katan followed close on her heels as she could get without earning herself a second look. The ghosts did not need to see the light of day, these people did not deserve to be burdened by her failures any moreso than they already were. “Where are we going?” She rasped as they passed by quiet tents, the sounds of dead night creeping into her bones.

“The shore.” The warrior spoke as if it were the only logical place, as if Bo-Katan had done more than follow in Din’s footsteps, careful not to step a toe out of line in fear that she would lose this too.

The sand was uneven under her boots, pebbles and shells crunching under her weight as they moved from dry sand into the muck of what had been left from the tide, sodden greenery picking into the tracks of their boots and refusing to let go. The Armorer moved across this ground as if it were a minefield, and she laid all the charges, while Bo seemed to blunder into every treat waiting to wrap itself around her ankles and make a home in her greaves.

“Do you have any limits?” The Armorer questioned as a circle was slowly dragged through the sand, leaving Bo-Katan clueless in the center.

“What? Oh-” A pause, a blink, and a deep breath. No Mandalorian had ever been willing to set ground rules for a sparring match before, no one bothered to learn each other’s limits. The vode at your side would be dead if they made a limit, she’s testing you. “I’m alright.”

The dark visor turned to stare at her, contemplating for a moment. “Alright…” A gloved hand rose towards her own throat, thick leather padded fingers pulling ar the seal of cloth around her throat. “This is my limit. Nothing above the shoulders, please.”

The admission of a weakness, of a preferred place to stray from an attack, was staggering; How could she believe they were born from the Watch, when she herself had killed recruits for as much as the Armorer was doing now, when Pre had so willingly tossed away Mandalorian lives, because they admitted weakness… Was that strength? Or was it a trait she could only see as a strength in the Armorer?

Her throat felt too dry to speak, so she nodded her head in understanding, marking the memory in the stone of her brain. The dying torchlight caught off the Armorer’s visor, setting the various golden tones of her helmet ablaze. The two stood in silence, waiting for the other to make the first move with bated breath.

The dirt crunched under her boots as she sprung forward, the rermaining alcohol in her system burnning through her muscles as they remembered the thrill of sparring over fighting for her life. She moved slower than normal, ensuring she would not pass the Armorer’s boundary while still being able to test the woman’s speed against a flurry of punches and jabs of the knee, all redirected to a point where the Niteowl could redirect the energy into another hit.

Bo-Katan’s breath was ragged, fogging up the material of her visor as she worked to land a hit, the metal of her hand plates making an awful scraping sound each time her fist managed to drag across the crimson beskar of the shorter woman’s armor.

A leather gloved hand curled tight around her gauntlet, fingers curled just enough to avoid triggering the canisters that would ignite to bathe them all in flame. Squaring her shoulders and pushing back against the restraining force, Bo-Katan Kryze bared her teeth beneath her helmet, offering only a primordial growl as she struggled through the sheer power descending upon her.

She’s fought stronger, after all. The Armorer wouldn’t prove too much of a challenge, once she inevitably went to make an attempt on Bo’s life. She knew it was coming, anyways…

The armorer managed to wind Bo-Katan’s arm behind her back, wrenching the limb and pulling overworked muscles further than the beskar constructing her body would typically allow her to go. “Yield.” The smooth monotone rumbled against her back, warm and steady like the rhythm of the golden woman’s heart, thundering beneath the confines of its cage.

“Never” Bo-Katan spat, spittle sprinkling against the insides of her helmet. The Nite Owl bent at the waist and jerked her hips backwards, upending the Armorer’s steady footing and sending her backwards. The weight against her back was gone in the clinging of armor against the dirt, moonlight reflecting up at Bo-Katan from the dark void of the shorter woman’s visor.

Her breathing was distorted, coming in harsh gasps and leaving through the painful exhales that concaved her body and threatened to crush her ribs, audible through her vocoder, a complete contrast to the Armorer’ who’s chest appeared to still rise and lower as if she’d no more than laid herself down of her own volition. The silence between them was thick with tension as Bo-Katan gathered herself for what was next. Would she try to sweep her legs from beneath her? Would she produce a blaster and put plasma in the space between her chestplace and abdomen plate? Or would she simply order her to leave? Anxieties prickled into dangerous territory the longer time slugged forward, until at last, Bo-Katan’s head dropped along with her shoulders, content to leave the woman in the dust if it meant she could save herself the shame of being verbally sent away.

“Raise your head,” Brows furrowing, the redhead watched uselessly as the other woman rose from the ground, tracked the way a gloved hand raised, then lowered back to her side, before finally crossing the distance to meet the underside of her helmet.

Her touch was gentle, fingers gently curling around the rim of her helmet, if only to raise her chin herself, until the Armorer was forced to tilt her own chin to keep looking at her.

Bo-Katan swallowed thickly, chewing on the inside of her cheek as her eyes flickered towards the night sky, always finding the twinkling lights of the Mandalore system in the depths of the sky. The silence didn’t seem so thick here, as the Armorer’s fingers stayed curled around her helmet, and the nightlife around them seemed to release its own breath, critters and the like resuming with their nightly symphony all around them.

It seemed an eternity that they stayed in such a state, Bo-Katan, mesmerized by the stars that reflected from the top of the Armorer’s helmet, and the goran’alor herself, mesmerized in an entirely different view of the woman from the legends.

She didn’t want to leave, and while that was a fact Bo-Katan knew since Din had brought her to his people, it was stranger to realize that it was the Armorer’s presence that she didn’t want to leave the most. “I must retire…” She spoke at last, always the one to hold the blade that would sever her own connections to any form of tranquility.

“Of course…” The Armorer seemed shaken from her own stupor as her arm dropped back to her side. As she went to turn back into the direction of her tent, her head turned back, watching as Bo-Katan fidgeted in the moonlight. “And Bo,” The Mandalorian went rigid at the name, head cocking to the side as she focused her sole attention back on the shorter woman. “Mandalorians are stronger together.”

Leaving Bo-Katan with her final statement, something she could only hope to understand through their coming trials and tribulations, the Armorer did not offer a second glance, leaving Bo-Katan to watch her disappear into the darkness of the camp before slogging her way back to her ship, hopeful to catch enough sleep to function for the attack on Nevarro.

#nitearmor week 2024 #nitearmor #armorkatan #bo katan kryze #bo-katan kryze #the armorer #star wars #the mandalorian #fanfic #day one: tension

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