#oldtalks

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Thirty-One

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C   

word count: 8K   

chapter summary: Marathel awakes from surgery, struggles with her feelings for Din, and tastes her first ice cream

warnings:  angst, mention of female bodily functions and medical issues, past abuse, mention of murder and infanticide, mental illness, English and Mando’a cursing   

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***      

You Were Marked: Masterlist     

You Were Marked: <- Previous Chapter

Marathel, wake up. 

Marathel was dreaming, and she knew it.  She’d been dreaming this same dream for quite some time.  And now, a new dream section had been added.  Knowing that it was a dream, however, did not assuage her fear or her misery. 

In the new part of the dream, which now served as a new beginning to her original dream, she was staggering through the Hold grounds, surrounded by a sea of Dahls, all growling and chattering, saying horrible things to her — saying that she was a whore, that she was a murderer, that it was all her fault that all the boy children were dying, and that she deserved all the anguish she was suffering.  

In her dream, Marathel could only speak the Oldtalk, which the girls all learned in the kitchen as the women spoke to each other, an almost secret language to separate themselves from the men, who only used the Oldtalk for pejoratives and cruelty.   

As Marathel stumbled, tripping over the blood-hungry Dahls and the corpses of boy babies, she began the apology verse of the only song, brokenly wailing, “Rwy’n wethi tir’ch … Rwy’n  … daererth … {I broke your heart …  trust … broken …}”. She ran forward to pick up a boy-child before a Dahl could get to it, but it was ripped from her hands, and she cried out,  “Gorau! Gorau! Na, NID! Gorau, gaal’wch … {Stop! Stop! No, DON’T! Stop, please …}” and began to cry.  She then whimpered,  “Th’ych’lyth, Din Djarin … gaal’wch, gaal’wch th’ych’lyth … {Come back to me, Din Djarin … please, please, come back to me…}”   

But Din Djarin would not come back to her and he never would.  The Dahls continued to tell her that while filling her head with other horrible things: that it was her fault, that this was all she deserved, that they, the Dahls, were the only ones who ever loved her, Din Djarin did not love her, he’d never loved her, that she was theirs and theirs only.   

“ Dwy’ti'n ryl’uff wrtha ei.  Dwy’tu’ar!  Na, nid.  Th’ych’lyth, Din … gaal’wch. {You are lying to me.  Liar!  No, don’t.  Come back to me, Din … please.}”  

But Din Djarin did not come back to her, and she was alone in the darkness. The voices of the Dahls kept on, filling her heart and her mind and her soul with their foul words.  She was now in a pit of despair so deep that not even the Mandalorian would be able to pull her out.  Finally, she dropped to her knees and allowed herself to be swallowed up and drowned by the Dahls. 

Marathel, you need to wake up now. 

Then, Marathel knew she was back in her original dream.  The dream she’d been having since she and Din began the journey back to Unmanarall.   

She was standing in a small, dark place, whispering, pleading for forgiveness, “Rwy’n wethi tir’ch … Rwy’n  … daererth … {I broke your heart …  trust … broken …}”.  There was an open doorway before her, leading to somewhere outside where the sun was bright, but she was in deep darkness, far from the door.   

We must leave, she heard Din say, before hearing his heavy boots walking on a metal floor.  His silhouette filled the open doorway, and she could see Grogu  just over his shoulder, looking away from her.   

From her place in the darkness, she cried out,  “Gorau! Gorau! Na, NID! Gorau, gaal’wch … {Stop! Stop! No, DON’T! Stop, please …}” and began to cry.  She then whimpered,  “Th’ych’lyth, Din Djarin … gaal’wch, gaal’wch th’ych’lyth …{Come back to me, Din Djarin … please, please, come back to me…}” 

But Din kept walking, through the doorway, into the sunlight, away from her, taking Grogu with him, leaving her in darkness.  You will see us again, she heard him say placatingly, as if she were only a child who dropped her honey stick in the sand.  Then, they disappeared into the bright sunlight. 

“Dwy’ti'n ryl’uff wrtha ei!  Dwy’tu’ar!  Na, nid.  Th’ych’lyth, Din … gaal’wch! {You are lying to me!  Liar!  No, don’t.  Come back to me, Din … please!}” 

But Din and Grogu were gone, and she was alone in the darkness. The voices of the Dahls kept on, filling her heart and her mind and her soul with their foul words. 

Marathel, wake up.  Mando is worried about you.  

“Dwy’tu’ar!” screamed Marathel. 

“Whoa, okay, crankybritches, calm down.   Take a deep breath through your nose … in … and out.  Again, in … and out.” 

Marathel began to understand that she was waking up, and she could see sunlight filtered through her eyelids.  She obediently breathed in and out through her nose as she had been directed.  She cracked her eyes open, squinting against the brightness.  She was lying partially upright on a pillowy surface in a white place, which confused her, as her last memories had her lying twisted on the hard, rocky ground.  Marathel turned her head, and could just see a person-shape through her blurry vision.   

“That’s good, Marathel, keep breathing through your nose, in and out, deep breaths.” 

Marathel blinked several times and rubbed her eyes until she was able to focus on the person, a woman, sitting next to her.  Marathel opened her mouth and said, “You are very pink.” 

The woman laughed. “Yes, yes, I am.  Quite pink.  Anything else?” 

Marathel frowned.  “Your hair is very blue.” 

“Very good. I’m a Zeltron; have you ever heard of Zeltrons?”  Marathel shook her head no.  “Good.  That way, I don’t have to tell you that everything you’ve heard about my people is exaggerated.  My name is Siewan.  Do you have any idea where you are?” 

“No.” 

“You’re on Canto Bight.” 

Marathel took another deep breath and looked around the room.  “This is not … a wedding chapel, I don’t think.” 

Siewan laughed again.  “Another good observation.  Canto has more to offer besides casinos and wedding chapels.  You’re in a medical center.  You were in very bad shape when you came in.  Do you remember anything about that?” 

Marathel shook her head again.  “No.  I was … elsewhere.  But who brought me …?” 

“Does a Mandalorian sound familiar?  With a little boy?” 

Tears filled Marathel’s eyes.  “He came back?  He came back, he came back …” She began to weep. 

Siewan gently took Marathel’s hand.  “Yes, he came back.  But what I need to know, honey … did he do anything to hurt you?  Is he the reason why you’re hurt?” 

“NO.  Never!  He saved me, he rescued me, he took me away from that horrible place; is he here?  Is he still here? Is he all right?  Where is he?  Where’s Grogu?” 

“Okay, honey, you need to breathe now, breathe.  In and out.  Breathe in … breathe out.  He’s still here, so is his boy.  Desperately worried about you.” 

Marathel continued crying.  “I need to see him, please, can I see him?  Please?” 

“You’ll see them both, but right now you need to breathe.  You just had a procedure done, and you were under anesthesia for quite a long time.  Since you don’t respond to bacta, they had a hard time keeping you properly sedated, so they gassed you up good and proper.  You need to clear that stuff out of your lungs. Once you’ve settled a bit, we’ll take you to a room where you can see both of your fellas.  Now, keep breathing, and eat some toast.”   

Marathel dutifully took the proffered toast, and took a bite.  It tasted like nothing — certainly not like bread — but she ate it anyway, and sipped on the sweet juice Siewan gave her.  In between sips, Marathel would take another deep breath.  “What … procedure?  What did they do to me?” 

“You had a D&C.  Do you know what that is?”  Marathel shook her head.   “Well, I’m going to let the surgeon explain all the technical details, but among other things, a D&C removes all the horrible bleeding and clots of a really bad menstrual period.  Your condition was quite severe.  Has your cycle always been like that?” 

“Yes, it’s always been …” It suddenly occurred to her that Din had to care for her while in that state.  That he had to … never, never … a man?  Helping a woman with her cycle?  Ashamed, she began to cry again, and she could not seem to stop. 

Siewan clicked her tongue, and said, pityingly, “Oh honey, they gassed you up bad, didn’t they?” She pulled up Marathel’s surgery notes on her tracker.   “That gas, it will mess up your emotions right into hyperspace.  Oh, and then they gave you a double dose of hormones to hopefully chill out your endometriosis, so you are just one hot mess.” 

“My — my endo-what?” 

“Your endometriosis.”  Siewan looked back up at Marathel, who looked lost and confused.  A torture cult, thought Siewan.  Abused since childhood.  She looked at the half-healed wound down Marathel’s forehead, considered the whip marks on Marathel’s back and Din’s horrific description of her brutal rape, and put some more pieces together.  “We’re all here to help you, Marathel.  You’re not alone, and you are safe here.  I know you’re scared and confused, and that’s okay.  But my job and the job of everyone here is you make you feel better and keep you safe. Pinky swear,” said Siewan, holding up her little finger.  Marathel, confused, just looked at the nurse, who laughed.  “Don’t leave me hanging, Marathel, pinky swear!”   Marathel tentatively reached out with her own little finger, which Siewan grabbed with her finger tightly as she whispered, “Pinky swears are the strongest promises in the galaxy.  So I promise to do my best job by you, and you promise to do your best to get better.  Okay?” 

Marathel tearfully nodded.  “Okay. But … can you tell me why I have a horrible-smelling cold wet towels on my feet and face?” 

Siewan laughed again.  “Sweetie, on top of everything else, you got the worst sunburn I’ve ever seen.  And since you don’t respond to bacta, we had to improvise.  Those towels are soaked in an acidic fruit tea to help the heat and swelling.  Some old-fashioned Moorjahone remedy.  Apparently , sunburn’s a real issue there — but then they have three suns, so there you go. If we were on my home planet, we could have used hyigin plant leaves on you.  Finish your toast and juice, and we’ll get you moved to your room, okay?”  

Marathel nodded and ate the second piece of toast.  It didn’t taste any better than the first piece, but it felt good to have something in her stomach.  The juice was very sweet and reminded her of the sweet melon Cobb had bought her at the market. The memory sparked a tiny bit of joy within her heart, making her wonder if Din would be taking her back to Tatooine.  She must have smiled, for Siewan said, “Well, it looks like you’re feeling a bit better.  And I just got a page that you have your room assignment, so, we’re gonna motor.”  The nurse laid Marathel flat on her gurney and deftly straightened out the tangle of IV and oxygen and blood transfusion tubes along with the sheet and blanket covering her. 

“But what about Di-… I mean, the Bounty Hunter … will I get to see him?” 

“We’ll grab him on the way.  Oh, and … by the way, the little boy … he’s not exactly supposed to be on the ward, so I’ve asked your … Bounty Hunter to keep him concealed in that bag he carries out in the hallways.  But he can be out in your room so long as the kid goes undercover when my boss shows up, cool?”  Marathel nodded, face full of nerves and hope.  Okay, there is a lot more going on between these two than I first thought.  I don’t think it’s anywhere near as complicated as Mando says it is — certainly not from Marathel’s side of things.   

Din, meanwhile, had been nervously waiting close to five hours for what he’d believed would be a two-hour procedure. He understood bacta tanks, not surgery.  Grogu had been so fractious it was a struggle to get him to eat something that wasn’t the childcare’s pet lizard.  Both their nerves just seemed to be completely frayed.   

Din did take an opportunity to send Captain Teva some of the holos he took, slingshotting the message around a false sub-ether address some four systems over.  An old trick, but still useful.  He also spent some time reading over some forms that Karga had sent regarding the idea that Din had set into motion a couple weeks ago, just before Marathel dropped her bombshell that she wanted to return to Unmanarall. 

Din sighed, his mind relentlessly mocking him with the memory of his original intentions.  The plans he had made had been wishful thinking anyway — but to have them completely dashed as they had been was still painful.  And now Karga was getting pushy, wanting answers that Din didn’t want to consider quite yet. 

Then he finally heard the heavy doors that led to the surgical ward open, and his heart and stomach switched places as he wavered between anticipation and dread. 

As Siewan pushed the gurney through the door from recovery to Marathel’s room, she spied Mando standing next to a wall, silently watching them approach.  He gave some pats to the side of the bag he carried, and then appeared to hook his thumb on the strap; as they got closer, Siewan could just see Grogu’s tiny green hand clutching the large gloved thumb through an opening at the top of the bag. That is the most darling thing I’ve ever seen.  And I can just tell by the way Mando’s standing there that he loves this woman.  I wonder why he can’t see that? 

Before they even reached him, Marathel was already extending her hand out towards him, quietly crying again.  Din fell into step beside the gurney, allowing Marathel to clutch his hand tightly.  By the time they got to her room, she was openly sobbing, holding his hand in both of hers against her cheek — unfortunately , the one covered by the fruit tea towel — as she cried.  Siewan said, “Marathel, honey, you need to take a breath.  And I need to borrow Mando for a moment.  Mando, we need to shift her to the bed.  You get her head, I’ll get her feet.”  Din disengaged his hand from Marathel’s and helped Siewan move her into the bed, stepping back so that the nurse could get her tubes and bags and blankets arranged.  Once Marathel was comfortable, she said, “Okay, I’m going to let you rest, Marathel.  Lunch will be coming around in a little while.  This is the secure ward, so your door will automatically lock.  Each person who needs to come in here will announce themselves on the intercom before they can enter, and only those of us with the proper fob…” —Siewan held up her wristband— “… can open the door.  Okay?”  Marathel nodded, sniffling.  Siewan patted Din’s bag, saying, “Okay, take care of her, big guy.”  On a whim she patted the top of Mando’s helmet. “You too, Mando.”  Siewan grabbed her chart tracker and left the room, closing the heavy door.  There was a definitive click as the lock engaged.   

Din turned back to Marathel.  She sobbed once more, swiping the towel from her sunburned face.  She then sat up and grabbed at him, pulling him down so he was half-sitting on the bed, hugging him hard and whimpering I’m so sorry over and over. 

He let her clutch at him, swallowing a few tears himself.  Grogu crawled out of the bag, now wailing as well, crying Mama until she scooped him up against her with her injured arm, ignoring the pain it caused her, peppering her boy with kisses. 

Din, for his part, allowed one of his arms around her shoulders to help her stay upright … but that was all … and Marathel noticed.  Forcing herself to calm down, she let go of Din and wiped her eyes.  She felt a cloth being pressed into her hand, and she made herself chuckle.  “How many of these have you given me?” 

“Quite a few.” 

“I really should start giving them back.”  Marathel blew her nose, trying to smile. 

“Yeah, no thanks, you can keep it now,” said Din, trying to be lighthearted.  Marathel smiled wanly and leaned back in the bed, partially on her side, gazing at Grogu, who was now saying bad daws, bad daws repeatedly.  “He’s saying …” began Din. 

“… Bad Dahls, yes, Grogu, the Dahls were very bad.” 

Din tilted his helmet.  “How is it you always know what he’s saying so easily?” 

Marathel shrugged, and said, “I’ve had a lot more practice with toddler talk than you, I think.”  Marathel watched Din slide off the bed and pull up a chair alongside.  “The Dahls … I didn’t know it was them, Din; truly, I didn’t.  I didn’t realize they had such a power over me.  And you … I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry you were dragged into this.  And Grogu, too.  They’ve had a hold on me for such a long time … I guess I could no longer tell.  It’s all my fault, and I’ve hurt you …” 

“It’s all right, it’s not your fault …” 

“But it is, it is.  Even Rodanthe had a hold of you, and I didn’t know. She …” Tears spilled over again, and she turned her face into her pillow.  Grogu patted her cheek, quietly saying sad Mama. 

Din put his hand on the bed, saying, “Don’t … don’t talk about it right now, Marathel.  Not until you’re stronger.  You’ve had a rough time.  You had surgery …” 

“I know.  Siewan told me.” 

“… and you should rest for now.  And breathe.  The surgery nurse told me they had to use a lot of anesthesia on you, and it’s affecting your lungs.” 

“Siewan told me that, too.” 

“Well then, what do you need me around for?” teased Din, shrugging. 

Unsure if he was joking, Marathel looked into his visor, tears threatening again.  “Please don’t make fun like that, please, please.” 

 Din immediately leaned forward and gently patted her leg.  “I’m sorry, Marathel.  Of course, I’m not going anywhere.  Besides, Grogu doesn’t show any signs of wanting to leave.” 

Marathel looked down into the crook of her arm, where Grogu continued to stroke her face with loving touches, healing her sunburn and her cheekbone.  Marathel leaned back against her pillow and closed her eyes, thinking, Din’s only calling me Marathel.  Not mesh’la, not ner kart’a, not even ma’mwsh ha’laa.  Just Marathel.  Rodanthe untied us … and it seems that was the only thing holding us together, besides Grogu.   

How long will I get to hold on to this little boy before I lose him, too? 

The whispers of the Dahls came back into her head, and she clenched her hands into fists, willing them away.  Once the whispers went silent, Marathel sighed and stared off into space.  Din sat quietly, wondering if she was deep in thought, in pain, or simply being still.  Her hands were still curled into fists, so he reached over and gently took one of her hands in his, straightening out her fingers and examining the spirals of metal encircling her fingers. He could see that several were crimped and bent out of shape, pinching her skin.  As he carefully removed one and began reshaping the metal back into place, Marathel said, “Din?” 

“Yes, Marathel?” 

Her eyes closed and another tear spilled over.  “How do you do it?” 

Din tilted his helmet.  “Do what?” 

“How do you kill people and not have it destroy your soul?” 

Oh, ma’mwsh ha’laa.   Din sighed, and said, “You did what you had to do, and it was no less than any of those men deserved.” 

“But the children ...” 

“That was not your fault.” 

“But ...” 

“It was not your fault,” said Din firmly.  “What you need to remember is that some people ... don't deserve to breathe your air.  They don’t deserve to be walking on the same ground as you.” 

Marathel frowned and asked, “Does that work?” 

Din shrugged.  “Usually.”  He knew, though, that murder — even for revenge — would be hard for Marathel to cope with, but he was unsure what would help her. 

They stayed quiet for some time.  Din carefully replaced the reshaped splint on her trembling finger, and removed another.  Marathel cradled Grogu, and she indulged her family fantasy briefly before remembering that Din had had to care for her in the most intimate way.  Yes, he’d rendered aid for her wounds the first time they’d left Unmanarall, but — Marathel wondered how a man existed like this one, so far outside her scope of what men were like that she could barely comprehend it.  “Din, I …” 

Din looked back up at her and waited.  But she wouldn’t finish her sentence, and instead closed her eyes again. “What is it, Marathel?” 

He watched her brow twitch before she answered, “You had to … tend to me again.  And this time, you had to … but men don’t …” Her face flushed almost as red as her sunburn had been.  “I’m so sorry …” she whispered before turning her face to the pillow. 

Din leaned closer to her.  “You needed help.” 

“It’s so shameful …” She began curling up tighter on herself.  

“It’s all right,” he said emphatically, gently squeezing her arm.   

Marathel turned back to Din with dismay.  “Oh, no, did Grogu ...?” 

“Grogu was concerned, yes, but he seemed to accept my explanation…” 

“Your explanation?” 

“Of what was happening to you.  He took it quite well, all things considered. I thought I would bungle the whole thing.” 

Perplexed, Marathel asked, “What did you tell him?” 

“That women, uh … have to prepare a place inside them, for a baby to implant and grow …” 

“No ba,” sadly said Grogu, patting Marathel’s belly. 

“ … but if the woman has no ba — as the kid says — then she … sheds the blood and tissue from her body.  Now, you …” 

“Hurt Mama.” 

“That’s right, Grogu, I told you that hurt Mama has a hard time, and she needed a doctor to make it better.  So … that’s what we did,” said Din with a chuckle, hoping that his misadventure would lighten her spirits.   

“Men learn of such things on other planets?” 

Din petted Grogu, who purred sleepily.  “Some men do.  I think they should.” 

Marathel’s face was less red by now, but she still had an attractive blush in the fullness of her cheeks.  She looked down at Grogu, snuggled up tight against her, with Din’s large hand on his little head, mere inches away from touching her. She opened her mouth to say something, but then Grogu sadly muttered, “No Patu Mama ba …” before drifting off to sleep.   

Marathel looked up at Din, who grunted and said, “He asked me if you and I could have a baby.  I told him no of course, since you can’t …” 

“… and you’re shooting blanks.” 

“Not … quite in those words, but yes.”  He sighed.  “I think that’s what he found most upsetting, besides not being able to help your pain.”  

No babies for us, ever, Grogu, I’m sorry … thought Marathel, before amending her thoughts: But Din could possibly be fixed.  He could possibly have children of his own.  Not that any child would replace Grogu, but … his life will now continue beyond you, Marathel, you stupid useless cunt.  You will remain nothing, not a mother, barely a woman, barely a person, barely even fit to breathe air on any planet, just like the men you killed and the babies that died and the women that will die because of you … 

Somehow, it got through to her that Din was calling her name.  “… what?” 

“You keep … going still, checking out, clenching your hands into fists.  Do I need to find the nurse? Are you dizzy?  Nauseated?  You had a concussion …” Marathel shook her head but stayed silent.  “Marathel, I understand that it’s hard for you to comprehend your actions in the Hold.  No one is ever going to blame you for what happened there.” 

“They already do.  I killed them all.  I’m the one responsible …”  

Din lifted his hand from Grogu’s head, and cupped her cheek, and his touch nearly made her faint, her heart hurt her so much.  He said, “The Dahls killed the children.  Not you.”  He felt her trembling beneath his hand.  “Marathel … are the Dahls still in your head?” 

She nervously nodded.  “Yes.  I can hear them, even this far away.  Louder than ever before.  Can’t you hear them?” 

“No.  Not since I had the … not since Rodanthe died. Marathel, you need help.  You need…” 

“All I need is …”   

Before Marathel could finish, there was a click and a tinny voice coming through the intercom.  “Siewan here.  I have a couple of people and your lunch with me, Marathel.  May we come in?” 

“Just a moment,” called Din as he picked up the dozing Grogu and put him in his bag.  “Yes, please, come in.” 

There was a long pause.  “I need Marathel to answer, please, Mando.” 

“Please come in, Siewan.” 

Siewan and company entered, and Siewan looked vexed.  She raised her perfect blue eyebrow and said firmly, “Marathel is my patient and I communicate with her.  She will speak for herself.  Do you understand?” 

Din stared at Siewan, completely abashed.  Then he understood that Marathel needed to be in control of her care, so he nodded with deference and replied, “Yes, ma’am.” 

Siewan turned to Marathel with a smile, then puzzlement.  “What the … no more sunburn?  How’d you manage that?”  She noticed Marathel glance at the bag on Mando’s lap.  “Marathel, this is nurse Ya-Bito,” she said, and a lovely woman with green skin smiled.  Her teeth were not so lovely, and reminded Marathel of the large fish that would take enormous bites out of other fish and swimming children.  “She’s going to take over for the next shift.  Anything you need, you ask her.  We have your lunch here – it's a bland diet, sorry.  And this is Doctor Dine’; she’s the one who did your procedure, and she’d like to talk to you for a little bit.  Mando, this is girl stuff.  Scat.”   Din immediately stood and stepped out, still holding Marathel’s finger splint in his hand.  After the door closed behind him, Siewan grinned and said, “Damn, he just does what you say, huh?” 

Ya-Bito nodded and said, “Wouldn’t mind one like him, no.”  The doctor coughed, reminding the nurses to have a bit of decorum.  She invited Marathel to go ahead and eat while they spoke to her.  Marathel lifted off the cover of what Siewan told her was pureed chicken stew.  Marathel thought it was an odd color — quite more yellow than she made stew — but she obediently sipped from the bowl while the doctor talked to her about her condition and asked questions.  Marathel was not exactly vague with her answers but she didn’t exactly offer a lot of information, either.   

The doctor did her best to communicate to Marathel the nature of her reproductive and menstrual troubles, but Marathel wasn’t interested in hearing about that.  All she really wanted to know was when she could leave.  The doctor informed her that she needed to stay at least one more night; they were concerned about potential infection, since Marathel didn’t respond to bacta and they had rely on old-school antibiotics.   

“Mando — and company — will be allowed to stay with you, if you’re worried about being alone here,” said Siewan.   

But that wasn’t Marathel’s worry, because this wasn’t the place that Din was going to leave her behind.  That place was elsewhere, according to her dreams and the chattering of the Dahls.   She knew, she knew, that he needed to keep moving for Grogu’s safety as well as his own, that Din had his own agenda to complete that had nothing to do with her, an agenda that she kept upsetting because of her very presence … so the voices in her head kept telling her. 

Someone was patting her arm.  “…what?!” 

The other three women glanced at each other.  The doctor said, “I was saying, Marathel, that I believe you should speak to a couple of our therapists.  You have experienced much trauma, and I believe you need help to process that trauma.” 

“I don’t understand the point of that,” said Marathel. 

“The point is to help you heal, Marathel.” 

“I will heal, but it will take only time.  No words can fix what’s been done to me.” 

“Talking about trauma can help …” 

“Talking does nothing.  Talking is just … words.  And words always lead to lies,” firmly said Marathel, hoping that she had ended the conversation.  She may be as dumb as anything, but these women before her were no Eliadu and Cieroprac.  She doubted they had serums or potions to make her speak her mind, and there was no way she would willingly speak of her past life again.  She had to tell the Reconstructionists, she’d had to tell Din,  she’d had to revisit her shameful existence far too often and it did no good whatsoever!  She simply wanted to forget and go far away from the Dahls and not have to hear them anymore.  They couldn’t talk to me on Tatooine.  I won’t have to hear them there.  I will make my days busy so I won’t have to think. I will be still and not think.   

“We’ll try again in a little while, Marathel.  Eat your lunch, and if you’re still hungry, we can get you something else.  I want you to take a walk this afternoon, as often as possible, actually.  But eat first,” said the doctor.  She and Siewan left the room, leaving only Ya-Bito, who was looking at Marathel impassively, her startling teeth bared. 

“Yes?” 

“Where is the fork, Marathel?” 

Marathel looked up at the nurse, but was unable to hold her gaze.  “There was no fork.” 

“There’s always a fork, Marathel. I used to work dietary when I was in nursing school, and I wrapped possibly a million of those cutlery sets before I graduated.”  Marathel stared at the empty bowl on her tray, her left hand under the sheet, next to her leg … clutching the fork, pressing the points of the tines deeply into her thigh.  Ya-Bito sighed and sat down.  “If we believe that a patient is hurting herself, we have to, we must, pull her off the floor and into a three-day hold in the psychiatric ward.  That’s not a good place for someone as fragile as you obviously are… we do our best, but psych’s not always so great.  I can hear you cracking up like an ice floe in spring. 

“I know that fork is keeping you together right now.  So let me make a deal with you.  You can keep the fork until you’re done with your lunch.  After that, I’m coming back in, I’m going to remove those IVs and the catheter and I’m going to send you and Mando on a little walk — you need to walk; you’re on a lot of opioid painkillers and that’s going to stove you right up — but when I do that, I want the fork back.  And if you can do that, I won’t report this. Can you do that, dear? 

“Believe me, I know, I know, the fork is helping right now.  But you can’t keep doing that.  This is one of the reasons why we all think therapy is a good idea for you.  I promise, it’s better than a fork in the thigh in the long run. I swear.” 

Marathel’s throat swelled with tears again, and she croaked, “Pinky swear?” 

“Absolutely,” said Ya-Bito, holding out her pinky for Marathel to link with her own.  “Do we have a deal?”  Marathel nodded.  “Good.  Finish up your lunch.  Buzz when you’re done.  Did you want to be alone, or did you want Mando back in here?” 

Marathel blurted, “I’d like him back …” before falling silent with a blush. 

Ya-Bito chuckled and patted Marathel’s leg.  “Press your call button when you’re done,” she said as she opened the door and saw Mando just on the other side.  “Where the hell have you been?  Get back in there,” said Ya-Bito, teasingly.  He stepped aside to let her through, and she left. 

Din sat down and pulled out an awake Grogu.  Din noticed that Marathel still had part of her lunch, so he held Grogu on his lap.  “You still have food to eat.  No, Grogu.  Not yours.  Try the ice cream, Marathel.” 

“Ice cream?” 

“Ice cream.” Din picked up the container and peeled off the lid.  “Here.” 

Wondering what in Frith Din was talking about, she took the container from Din and almost instantly dropped it back into his gloved hands.  “Frith!  It’s cold!” 

“I said it was ice cream.” 

“I don’t know what ice cream is!” 

“It’s … it’s … ice cream.  Frozen sweet cream with salt and … whatever else is in ice cream.  Just eat it, I think you’ll enjoy it.”  He handed her the container and the spoon.   

Marathel put a cautious spoonful in her mouth and was at a loss of what to do with whatever this foodstuff was, but it hurt her teeth.  “Ai!  So cold!”  She dropped the container and spoon on her tray.  “It’s soft, but now it changed … it’s like … laegg … maybe.  Oh, I don’t understand what this is!” 

Din sat there, silent, wanting so much to burst out laughing, remembering her limited scope of the galaxy.  He had to bite his lip and bounce Grogu on his knee just to keep his mouth shut. “Did you not have ice or cream on your planet?  You must have had milk of some kind; you had cheese.”  

“Well, yes, milk.  That’s what laegg means.  But ice or cream, no.” 

“What animals did you have that produced milk?  Cream comes from milk.” 

“We had cwagylans. They are … smallish animals, smaller than Dahls, but a similar-shaped head, and horns.” 

Din pondered for a moment, and pulled out his holopad and did a search.  “Goats?  Did they look like this?”  He held up the screen to her and she nodded.  “Okay … it says here that goat milk doesn’t separate easily, so … well, that explains that.   But ice … you never saw frozen water on Unmanarall?  It never got that cold?” 

“Sometimes, a few times, it became terribly cold. Once, my little stream stopped flowing and it became hard to the touch.  It burned my fingers to touch it, but it turned back into water when the sun came out.” 

“That’s ice, Marathel.” He finally let himself chuckle.  “You have a lot to learn about ... food and ... well, everything, I suppose.  Did you not like the taste of the ice cream?” 

“I didn’t notice the taste. I think I was too surprised by what it was,” said Marathel, embarrassed.   

“Well, give it another try.” 

Marathel picked up the container again, and ate another spoonful, rolling it around on her tongue to avoid her teeth, pondering the flavor.  “It’s sweet, but that’s about it, really.” 

“That looks like plain ice cream.  It comes in many flavors.” 

“It does?” Din nodded.  Marathel ate another spoonful.  “Do you like ice cream?” 

“I do.” 

“Then you should have some,” said Marathel, holding out the container to Din. 

He gently pushed it back towards her, saying, “That’s yours; you enjoy it. What else you got up there?”  Marathel held up a piece of fruit.  “That is a yellowfruit.  Make sure you eat that; they were a treat where I came from.” 

Marathel sniffed the thick-skinned yellowfruit, then went back to the ice cream. “You mean on Nevarro?” 

“No … Aq Vetina.” 

“Aq Vetina.  It’s a pretty name.  Is it a pretty planet?” 

“I don’t remember.  I was only a child when … I left.” 

Marathel tilted her head.  “And you’ve not gone back since?” Din shook his head.  “You should take Grogu there.  Show him where you came from.” 

Din shrugged and replied, “Hand me the yellowfruit, I’ll peel it for you.” 

She did, and watched as he split the skin and peeled the outside of the yellowfruit back, revealing a whitish-looking fleshy inside.  Din broke off a small piece and gave it to Grogu, who happily mashed it into his mouth.  Marathel smiled, and took the fruit back, taking a bite.  She nodded, saying, “Hmm.  I like it.  It’s soft, like the ice cream.  It’s … I can’t think of a word?” 

“Creamy?” 

“That’s a word?  I suppose it works,” she said before eating the rest of the ice cream, and then the yellowfruit. 

Yes, creamy, suddenly thought Din, like how your skin felt when I first touched it, that’s how I remember it, at least.  He watched her carefully wipe her lips with a napkin.  She sat quietly for a few moments, gazing off into the distance, and then she placed a fork back on the tray.  When did she have a fork? 

“I’m supposed to call nurse Ya-Bito when I’m done,” said Marathel sheepishly, leaning back on her pillow, her hands folded primly in her lap.  “They want me to walk.”  Din nodded, still wondering what the deal was with the fork.  He reached over and found the call button for the nurse, pressed it, and then put a protesting Grogu back in the bag.   

“I should get him something to eat …” began Din as the door opened and Ya-Bito stuck her head in. 

“I’m done with lunch,” said Marathel, holding up the fork and placing it back on the tray. 

“Excellent.  Would you give us a few minutes, Mando?”  He nodded and left.  “So …did the fork help?” 

Marathel shrugged.  “A little.” 

“Talking is better.”  Marathel didn’t respond, so the nurse went around to the other side of the bed to check the hanging bags for Marathel’s IVs.  “The doctors want you to drink as much water as possible, but we’re also going to keep you on fluids because you got so dehydrated.  We think you’re good on blood now, though.” 

“I didn’t use to be.” 

“What was that?” 

“I used to have a terrible bleeding condition.  I’ve lost all my blood before.” 

Ya-Bito looked at Marathel’s face.  “You’ve suffered greatly.”  Marathel didn’t respond.  “Siewan believes that you’re heartbroken as well.  I agree with her.  Does it have something to do with that Mandalorian and his little boy?”  Marathel nodded and sniffled.  “He cares for you greatly.” 

“No. He feels responsible for me.” 

Ya-Bito shrugged.  “That’s part of caring for another, especially someone as fragile as you at the moment.  Let him carry you for a while until you can walk on your own.” 

Marathel, puzzled, said, “I thought you wanted me to walk.” 

“I do.  What I meant, though, is allow him to help carry your sadness, your hurt, until you have the strength to do so yourself.” 

Marathel drew a deep breath, and let out a long sigh.  “My hurts should not be his burden.” 

“He seems more than strong enough, and — dare I say — willing to take those burdens for you.”   

Strong, yes, willing, no.  He will leave me behind as soon as he is able. As he should.  He was untethered, and he is now free of me. “I’d like to walk now … can I do that?”  Ya-Bito nodded, and removed the synth-blood line, then asked Marathel to lay back so she could remove the catheter.  This startled Marathel greatly; she had no idea such a thing existed, much less was inserted inside her.  Ya-Bito patiently explained its purpose and exactly how it worked, which eased Marathel’s mind.  Ya-Bito then helped her sit up on the edge of the bed to put on another gown to wear as a robe, and a pair of soft socks that had anti-slip treads.  “Oh, I like these,” said Marathel, testing them on the floor.  “I like these socks very much.” 

Ya-Bito laughed and said, “I’ll make sure you get a few pairs before you leave.  Now, can you stand?” 

Marathel carefully stood, only a bit wobbly, and took a couple cautious steps.  “I feel pretty good.  May I use the necessary?” 

“Vac-tube’s right in there,” said the nurse, pointing to a closed door.  “You probably won’t tinkle anything; it’s the removing of the catheter that makes you feel that way.  And here …” She handed Marathel a pair of absorbent, stretchy, disposable underwear.  “You are spotting a bit, which is completely normal, so you might want to wear these.” 

Marathel looked back at the bed; there was a pad there with some blood on it, but not much at all. She went into the little room and saw not only a vac-tube but also a fresher.  She hoped she could use it later.  She tried to use the vac-tube, but Ya-Bito had been correct; she hardly had any piddle at all, just more an urge than anything else.  Marathel pulled on the absorbent underwear and instantly hated them, but decided they would do for now, until she could wear her regular clothes again …  She then remembered that she left her bag behind on Unmanarall.  Oh … dank ferrik, as Din and others would say! I have no clothes, nothing!  What am I going to do? 

Marathel stepped out, worried, and as she was washing her hands, she looked at the mirror and remembered her clam shell pendant … which was now missing from around her neck.  “Oh, no,” she cried. 

“What is it?” asked Ya-Bito, who was replacing the large absorbent pad on the bed. 

“I had a clam shell … a pendant … around my neck, and it’s gone …” 

The nurse came over to her, patting her shoulder.  “I don’t know, but I will find out for you.  Okay?  What is lost will be found.  Now, let’s go walk.” 

Marathel nodded tearfully, and wiped her eyes.  As she walked to the door, pulling her IV stand, there was a knock on the door.  She cautiously opened it slightly, and Din was on the other side. “Oh …” 

“You’re standing; good.”  He came in, noticing the distress on her face.  “What is it?” 

“My clam shell … the one Grogu gave me …” Marathel began to cry again. 

“Oh, I have that …” Din dug it out of his pocket and placed it over her head.   

Ya-Bito smiled and said, “Lost is already found.” 

“They made sure to give it to me before you went into surgery; I’m sorry it slipped my mind.”  Marathel dropped her head and clutched the clam shell, sniffling.  Din kept his hands on her shoulders. He clicked his tongue and said,  “Ma’mwsh ha’laa …” 

Marathel gasped, her tears forgotten, and she looked into Din’s visor.  “Did you say ma’mwsh ha’laa?”  Or could it have been my mesh’la? 

“Of course I said ma’mwsh ha’laa; you’re always going to be ma’mwsh ha’laa to me.”  After handing her yet another cloth to dry her tears, he said, “Now, do you feel up to walking?”  Marathel nodded and smiled — an actual smile, Din noticed — so he held the door open for Marathel, and she stepped out into the corridor.  “Which way should we …?” 

“First of all, please …” Marathel guided his arm so that she could hold his forearm, just like Cobb had when he’d led her to the courtyard. 

“Well, when did you learn about that?” asked Din.  

“Cobb taught me.”  Din made a hmm noise and they started slowly walking, Marathel guiding the rolling IV stand alongside her. 

After a few meters, Din felt the need to place his hand over hers on his arm, which cheered him as well as her.  “Am I walking too fast?” 

“No, this is just fine.  Where’s Grogu?” 

“Back in the childcare center.  He kicked up a fuss but was distracted by a cup of ice cream.  Food seems to be a good currency for him.” 

Marathel frowned.  “I don’t understand what you mean.” 

“I can use food to make him do what I want.” 

She smirked.  “Boys are the same all over.  Promises of sweets always worked in the Hold.  Girls only wanted a hug, or praise.  Or safety.  Which was impossible to give,” she said sadly.  Din patted her hand, and they walked in silence for a while.  “I’m glad to have my clam shell back, but I’m also upset because I left my bag behind.” 

“I picked it up.  It’s on the Razor Crest. Your blanket is being laundered courtesy of Grogu’s childcare assistant.  They’ve been very kind.” 

Marathel had to take an extra breath to control her emotions.  “... Thank you, Din.”  She let out a long wobbly exhale. “So, you went to the hut?” 

“I did.”  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.  “I’m so sorry about your kinswomen.  Ni ceta. Olba, Tymfy, Lorica, and Hylma – I recited the Manda’lor death chant in their honor.  They were good women.” 

“They were all good to me in their own way. Hylma was the only one I didn’t truly know.  I helped at her birth, but why she would be willing to help me at all; I have no idea.  And I’ll never know.”  A thought occurred to her.  “How did you learn their names?  I thought you didn’t know them.” 

“When Grogu and I arrived back at Unmanarall, we went to to Hold first.  Well, what was left of the Hold.  I seem to recall thinking that Marathel doesn’t mess around when I saw that building blown to bits.  I was impressed. You’re dangerous, woman.” 

Of all the things Din might have expected Marathel to do at that moment, it sure wasn’t laughing.  “Cobb said the same thing,” Marathel said as she chuckled. 

Unsure of how he felt about that, Din asked, “Why did he say that?” 

“I threw a mug at his head.  He deserved it.  He was being a … what did you call him?  Oh yes, a menace.” Marathel chuckled some more.  “Oh, that’s not quite true.  I was asleep, and I was very groggy when I awoke, but he was there in my room and he startled me. So, mug to the head.  He managed to duck, though!  Oh, goodness…” Marathel continued to laugh.  “Then, another time,  he came into my room while I was sleeping to measure my foot so he could find some shoes to borrow …” 

Well, now I’m peeved, thought Din.  Cobb was just hanging out in her room? Touching her bare feet while she was sleeping?  What else did that handsy son of a bitch touch? 

Marathel turned her head to look at Din, who was not looking at her.  Her brow furrowed.  “Are you … angry at me for speaking about Cobb?” 

“… No.” 

“I think you are.”  Din didn’t reply, so she decided to change the subject. “There’s another thing I must apologize for. I’m so sorry, Din.” 

“Why?” 

“Some time ago, I thought to myself, that Din Djarin never does anything I say.” Marathel chuckled.  “But the truth is … you did everything I ever asked of you.  Except leave me behind.  Twice, now, you’ve come back.” 

“The third time’s the charm,” said Din, who regretted it instantly.   

“I don’t think I quite understand what you mean.  Perhaps … it’s for the best?” 

Before Din could answer, a man and two women rounded the corner right in front of them.  Marathel had no idea who they were.  The man wore an odd uniform; it was orange with white straps and a white woven thing on his chest.  The two women wore nearly identical pants and jackets of a brownish green.  All three looked quite stern.  The man nodded at Din, saying, “Mando.”   

Din sighed deeply, muttering, “Captain Teva.”  Hearing the name Captain Teva instantly filled Marathel with terror, and she thought, there are Captains elsewhere?  Are there Bishops and Dukes too?  How does Din know another Captain? 

This new Captain, of whom she was already afraid, turned to her and said, “Marathel ap Bishop, we need to have a chat.” 

You Were Marked: Day Thirty-One point Five ->

[oldtalks]

e vem chegando ele, o mais aguardado! nesse tutorial, você que não tem nenhuma experiência com o roleplay na melhor plataforma já feita, mas quer aprender como jogar por aqui vai ter acesso às noções básicas, termos e tipos de interações que o tumblr já ofereceu até hoje. nessa primeira parte, mais uma explicação técnica, eu resolvi colocar links redirecionando para exemplos. o próximo vem com imagens e vai te ensinar a fazer pelo mobile tudo que explicamos aqui, fique no aguardo~

TERMOS DE INTERAÇÃO

Aqui vamos te explicar o que significa cada termo usado na plataforma, alguns são bem conhecidos e usados em outras diversas, contudo, alguns são usados somente no Tumblr.

Começando pelo “PARAGRAPH” ou “PARA”, ele se refere a uma interação textual de parágrafo longo. Os famosos “turnos”, como podem ser chamados também, geralmente tem um tamanho maior, são mais detalhados e contém mais desenvolvimento. O que contraria os “SMALL PARAGRAPHS” ou só “SMALL”, que são turnos onde a narrativa é descrita de forma mais curta e sucinta. Muitas vezes a interação começa com um small, conforme os fatos vão se desenrolando ela tende a organicamente chegar ao tamanho de um para.

Seguindo a lógica acima, o “SELF PARAGRAPH” ou “SELF-PARA” nada mais é do que um desenvolvimento pessoal do personagem, onde não é necessária interação de terceiros ou desenvolvimento de uma thread.

E já que falamos dela, a “THREAD” é o conjunto de respostas. Em um para ou um small, toda ação demanda uma reação e o conjunto dessas reações pode ser chamado de thread, assim quando se inicia uma interação você está “iniciando uma thread” e quando termina, está “finalizando uma thread”. Inícios e fins de threads possuem algumas particularidades usadas que são opcionais e serão explicadas na parte prática!

Contudo, vocês concordam comigo que para tudo começar é necessário haver um “STARTER”, certo? Pois é dele que vamos falar agora. O starter marca o início da thread e engloba todas as formas de interação, podendo ser diferenciado apenas em “OPEN STARTER” e “CLOSED STARTER”. Os starters classificados como open são como um chamado para interação, a persona introduz uma situação que pode ser respondida por qualquer um dentro do universo e assim com apenas um starter ela inicia diversas threads com personagens diferentes com desenvolvimentos diferentes. Enquanto os classificados como closed são referentes ao início de uma thread específica entre dois ou mais personagens, cuja qual foi previamente combinada.

Mas nem sempre os starters são em forma de small ou para, é muito comum você vê-los em forma de “GIFCHAT”. Esse tipo de interação é a queridinha dos players de Tumblr, justamente porque são muito comuns por aqui e não acontecem em outro lugar. O gif chat nada mais do que uma conversa feita pessoalmente, interações onde dois ou mais personagens estão frente à frente e somente suas falas são reproduzidas - podendo ou não serem acompanhadas de pequenas ações -, usando o recurso dos “GIF ICONS” para tornar mais real a visualização das expressões da persona que está falando.

Por sua vez, os “GIF ICONS” são recursos visuais expressivos que podem ser usados para além dos gifchats. Embora sejam muito mais comuns neles, você sempre pode adicionar um gif em seu para, small e até selfpara! Nós explicamos melhor como achar resources de gif icons na parte prática.

Outro queridinho dos players do Tumblr é o “KAKAOTALK”, mas calma, não é o aplicativo de mensagens real. Como o Brasil, que tem o Whatsapp como aplicativo de mensagem mais usado pela população, o aplicativo mais usado na Coreia do Sul é o KakaoTalk e não é de se impressionar que sua persona tenha um, certo? Assim, “KAKAOTALK” acabou sendo o nome dado ao ato de encenar mensagens enviadas e se tornou um recurso universal. Ele pode ser usado sozinho, como há muitos anos atrás onde o chat privado do Tumblr era usado para conversas fora do personagem (ia falar quando ele ainda nem existia, mas isso acusaria minha velhice nessa plataforma) e toda interação in character era feita na dashboard, ou dentro das outras interações como recurso de narrativa, fica a seu critério!

Fechando com o último queridinho da lista de termos de interação, nós temos aquele que é aguardado por todos os que jogam no Tumblr: o “ASK GAME” ou também chamado de “ASK MEME”. Esse tipo de interação consiste basicamente no envio de asks específicas, vindas direto de listas prontas, aos personagens que estão participando do jogo e os mesmos terão que responder essa ask com um desenvolvimento ou fazendo o que ela pede. Geralmente, as respostas de ask games são dadas em self para, como você pode ver aqui mas existem jogos de perguntas como esse que podem simplesmente serem respondidas ou desenvolvidas textualmente.

E com isso, a parte de interação está concluída!

TERMOS DE INTERPRETAÇÃO

Agora que você sabe tudo sobre os termos usados para jogos, está na hora de descobrir um pouco sobre os termos usados na interpretação e eles são bem fáceis, vem comigo.

Sabe aquela cena de filme ou série que lembra muito a sua persona ou a relação da sua persona com outra? Pode dar um reblog nela, pois você terá um “MUSING”. Em uma explicação bem resumida, musing é todo recurso - gifs, fotos, edições, vídeos, músicas, textos, frases - que se encaixam no seu personagem. Existem muitos “musing blogs” que disponibilizam esse tipo de conteúdo para quem procura se inspirar em coisas que não conhece e você também pode achar conteúdos específicos na search do tumblr.

Basicamente, tudo que é usado como um recurso de interpretação é um musing, mas dentro dessa categoria enorme existem diversas divisões pequenas. Uma delas são os “QUOTES” que como o próprio nome já diz, se referem a musings textuais que podem ir desde frases curtas, até parágrafos e não há limites para eles. Um exemplo de quote é esse aqui, mas nem sempre o quote vai estar em forma de texto, você pode se deparar com um quote como esse onde a escrita está dentro de uma imagem.

Ainda dentro dos quotes, existe uma subcategoria na parte de musings textuais, que são os “TEXTING” ou apenas “TEXT”. Em suma, os musings de subcategoria texting são musings textuais que mostram uma troca de mensagens e alguns players costumam separá-los dos quotes. Um exemplo de text é esse aqui.

Mas nem só de inspirações textuais vivem os personagens, certo? Muitos tem aquela música que traz a vibe certinha da persona e esse tipo de musing são chamados de “ANTHEM”, literalmente os hinos que inspiram seu personagem. Com o recurso de postagem de músicas no Tumblr, é muito fácil achar o seu hino e você pode compartilhar quantos quiser no blog de seu personagem. Essas postagens geralmente são feitas assim e podem ser ouvidas diretamente do aplicativo.

Uma febre do roleplay no Tumblr são os “VISAGE”, que também podem ser chamados de “RESOURCE” embora esse segundo termo seja mais amplo do que o que vamos falar aqui. Enquanto o resource engloba todo o material disponível do seu faceclaim - fotos, gifs, gif icons, vídeos e etc. -, o visage se limita às fotos e gifs do mesmo. Antes da mania adquirida no roleplay de Twitter com a publicação de fotos do personagem em sua daily life, no roleplay do Tumblr eram reblogadas fotos e gifs do faceclaim para que as pessoas pudessem ver o rostinho da sua persona. Nessa plataforma e para os seus players, existe um apelo muito pequeno de postagem de fotos com o simples objetivo de ganhar likes, com as diversas edições e resources da plataforma, o uso da imagem do mesmo se torna meramente ilustrativo.

Beleza, entendi todos os termos de interpretação, mas não fica tudo bagunçado dentro do blog? Nossos queridos players do Tumblr pensaram nisso há muitos anos atrás e utilizaram das “TAGS ESPECIAIS” para distribuir os conteúdos de seu blog. Além das tags de uso geral que são disponibilizadas pela comunidade, no Tumblr você tem a possibilidade de organizar todo o seu personagem criando hashtags pessoais para cada tipo de post. Esse tipo de personalização vai de sua imaginação, elas podem ser tags simples como #musing ou mais elaboradas.

Para organizar melhor as hashtags, muitos players fazem um “TAG DUMPING”, um post exclusivamente para colocar todas as hashtags que uma vez inseridas no blog, tornam-se automáticas bastando digitar uma palavra-chave para aparecerem.

Você pode atribuir hashtags especiais para organizar tudo em seu blog. Desde recursos de interação, como tags para gif chats, recursos de interpretação, como tags para visage e até para outras personas ou plots. Sabe aquela conexão especial entre a sua persona e outra? Você pode criar um canto especial para navegar só nas interações entre elas com uma tag específica! Você verá como criar essas hashtags e seguir as gerais na parte prática do uso do Tumblr.

TERMOS GERAIS

Sabemos todos os termos para interagir e recursos para interpretar nossos personagens mas… Onde rola tudo isso? Se essa foi uma questão que passou na sua cabeça, continua lendo que eu vou te explicar.

Todo perfil de personagem criado no Tumblr é chamado de “BLOG” e nele você pode montar toda a narrativa ligada a aquela persona individual. Existem blogs que juntam mais de um personagens, mas esse não é o foco do tutorial, caso haja alguma dúvida quanto à isso a nossa ask está aberta para responder dúvidas específicas desse gênero.

Sendo assim, todo conteúdo que diz respeito à sua persona está dentro do blog dela e pode ser visto através do perfil da mesma, como este perfil.

Você pode recorrer ao blog de um personagem caso queira saber mais sobre ele ou procurar uma interação com aquele em questão, contudo, a maioria das interações e conteúdos dos personagens da comunidade podem ser visualizados na “DASHBOARD” ou “DASH”. Para os familiarizados com o Twitter, a dashboard é como a timeline e através dela você pode acompanhar tudo que acontece no universo da comunidade. As dash’s são pessoais, ou seja, nelas somente aparecerão conteúdos dos blogs que você segue e está localizada na primeira página que você abre no Tumblr. Se não conseguiu localizar a dashboard, tente este link com direcionamento para a dash da sua conta.

Dúvidas sobre as ferramentas do Tumblr para celular? Da uma olhada nesse incr��vel tutorial antes de seguir para a segunda parte onde explicamos todos os termos na prática.

[namisays]

oiii vc poderia me dar um tutorial de como se joga 1x1??? no disc num sei, tenho interesse em jogar mas sempre só participei de cmm no tt

oi meu amor! tudo bem? não sei quando você mandou essa ask porque faz um tempo que não entro aqui sighs- mas olha, vou tentar te ajudar aqui: eu sou terrível com tutoriais, então vou linkar alguns posts que podem te ajudar, ok?

como jogar 1x1 no discord por chaoticdust

como jogar 1x1 no discord por chaoticdust, parte 2

guide: 1x1 no discord por hobitalks

guide 1x1 por jojorphs

como jogar 1x1 por zoehelps

o que saber sobre jogar 1x1 por angiehelps

guia para o tumblr (dinâmica e jogabilidade) por salemcer.

como jogar 1x1 no tumblr por oldtalks, parte 1

espero que esses links te ajudem, nony!

[jaywritesrps]

ktagged by @thiskryptonite 

Favorite color: Red loving him was reeeeeeed Currently reading: The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jekins Reid Last song: The Pretender by Foo Fighters  Last series: Good Sam - I HAVE A STRONG CRUSH ON SOPHIA BUSH LET ME BE, OKAY Last movie: Thor Love and Thunder - JANE FOSTER STAN ACCOUNT HERE Sweet/spicy/savory: Sweet, even though i have stomachache with them Currently working on: Replies from Legacies Hqs, looking for a slice of life group to play a lesbian and doing some graphics for an HP RP i want to launch in portuguese.

tag 9 people you would like to get to know better: @chevans @mreullogy @capsgrantrogers @yxlenas @juliettecaai @kille-rqueen @oldtalks @ghiblitalks @fireintheparquinho @salemcer

[chrrybbamb]

Oi vida, a um tempo eu venho querendo começar a jogar aqui no tumblr, mas nunca tenho coragem e tenho um certo medo de me atrapalhar no começo, você tem alguma dica pra quem quer começar ou tá começando a jogar por aqui? desde já obrigada pela atenção <3

oi, meu dengo! eu respondi algo semelhante tem uns dias, mas vamos lá, vou dar algumas dicas que fui aprendendo ao decorrer do tempo por aqui. não sou boa explicando, mas qualquer coisa, me chama no chat e eu posso ir tirando suas duvidas. veja depois do cut !

irei adicionar nas tags também, pode ser útil para quem tem a mesma vontade !

já começamos com : não tenha medo de se atrapalhar, porque é inevitável... é uma área nova, você não ter conhecimentos necessários não é um problema, mas esteja disposta a aprender. inicialmente, pode parecer muito confuso, são termos demais e nossa cabeça sempre dá um nó. minha dica principal é saber pedir ajuda, deixe explicito que você está aprendendo ainda, não tenha vergonha em pedir que seus partners te ajudem, viu? eu aprendi a jogar pelo tumblr porque pedi instruções para amigos e partners, muita coisa, eu pedi ajuda a eles. vamos por partes, creio ser melhor assim, adianto que nada aqui é obrigatório, são apenas sugestões.

I. monte seu tumblr com todas as infos que acha importante.

antes de começar a caçar partners, faça seu tumblr e suas guidelines. se não souber mexer com theme, pode me pedir ajuda, eu não sou expert, mas o básico sei! um theme bonito não é necessário, se alguém escolhe o partner por estética de tumblr... passa longe, porque não é legal.

GUIDELINES são como suas regras pessoais para jogos, ou seja, coloque o nome/apelido que quer ser chamada, seus pronomes, idade, triggers (sempre importante!!), ships que curte, tudo que achar importante para um jogo. a minha está aqui de exemplo. tem algum faceclaim que não sente conforto em jogar ou ter como opp? especifique também ou crie uma ban list.

II. sobre tags e chars.

a grande maioria tem um lugar chamado tag dump, onde colocamos todas as tags utilizadas por nós. não é obrigatório, mas é útil, pois você junta tudo em um único lugar. (se for perfeccionista, como eu, vai entender que é um alívio)

normalmente, temos tags principais que são: wanted plots (para os plots que você deseja) , wanted oppsite/opp (que são os faceclaims que você quer ter como opp, aquele que vai jogar com você e talvez, até os que você quer usar. alguns dividem entre moças e moços) e as dos chars, pois os musings sempre ficam em seu blog principal, como um feed.

sobre personalizar as tags, fica de sua preferência, tem gente que não gosta de tag cheia de frufru, tem quem goste... vai da sua preferência, okay? faça tudo com calma e de forma que você fique confortável. é sempre bom anotar as tags, caso o tumblr acabe bugando você pode copiar e colar na área das tags.

III. procurando partners!

chegamos na parte mais divertida, que é caçar gente pra jogar! você tem três opções:

fazer um post e jogar na tag (1x1 br, rpg br, rp br e krp br), nesse post, você pode se apresentar, colocar plots que deseja ou até muses que já tem. infelizmente, eu apaguei meus posts antigos, não tenho nenhum para exemplo.

olhar a tag 1x1 br e curtir os posts já existentes, várias pessoas fazem esse estilo de post e quem sabe, você não tem um plot em comum com alguém, sempre bom tentar.

e a outra opção, é a qual eu não tenho coragem até hoje... seguir as pessoas e chegar diretamente no chat, perguntando se quer jogar alguma coisa.

IV. criando ou "ressuscitando" muses.

conforme for encontrando partners, você vai criando muses para jogar. isso é relativo, você pode criar uma muse page com os chars disponíveis para jogo, criados previamente ou esperar fechar plot para criar o personagem. já jogou em alguma cmm que fechou - ou você acabou saindo -, mas quer jogar de novo? tenta colocar ele pro 1x1, é divertido!!

V. sides blogs para chars, mumu blog e servidores.

por aqui o pessoal - em sua grande maioria - joga bastante pelo próprio tumblr ou pelo discord (que inclusive, tenho tutorial sobre aqui e aqui). se optarem pelo discord, criar um servidor não é difícil, mas se vai jogar por aqui, você pode criar um side para cada char ou utilizar um multimuse, que é um blog para todos os seus chars e onde os jogos ficam.

acredito que esse é o básico do 1x1, agora, se você deseja saber como jogar pelo tumblr, em questão de jogos ou em uma comunidade, veja alguns tutoriais abaixo!

eu podia explicar, mas ficaria muito extenso, então estarei deixando alguns guias que sei sobre os jogos no tumblr, espero ajudar.

oldtalks : um & dois // salemcer : um, dois, três, quatro & mobile

[burnbookofkrp]

Ai plásticas, meu desânimo pro RP tava imenso e eu só tava jogando 1x1, até que arrisquei entrar numa comunidade no discord. E, nossa, a plataforma é tão melhor que o twitter, ao menos pra mim!!! É mais dinâmico e imersivo, dá oportunidade pra desenvolvimentos muito mais complexos e legais, enfim, bom dms. E é mt gratificante ter a oportunidade de ver os chars se desenvolvendo melhor, além de que o contato realmente facilita os plots. Seria legal se mais pessoas dessem chance pra plataforma

Boa noite, bunny. Café?

Gosto muito do discord, muito mais do que o Tumblr, mas eu nunca entrei em uma comunidade que fosse só nessa plataforma, só utilizo para jogar 1x1 e papear com amigues OOC. Mas como das Plastics eu sou a mais versada em assuntos de Discord, vim aqui para responder a sua ask.

Talvez seja hora dessa Peixola tentar um aquário novo... Afinal eu só aparecia em Discord em dia de evento da comunidade e olhe lá. Deixar claro que em comunidade eu não gosto, mas aprendi a gostar para jogar com partners nos últimos tempos, fazer essa retratação já que trocentas vezes eu falei aqui que não gostava de Discord, mas deixar claro que era o caso específico das festinhas da Suíte do Quelemeu (agora desenterrei o meme, expus minha idade mental e física).

O Discord é super versátil, você cria seu server, adiciona as categorias e canais, coloca a Tupperbox e em um mesmo servidor você tem chat em ooc, arquivo de infos dos personagens, turnos, sms, face-to-face... Tudo que imaginar. Eu tenho até canais de social media e de musings, que assim nenhum partner se perde nos conteúdos.

Também tem a vantagem de ser o mesmo tanto para a versão em desktop quanto o app e você nem precisa instalar porque funciona no navegador. Atualizações do Opera, possuem o Discord embutido na barra de ferramentas do navegador e você pode acessar sem ter a aba sempre aberta.

Para quem quiser aprender a jogar nessa plataforma, eu indico o guia da @chrrybbamb (parte 1 e parte 2) e de @hobitalks (parte única). E para os que desejam se aventurar no 1x1 (nesse caso, voltado ao tumblr), é bom dar uma olhada nos guias da @jojorphs (aqui), e de @oldtalks (parte 1 e parte 2 tá no tumblr delus, não consegui linkar).

Tem muito bot e muito conteúdo sobre Discord por aí, principalmente em inglês.

[spragnione]

Szpaku-oldtalk

6/10

ulubiona piosenka - ocenka

[dwrko]

ayoo !!

donnie in the house para dizer que estou querendo contribuir na tag e estou aberto para fazer o que estiver ao meu alcance. tem algo que vocês precisam?

me apresentando, eu sou o donnie, também conhecido como bin e o tal do luckhaos da gaecheon e da solis. se tiver algo que eu possa ser útil para vocês, só escorregar sugestões nesse post ou mandar ask. a era de talker talvez venha aí também, então tô aberto.

+ estou pensando em fazer um update no guia de tumblr que fiz uma vez, está lá no @oldtalks, vocês acham válido?

valeu, valeu. beijo na bunda.

[olditalks]

Have a nice day....morning coffee time

美好一日-早茶時間

When free just drop by here oldtalks oldtalks place and look see look see ya!

得空時，到此老友家常閒聊聊看看噢！

[thewhitemperor]

Ginrei was getting really old and was really sick he was already waiting forthe worst ..." Can you call my grandson to come here please "... he said to a servant who did what he said it.

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Twenty-one point Five (Marathel).

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C      

word count: 7.2K   

chapter summary: Marathel sings, bakes, reveals her age, and severs relationships. 

warnings:  angst, mention of incest, sexual abuse, inbreeding, and suicide, violence to women, English and Mando’a cursing   

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***       

You Were Marked: Masterlist 

You Were Marked: <- Previous Chapter 

Marathel did not know how or what to feel.  Her tears were of pain, of joy, of heartbreak … and of confusion most of all.  She felt glad that she had finally spoken out loud her life on Unmanarall; now that she understood the wretched newly found truth of the culture there, she had felt compelled to unburden herself.  Unfortunately, the only way Marathel knew of to unburden herself was to burden the man who professed love for her, which brought her sadness and regret. 

Marathel didn’t understand love, not in the sense of whatever it was that the Bounty Hunter felt for her. She had been told growing up that certain words meant love — sort of. Olba later told her, back when Marathel was still in the Hold and failing to fully change, that many Oldtalk words had changed meanings, that the true meanings were only spoken amongst the Diwhyns.  For example, rwy’n di’rugar,  the Oldtalk phrase for I love you, actually meant my heart breaks to keep you safe.  This phrase was specifically meant for children … and even more specifically meant for the little girls, for the boys didn’t need rwy’n di’rugar any more than they needed the protection of the Mothers that Went Before that twinkled in the night sky. 

Ng’riad, which she had said to the Bounty Hunter when she uttered fi ng’riad, d’lwch fi, chi yd’w fi was a different word altogether.  The Diwhyns told the changing girls that fi ng’riad meant love me, but it really didn’t, according to Olba.  Literally, it meant ruin me.  Not love me, hold me, I am yours, but I am yours to take and ruin.  The point of saying it was to hand herself over to a man for his use.  Love was not part of being a Whyn.   

Again, I have lied to the Bounty Hunter.  No matter how much I tell him, it is not enough.  It will never be enough.  Just like how I failed to become a Whyn, I will always fail the Bounty Hunter.   

Marathel knew how to love Grogu, but not Din, and she tried to tell him so.  She thought she loved him, but she felt certain that she had no concept of what loving a man actually meant.   Din’s love for her confused her.  Frightened her.  Excited her.  Was it some kind of ownership, like being a Whyn?  It seemed that way to her, somehow. Not in any way could she have explained, for Marathel didn’t know the right words. 

She was sitting on Cobb’s lap, crying on his shoulder. Cobb had pulled her off the windowsill and onto his lap, into his strong arms, and then he … said he was sorry, which she did not understand.  Din had walked out, which she had expected, which she had wanted him to do.  She had wanted to drive him away.  She wanted to drive all of them away from the monster that was Marathel.  It was the only way she could protect them from her. 

What kind of man is this Cobb, she wondered, that he is not disgusted by me?   

But she was exhausted, emotionally spent, having vomited out all those words to explain her reason for existing.  And Cobb’s arms were strong.  And warm.  And gave her enough safety to allow her to fall apart for a moment. She had wept for some time before he had kissed her softly on the cheek, like he had the day they went to the market.  Men didn’t kiss on the cheek, they didn’t kiss on the lips, they didn’t kiss at all in her experience.    

Cobb’s kiss had comforted her like she was a child, yet it had also warmed her, thrilled her like Din’s kiss had. Catching her breath, Marathel had then surprised herself by lifting her hand to run her fingers through Cobb’s hair, silky and fine, like she recalled a Duke’s hair to be, yet Cobb was taller than any Duke she’d ever known ... and then she had heard the quietest of moans from Cobb’s throat, surprising her again, and then he dropped his lips to the exposed skin of her shoulder. 

And behind her came the low, hostile voice of the Bounty Hunter: we leave tomorrow morning.  

How long had he been there, watching her on Cobb’s lap?  Did it anger him to see her there?  Did the kiss enrage him?  Cobb’s lips on her skin, the skin that the Bounty Hunter said he loved to touch, to caress?  It certainly sounded that way.  Marathel quickly turned, only seeing the Bounty Hunter’s back from the corner of her eye as he left the room.  And she felt shame at sitting on this man’s lap, with his hands on her, his lips on her cheek.  It may have been as innocent as anything, but for the moan from Cobb’s throat … the same kind of moan she’d heard from Din when he was eating her bread, when his hands were on her skin, when he was deep inside her. 

Oh, great Frith, what am I doing?   

Marathel stood up and turned towards the door, towards Din’s voice, but he was already gone. 

What have I done? 

“Marathel?  Honey?” 

I am a whore. 

She felt Cobb’s hands on her shoulders, turning her back towards him, and she closed her eyes tight. 

I am an inbred incestuous whore cunt freak. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking that.” 

Whore cunt. 

“You hear me?”  Cobb gave her a little shake, and her eyes flew open. 

I’m a whore who has broken the heart of the first man who was ever good to me. 

“Honey?  Talk to me, honey.”  Cobb’s voice was sounding distressed.   

“Let me go,” whispered Marathel, and Cobb released her immediately.  Her shaking hands went to her face.   

“Marathel …” said Cobb, gently touching her arm.  She shied away.  “You’re … you’ve suffered so damn much.  Now, your mind is addled, like you said, and you’re not thinking straight.  And Din … listen to me, honey, please … it’s a lot for him to take in …” 

“He hates me.  As he should,” said Marathel, wiping her cheeks.  “It will be easier for him to leave me there.” 

“You don’t have to go back there!” 

“This is the …” 

Cobb grabbed her by the upper arms again, roughly this time, and she felt anger in his hands as they clutched at her.  “I swear, if you kriffing say this is the way …” 

Marathel drew in a sharp breath at Cobb’s hands on her once more.  If I need to make them hate me to let me go, then that’s what I’ll do.  Her eyes dropped down to his chest. “Hit me if you want, but you will not make me change my mind.”  Cobb lessened his grip, looking shocked and dismayed at even the thought of striking her. Marathel’s face softened as she suddenly felt a sense of deep calm.  Or perhaps it was the sense of nothingness.  “Thank you for being my friend,” she said quietly as she slipped out of his grasp and walked out of the room, heading for the kitchen. 

As Marathel entered, Silnima straightened up from the sink, where she had been washing her face, red and puffy from prolonged weeping.  She went over to the Headwoman and took her in her arms, comforting her, whispering, “Don’t pity me, Silnima, I’m all right.” 

“Oh, Marathel, I’m so sorry,” whimpered Silnima.  Why? wondered Marathel.  Why do they pity me?  I do not deserve their pity.  “I’ve never heard of such horrible things, and I was here when Jabba the Hutt ran the palace,” said Silnima as she drew back, holding Marathel’s face in her hands, yet Marathel refused to look her in the eye.  “My dear, why do you feel you have to leave?  No one wants that for you.  Stay here, with us, let us help you.” 

“I can’t, Silnima.  I can’t be trapped in a kitchen anymore.” 

“You don’t have to be in this kitchen.  You don’t have to be on this planet, even.  You can be anywhere.  Anywhere but that horrible place you came from,” Silnima pleaded.   

“It will be all right, Silnima.” 

“No, no it won’t, Marathel!  And what will you do back there?  Those men will come for you!” 

“She’s right, you know,” said a voice at the doorway.  Marathel turned to see Fennec.  “They’ll kill you as sure as they killed the women who helped you.” 

Marathel sighed.  “I won’t … I won’t go near the Hold.  I plan to just collect what I can carry at the hut, and then … just walk.  Walk until I’m far enough away.  Away from them.  Away from everyone.” 

Fennec put her hand to her forehead in frustration.  “If you want to be a recluse, you have a million planets to choose from!  Even kriffing Jakuu would be better! Why does it have to be there?” 

“Because it’s the only place where I’m not afraid all the time,” said Marathel with such a sense of detachment that Fennec worried even more for Marathel’s state of mind.   “It’s the only place I understand. It’s the only place I think I’ll be safe from everyone.”  And you’ll be safe from me. 

“Safe, she says. In a place where you’ve actively tried to kill yourself.  A place where you’ve almost been killed,” scoffed Fennec.   

Marathel shrugged.  “I’d rather die somewhere familiar.  Wouldn’t you?” 

Fennec glared at Marathel.  “After all we’ve done to help you, practically bringing you back from the dead …” 

“I asked none of you to do that for me.  Least of all the Bounty Hunter.”  Fennec’s face dropped into shock and anger.  Marathel took a breath. “I am grateful, truly I am.  But this is the only way to set things right.” 

Fennec was at a loss.  “Marathel … this is what you want?” 

What I want has no bearing on what must be, thought Marathel. 

This is the way. 

 Marathel finally replied, “What I want … is to make bread.  I can think of no other way to repay your kindness.  I will be using your ingredients, unfortunately, but …” 

Fennec held up her hands, frustrated beyond belief.  “Make bread, Marathel. If that’s what you think will … settle things in your mind, make all the damn bread you want.” 

“Thank you, Fennec,” replied Marathel, so flat and emotionless that Fennec wanted to smack her and scream at her to wake up!  It was as if Marathel, once she had released all her pain to them, had transformed into a droid. 

Silnima stepped up and fired the gas jets on the large ovens.  “I’ll help you, Marathel.”��

“Thank you, Silnima,” replied Marathel as she began to seek out the large pans the palace used for bread-making.  Silnima brought out the things Marathel requested: certain size cups, specifically shaped bowls, particular ingredients.  Fennec pitched in; she’d put aside trying to convince Marathel to change her mind for the moment.  Marathel wanted -- or perhaps needed -- to bake bread, something that at least was in the direction of positive.   

Marathel washed her hands, put on an apron, and began setting the cups and bowls into a precise and complicated arrangement on the massive worktable.  She then noticed that Boba and Cobb had come in and were watching her.  “Baking bread was fun in the Hold.  The only song made it fun, and we each would make 12 loaves of bread.” 

“Is that important?” asked Boba.  “The number of loaves?” 

“It is.  When you have 12, they can break off into 66 possible pairs.  Then you can break 66 apart to get 6 and 6, then you can make them 12 again.  That’s very important.” 

“Now why is that?” asked Cobb. 

“Gyll’wdh chi triiar whundil yn tyfu'n awhl gyda'n gilyff.” 

“Meaning?” 

Marathel turned back to her lines of cups and bowls.  “‘You can break us apart, but we will grow back together.’”  Marathel pulled the kettle off the fire and began pouring the hot water into the cups.  “Now, I haven’t done this in … thirty-some years, apparently.” The others looked at her with surprise.  Marathel frowned and paused her water pouring.    “I just found that out too.  I forgot to mention that to the Bounty Hunter.  Still not quite sure what a year is, but … forgive me if I suddenly falter.”  She tested the water.  “Still too hot.” 

“Marathel,” called Cobb.  She looked over to see him holding up a small holopad.  “Say again why the number 12 is so important.” 

He’s … what’s the word?  Making a record of me in that little device, so that even when I leave, he’ll still have a piece of me.  Typical man.  Can’t let me have all of myself to myself.  Take take take, like a little boy. Like a Cyilogg.  Like a Bwrrdyr.  Like an Elder. 

Shaking herself back to the present, Marathel tossed some sweet into the oven, which didn’t melt, but it was close.  “Four of us would each make twelve loaves at a time.  One type for the men and boys. One type for the women and girls.  It would have been better if twelve of us could make the bread, but we didn’t have enough cups and bowls.  Well, we might have if we didn’t keep breaking them.  Clumsy cunts, we were,” she said with a dry chuckle. “We had to use the cups and bowls because the loaves had to be a specific size and weight.  Perfection in bread form.  It was considered an honor to be one of the four making bread.  I was taken off bread-making shortly before I left the Hold.  I had one of my fainting spells, and I pulled several of the men’s loaves down to the floor with me, and they couldn’t be salvaged.  The head kitchen Diwhyn would have stripped my hands, but I cut myself badly enough on a broken bowl to nearly sever my little finger.”   

Marathel looked at the thick scar at the base of that finger, mostly obscured by the metal splint.  “I had forgotten all about that until now.  Hmm.” After studying the scar for a while longer, Marathel looked up, blinking at the line of cups, as if trying to remember where she was and what she was doing.  “But you were asking about the number twelve. When you have 12 women, they can break off into 66 possible pairs.  Then you can break 66 apart to get 6 and 6, then you can make them 12 again.   Gyll’wdh chi triiar whundil yn tyfu'n awhl gyda'n gilyff, we said amongst ourselves — just the women, that is — which means ‘you can break us apart, but we will grow back together.’  Now the water is almost right.” 

Marathel picked up a bowl that held dry leavening. She sifted it with a spoon, and then measured a spoonful of the stuff in the palm of her hand.  She did the same with a small bowl of sugar.  She placed both bowls in the crook of her arm and gripped the spoon in the other.  She took a breath, and sang: 

“Cowyn bach o wd’dr gymwsh,  Arn’erygg anyl fyd’dwsh,  Mewn iddi eidiwsh nach oery  Byddhi'n anad’wl’u,  Gadewsh iddi hi’n ei bywyd  Anad’wl’u ei ni bywyd.” 

As she sang, Marathel went down the line of cups, adding leavening and a tiny bit of sugar to each cup of water, then stirring briskly.  She repeated the last two lines until she finished the last cup.  Humming, she went back to the first cup and frowned.  “Your leavening breathes a little slower, I think.  It’s breathing nicely though.  Oh, what I said was:   

Little cup of water, take this gift  Breathe life into her  Do not burn or chill  Let her breathe her life  She will breathe her life into us. 

Now I must get the dry ingredients mixed while the leavening continues to breathe.” 

As Marathel spooned flour and salt into the bowls, she sang, “Ash’yd a flw’ad, pinsywd a holyn,” in a rhythmic manner.  “Cup of flour, pinch of salt.”  Stirring the dry ingredients with her hands, she chanted, “Flw’ad, holyn, cwsan, cwsan!” 

“Flour and salt, stir, stir’?” asked Cobb. 

Marathel turned slightly pink.  “Flour and salt … kiss, kiss.”  She went back up the line, digging a small divot in each bowl of dry flour, singing, “Bidd cladd’ia,” at each one.  “Dig a little grave,” she clarified.  “We bring the leavening to life and then we bury her alive.”  She glanced at the four pensive-looking people sitting on the kitchen table, watching her.  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill her,” she said with a small smile, continuing her task and humming.  The others looked at each other, all worried about her mental state.  Nonplussed, Marathel picked up a wooden paddle and poured the leavening mixture into the first bowl’s flour divot.   

“Claff’wsh hi i lawr,   Claff’wsh hi yn d’fawr,   tall’wsh ei hawyr i t’wr!” 

Marathel pulled the bowl into the crook of her arm and vigorously stirred, chanting, “Doffeg ar y de’wyth, doffeg ar y che’wyth!”  Flour flew up in a little cloud as she stirred, and Marathel slung the first bowl back to the table, leaving it spinning while she moved to the next bowl and repeated the process with the same chants. By the time she was halfway down the table, the others were chanting with her, making Marathel smile, even though their pronunciation was terrible.  She’d forgotten she missed this part of Hold life. The next bowl she chanted in Basic.  “Bury her down, bury her deep, cut off her air!  Twelve to the left, twelve to the right…” 

“Punch up, slap down, fight fight fight!”  said Cobb, and the others gave him an odd look.  “Well, obviously none of you went to the local murderball matches when you were kids.” 

Marathel laughed, surprising them all.  “No sitting down in the kitchen!” she said, and she continued down the line.  The last six bowls she added honey, singing,  

“My’el wsh ef, my’el wsh ef,   dagon i by’dio an ny’dio,   oher bywyd yn llonydd.  Pace an ny’dio,   bywyd yn llonydd.” 

Marathel sobered again when she’d finished pouring the honey, thinking about how the words she’d just sung translated from Oldtalk to Newtalk.   Finally, she sang,  

“Sweeten him, sweeten him,   enough to not hurt us,   for we will be still.    Please don’t hurt us,   for we will be still. 

This bread is for the men.  They get honey in their bread.”  She sighed deeply and chanted again, “Doffeg ar y de’wyth, doffeg ar y che’wyth,” while she stirred the mixtures in the remaining bowls together.  This job done, she tossed another small handful of flour on the tops of each bowl and saying “Cws’yl, cws’yl,” in a little song-song voice as she went up the line. 

“What did that mean, Marathel?” asked Cobb. 

“Oh … cloud, cloud, like a little poof of flour.” Marathel dumped out the first bowl on the table, scraping the bowl clean with the wooden paddle.  “Silnima!  I forgot to grease the pans!  And I need oil!”  Silnima hurried over, setting the oil bottle next to Marathel’s elbow, and then she went to grease the pans as directed.  Marathel, meanwhile, attacked the first ball of dough, singing: 

“Gyd’wsh ei, lop’wsh ei, treb’wysh ei,  Duegyn iddi gusfydd hel ei!  Dygsu bwth yn gusfyyd, gws’wsh hully eto ei!  Tachga’le, machcy’le, gwlly nyt’twsh ei!  Neu’gwny Belwhyn honi, onsah gusfydd ei!” 

Marathel kneaded the dough in syncopation with the words twice through, finishing with coating the loaf with oil, and then throwing the dough with great force into the pan on the final word.  As she continued down the line, her singing and kneading took on a more frenetic quality.  By the time Marathel had finished the sixth loaf, she was singing at the tops of her lungs, and kneading and flipping the dough almost haphazardly.  After throwing the loaf into the greased pan, she stepped back from the worktable, breathing hard, her hands trembling at her sides. Marathel said,  

“Grab her, flip her, slap her,  Make her learn her place!  She will never learn, so do it again!  Harder, faster, pull her hair!  Or make a Belwhyn out of her, if she won’t learn!” 

Marathel stood silently for several moments before turning over the next ball of dough on the table.  She went back to kneading, but sang quietly, under her breath.  The last six dough balls were oiled and returned to their bowls.  “The honey loaves are braided.”  Marathel took a loaf and shaped it some before deftly cutting it into four even pieces.  “It is a braid with four strands.  It represents … the four ways …” Marathel’s voice crackled.  “The four ways … a Whyn is … taken. 

Whyn, ben’wy, as’whyn, tw’ylo.  Mhynd ma’dy sot maen a ei.” 

Again, Marathel moved in beat with her words.  She took each lobe of dough and twirled it once before deftly braiding the loaf and placing it in the oiled pan. 

“Cunt, hands, ass, mouth.  This is how he takes her.” 

Quietly, Marathel said, “I said that the only song made the bread baking fun, didn’t I?  I suppose … I never thought about the words,” as she began working on the next ball of dough.  “I suppose I was still when I made bread in the Hold.  But now, when I come to think of it, I don’t make the loaves for men anymore.  Well … why would I, once I left the Hold?”  She picked a piece of dough out from under a splint on her finger.  “I couldn’t eat the men’s food, so why would I make it for myself?  And I never sang the only song after I left the Hold. I haven’t made the men’s or the women’s bread for … I guess … thirty years.  However long that is, I don’t know.  I only make simple crusty rounds, now.”  Marathel silently prepared the last of the braided loaves, and then tossed some sweetener into the oven.  The sweet melted.  “Would you please put these in, Silnima?  I just need to slash the women’s loaves.”  Silnima began sliding in the bread pans, and Marathel picked up a sharp knife, slashing the unbraided loaves deeply from the center to one edge.   

“Bywyd, bywyd, fwl’ono dy,   Huetor’dyl yn y gwr’wsh ei,   Rhony’dwl nildy fywy mw’an inni bywyd,  Bywyd, bywyd, fwl’ono dy. 

Breathe, breathe your last,   Let her bask in the heat,   Give us your life that we may breathe,  Breathe, breathe your last.” 

Marathel’s brow was deeply furrowed, and her lip trembled as she placed the remaining pans in the oven, and then tossed some water into the oven as well, creating steam.  Collecting all the bowls and cups, Marathel said, “I’ll wash these, and when I’m done, so will be the bread.” 

Silnima began, “I can wash those …” 

“If I wash them, then the bread will be done when I am.”  Marathel found the soap and a dish brush and set to scrubbing.  “We usually did an egg-white wash on those loaves; Silnima, I forgot the eggs.”  Silnima nodded and prepared the egg wash as the kitchen became redolent with the smell of the bread.  

Fennec sat with her hands over her mouth and her eyes full of tears.  There was not a single aspect of this poor woman’s life that was not filled with torture.  Even the act of baking bread, such a simple and innocuous thing — something Marathel enjoyed — was defiled by the males of the Hold and their disgusting treatment of the women and girls.  She got up and went to Marathel at the scullery sink.  “Marathel … please, please don’t go back.  I beg you, please, we all beg you …” 

“Don’t,” said Marathel, not looking up from her task.  “There’s no point.” 

“Din isn’t going to take you back there.  He won’t take you back.” 

“He will.” 

Fennec grimaced.  “No, he won’t, Marathel, not if he ...” 

“He will,” said Marathel firmly as she looked in the oven.  “Almost done.”  Marathel finished up the last of the cups as Fennec stepped back. Using the long wide paddle, Marathel pulled the braided bread out of the oven, turning the loaves out of the pans.  Silnima brushed them with the egg wash.  The loaves were perfect, all matching in size and shape.  Marathel and Silnima did the same with the unbraided loaves, the “women’s” loaves, with their asymmetrically slashed tops.  Cobb wondered — they all did, save Marathel — if that was by design, as the slashed top, to them, could resemble … well, a woman’s area. 

“The bread is … beautiful, Marathel,” said Cobb. 

Marathel stood still, staring at the twelve loaves.  “It will be a while before it is ready to eat.  It continues to bake as it cools.  I think … I think I’ll make small round loaves now.  I think I’m done making Hold bread.  I think I’m … finished with that now.”  She shut her eyes tight, hugged herself hard, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. 

Silnima came over and took Marathel’s hand.  “What do you need, Marathel?” 

Marathel took a deep breath.  “Heavy flat pans.  Perhaps round ones, too … May I also make cake?  I make good cake.  And cookies, if there’s time …” 

Silnima squeezed her hand.  “We’ll make whatever you want.”  Silnima went to find the pans Marathel asked for, while Marathel began searching through the spice rack, opening each jar and sniffing to find the herbs and spices she wanted.  She made a little collection and brought them back to the table and began the process of proofing more leavening.  

Looking over at the table at the others, Marathel said, “You don’t have to stay.” 

Fennec, who had returned to sitting on the table, said sadly, “I’ll keep watching, if you don’t mind.”  Boba said nothing but put his arm around Fennec. 

Cobb shook his head.  “I ain’t leaving, either.  I’m recording this for … posterity.”  For Din.  For myself.  To remind myself that a woman like you existed. 

Marathel shrugged, and began to measure her dry ingredients, using her hands, adding her chosen herbs.  She didn’t sing but she hummed, occasionally whispering a word or two of the only song as she worked.  When she got to the kneading stage, her movements remained calm as she flipped and stretched the dough, working it deftly with her splinted hands.  Leaving the batch to rise, Marathel began mixing batter for spiced cake.  Her soft humming continued, putting Fennec in the mind of a lullaby.  Marathel was sugaring the sides and bottom of a greased cake pan when Fennec said, “Marathel, you said that you left the Hold thirty or so years ago.  Did the Reconstructionists give you an idea of how old you are?” 

Marathel nodded.  “As far as they could figure, I have lived somewhere between forty-five and fifty Basic years.  I’m not sure what that means, precisely … I don’t understand time. Not the way you do.”  Marathel poured the batter in the prepared pans and put them in the oven.  As she went back to working with the risen bread dough, she said, “I understand what I can get done while those cakes bake.  I can track when Mist will come, or when the Dahls will rise to mate, by counting the moonrises and watching where the sun rolls through the sky.  If there is rain, I know when the fairy light insects will come.  If it is dry, I know when the hoppers will swarm.  But years, minutes, hours … I don’t understand these things.” Marathel began placing rounded balls of dough on a prepared sheet pan.  “I understand when the bread dough will rise.  I understand how much yarn I can spin from a handful of creek fattails.  I thought I understood how people are supposed to be, supposed to act.”  She cut diagonal slashes into the small round loaves and put the pans in the oven.   

“Well, hell, Marathel, I don’t understand people at all, so don’t let that bring you down,” said Cobb.  “And you and I are next door neighbors in the age game; same street, anyhow.” 

Fennec snorted.  “Are you one of those people who says that age is a social construct?” 

“Nah, I’m one of those people who doesn’t give a shit.” Fennec and Cobb laughed, and Marathel took another look at Cobb.  He had some wrinkles in his face and some white in his hair and beard, but he was not dour and cross like the men in the Hold who appeared like him.  However, the Hold made terrible people who didn’t laugh and joke like Cobb … or who were fair and honest, like Boba Fett.  The Hold certainly didn’t create women who would fight to the bitter end, like Fennec, or even Silnima … Marathel knew she didn’t want to be on her wrong side.   

I will miss them.  So much.  As much as the Bounty Hunter and his boy.  She wondered just how old the Bounty Hunter was.  She had heard his not-youthful joints creak, seen his not-youthful hands, but his voice had a youthful sound, as if he wasn’t accustomed to using it much.  But then she supposed it didn’t matter.  There was no point in wondering.   

Marathel went back to kneading dough and shaping larger loaves. The small rounds were almost ready.  The oven needed to cool down a small amount for the cake to stay moist.  Silnima was asking if she could slice the first loaves to pass around.  Marathel told her that it should be fine, and Silnima cut a loaf into thick slices and slathered it with a sweet cream spread for the others to try.   

Cobb tore his slice in half and brought it over for Marathel. “The master baker should enjoy her efforts,” he said. 

Marathel gave him a wan smile, but then looked down at the slice.  It was from the braided loaf, the bread that was meant for the men.  “I can’t,” she whispered.  “I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

She kept backing up until she bumped into the worktable.  “That’s the men’s bread!” 

Cobb’s eyes narrowed in frustration.  “You’re not in the Hold, Marathel. You can eat what you please.”  He tried to grab to hand, to force her to take the bread, but she kept breaking free of his grasp. 

“I can’t, I can’t … please, don’t make me,” she pleaded before escaping to the oven to pull out the small rounds and put in the larger loaves.  “The cake is almost finished.” 

“Honey …” 

“You will never understand, there are things I cannot do!  I can’t eat the men’s food.  I can’t wear shoes.  I can’t cut my hair …” 

“Can’t cut your hair? …” 

“… and I can’t stay here.   I can’t be anywhere other than where I came from.”   

Irritated, Cobb kept trying to capture her hands.  “Honey …” 

“And no more honey!  Or your… hands, touching me! No more! There’s no point, Cobb Vanth, Marshal of Freetown. Just … no more.” Cobb dropped his hands.  Marathel turned back to the oven and began pulling out the cake.  “Excuse me,” she said, shouldering him out of the way to put the cake pans on the table to cool.  A pan slipped in her hand, and she burned her fingers.  She hissed and went to put her fingers in her mouth, but Cobb seized her hand and put it under the cold tap at the sink, even as she kept struggling against him. 

Looking at her, Cobb said, “And you can keep trying to push me away, push Din away — all of us away.  But it’s not going to work, honey.” 

“You’re a man, you may think what you wish.” 

Cobb’s grip on her wrist tightened. “Don’t you do that, Marathel, that kind of game is beneath you.” 

“I don’t know what you mean," muttered Marathel, finally pulling her hand out of Cobb’s grasp. 

“The hell you don’t.” Cobb felt anger rising, which alarmed him; he rarely got angry anymore, there was no point in anger, especially at a woman who deserved so much better.   

“No, I don’t, Cobb Vanth.  I am only a stupid cunt.”  

“Stop calling yourself that!” hissed Cobb. 

“It is what I am.  A stupid, whore cunt.”  Cobb suddenly slapped her across the face. Fennec and Silnima gasped.  Silence filled the room. Fennec put her face into her hands, and Boba held her tight.  Fennec sobbed quietly; Cobb had finally done what she herself had wanted to do for days and given Marathel a smack ... a desire that now she regretted terribly once that cracking noise reached her ears.   

Marathel took a step back, her face blank, her eyes down, her hands going up her sleeves.  Quietly, she said, “You hit me, but I still did not change my mind.” 

Cobb’s face, filled with shock and dismay at what he had done to her, done to a woman, began to crumple.   Whispering, “I’m so sorry,” he stepped back, and then stalked out of the kitchen.  Out of the corner of his eye, he was certain he saw Din lurking in the shadows, but Cobb didn’t want to deal with his shit as well, so he continued in the opposite direction. 

Two down, three to go, thought Marathel as she gathered the pans to clean them.  She sensed movement from the table and looked over to see that Fennec and Boba had finally left. 

Silnima quietly joined Marathel at the scullery sink, and they did the task together.  “What do you want to make next, Marathel?” asked Silnima. 

“Perhaps more of the small rounds … and maybe some sweet bread, if you have dried fruit.”  Silnima nodded.  “Maybe, Silnima, you can teach me how you make a sweet bread.” 

“I know a good one that uses a local squash, and needs no leavening,” said Silnima.  

“That sounds good.  Can we?”  Silnima nodded again, and they cleaned the pans in silence, occasionally bumping elbows.   Marathel sensed a familiarity between the two of them, and it wasn’t just about kitchen work and bread making.  “It’s just us, now.” 

Silnima nodded.  “Yes, it is.” 

After a few more minutes of silence, Marathel asked, “Who was this Jabba the Hutt?” 

“A most disgusting creature.  He was the crime lord for this area.  He had … peculiar tastes.  Boba knew him back then.  I was here too … but as a slave … and a woman of pleasure.”  Marathel could hear the disgust in Silnima’s voice.  “That foul fat worm made me do the most horrendous things.  Not unlike those Elders where you came from.” 

“But he is now dead?” 

Silnima nodded.  “Killed by members of the Rebel Alliance.  A princess turned soldier strangled him with the very chain he used to imprison her.” 

“Good for her.” 

“It was hard for a while, once I was freed.  I kept running back to what I knew – which was easy -- rather than crawling forward to learn new skills, which was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. And now my life is infinitely better.”  Silnima sighed and began drying the clean pans.  “You hear what I’m saying, Marathel?” 

“I do.” 

“But are you listening to me?” 

“I am.  Can we start on that squash bread of yours now?” 

Silnima pursed her mouth.  If Marathel was listening, she was not going to be deterred, which made Silnima’s heart ache.  She finished scrubbing a pan and gently placed a hand on Marathel’s shoulder.  “I’ve felt like you do now.  Defeated, lost, that you’re worth less than nothing because of what they did to you, that you deserved what they did to you ...  thinking they’re right …  whomever they are.  And people like Cobb and Fennec and Boba … they don’t get it, do they?  Fennec comes as close as she can, trying to help people like me.  And you.   

“It’s like being at the bottom in of the deepest, darkest pit, with only a tiny bit of sky visible above you, and no matter how hard and far you climb, that little patch of light doesn’t seem to get any bigger … but as long as there’s sky up there, you have something to climb up towards, right?”  Marathel sighed.  The deep dark pit, she understood perfectly.  But there was no patch of sky, no light above her; only more darkness.  No ladder to climb out with.  And she felt that she still had further down to go. Silnima drew Marathel into her arms, held her tight, and stroked her hair.  “I promise you, Marathel, as sure as the Maker made little black melons, that it will get better.”  Marathel didn’t believe that at all.  Nothing was so bad that it couldn’t get worse.  And she didn’t know who this Maker was; if the Maker was anything like Frith, the Maker was certainly another tymffod, so she just remained silent. 

Silnima released Marathel, and they went back to baking.  For hours they baked bread, cakes, sweet breads, small hand-held pies containing minced fruit, soft cookies with sweet icing, hard nutty biscuits for dunking in caf ... only speaking when necessary for the task at hand. Eventually, Silnima was so exhausted she left Marathel alone with another plea to reconsider leaving Tatooine.  Marathel only responded with a kiss on Silnima’s cheek before she went back to scrubbing the pans yet again. 

An hour or two before dawn, Marathel was sitting alone in the nearly dark kitchen, elbows on the table, hands clasped together against her mouth as she considered the enormous array of baked goods on the worktable.  She heard Din’s voice, flat, uninflected, saying, “You’re done?” 

Marathel sighed.  “We ran out of flour.” 

“I should think so, looking at all that,” he said, sitting down at the other end of the table, mimicking her pose.  He sighed as well.  “I could hear you singing your only song from my room.  I hated it.” 

Marathel shrugged.  “I hate it now, too.  The bread-making part, at least.” 

“I hate your Hold, and what was done to you there.”  Marathel’s throat filled with tears, so she only nodded.  “I hate that Cobb struck you.  If I were in here, I would have...” 

Marathel quickly said, “No! It was nothing, nothing of consequence.  He was angry with me, and the fault is mine.”  They were silent for a few moments.  “Is it time to go?” 

“Not yet.”  Din took a deep breath, then said, “Marathel, please, don’t make me ...” 

“I am not discussing this further.  There is no point.” 

“Why are you making me take you back to the Hold?” 

Marathel’s brow furrowed.  “You’re not taking me back to the Hold, just to Unmanarall.” 

Din turned to her.  “Why does the bite mark burn when you say, ‘there’s no point’?  Why does it burn when I dream that I’ve ... when I dream about you?  What are you doing to me?” 

She shook her head, confused.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I’m doing nothing to you!” 

With a swift and silent motion, Din stood and swept Marathel off the bench and into the deep shadows at the back of the kitchen, where she could not see at all, and he pinned her fully against the wall.  Her hands trembled against his cuirass, but she did not struggle, because she knew there would be no point; her strength was no match for his.  The Bounty Hunter could snap her neck as easily as a chook leg bone.  “You marked me with that bite, Marathel, as sure as a Dahl marks her mate, like you said to Fennec.  But I was yours before you did that.  I was yours when I saw you smile at Grogu.  I was yours when you invited me into your home.  And I’m so sorry, mesh’la,  I’m so sorry I didn’t save you.  I’m so sorry I didn’t take you away before you ever entered that Hold.  The coins were worth nothing, not if it meant I had to lose you.  And I’m sorry for tonight, I’m sorry I rejected you after you told me the horrible things that were done to you, the appalling life you’ve had to endure.  I’m sorry I misunderstood Cobb comforting you; he was only doing what I should have done!   I’m weak, I’m a coward, I couldn’t bear it, I thought only of myself, and I am so sorry.  I will spend the rest of my life begging for your forgiveness, if you will let me ... but please, please don’t make me take you back to that place.  Don’t make me let you go, please! And don’t you dare say ‘there’s no point’!”  Din undid the catches that held on his cuirass, and he tossed it to the floor.  He undid the top of his flight jacket, grabbed her hand and placed it on his bare skin, over the bite she had left on him.  Marathel gasped; his skin was hot to the touch.   

“Din, no, you must have an infection ...” 

“No, it’s not infected ... well, it was, but Grogu healed me, it’s better now ...” 

“You’re raving, Din, you must have a fever!” 

“I’m not sick, Marathel!  You bit me, Rodanthe told me to love you, you told me to leave my weapons behind and to be still!  You have control of me through this bite mark!” 

Marathel burst into tears.  She tried to pull her hand off Din’s bare skin, but he captured her hand in his.  “You’re not making any sense, Din ...” 

“I don’t understand it either, mesh’la, ner kar’ta, ma’mwsh ha’laa...”  Marathel could hear the tears in Din’s voice, even with the voice modulator in his helmet.  She hated to do this to him, to this good man, but there was no other way. 

There is only this way. 

“Stop it, Din! Don’t you see?  My madness, my sickness, I’m infecting you with whatever disease that I am! I’m dragging you down with me and I cannot let that happen to you!  This is why you must take me back!” cried Marathel. 

“You’ll kill yourself when I take you back!  I know you will!” 

“If that’s what will save both you and Grogu, then YES!  And GLADLY!  Now, LET ME GO!”  Marathel managed to twist halfway out of his grasp, but Din held her fast.  She cried, “If you think I can control you through that bite mark, then you will do as I say!  LET ME GO!” 

The bite mark flared with heat on Din’s chest, making him gasp, and his hold on Marathel faltered.  She broke loose and ran from the kitchen.  Din yelled at her retreating figure, “Haar’chak, Marathel, DON’T MAKE ME DO THIS!” 

At her door, Marathel turned, and said, “I’ll be ready to go when you are,” before shutting the door and locking it. 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter

[aliceisabeljohnson-blog]

- So what do you do for life?

- I dance ballet.

- Drug addict ballerina?

- That’s right. We have drug addict ballerina and…

- And homeless artist.

- Yeah, we’re not having children.

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day One point Five.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C word count: 3.4k summary: Din Djarin eats bread. warnings: Mando'a and English cursing, gluten

You Were Marked: Masterlist

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter

As Din stepped into Marathel’s home, he took the opportunity to examine the structure while her back was turned.  It wasn’t so much a house as it was a raised platform with an open framework of posts and long slim beams supporting a flat roof.  The roof was heavily thatched with layers of braided leaves and flat grasses.   One corner was supported by a large tree, which had branches that reached under the roof.  Under this tree was a tall wooden upright frame that was heavily laced with string and fiber – some kind of loom, he supposed.  There was a long table with benches.  Opposite the loom was a sleeping pad that was partially surrounded by panels of hanging fabric.  Another corner of the structure was built out over a stream that partially flowed underneath the platform, and there was a simple pulley system for Marathel to collect water.  The back of the structure was dominated by a large clay box that was constructed around a fire, which contained a large metal grate that held cooking pots.  On either side of the fireplace were long counters with shelves, tightly packed with a variety of baskets.  Din’s eyes grazed along the top of the counter, littered with open jars and small clay pots, and there, next to the dry sink, lay a large round loaf of crusty bread.  

Bread.  Osik, bread.  Bread was hard to come by when criss-crossing the galaxy, eating travel rations on the run.  Bread that he had managed to get a hold of was hard and dry or too mealy to enjoy.  Never, ever had he had bread right out of an oven, and proper bread was so rare to him that he could count on one hand how many times he had eaten any.  Food at the covert was institutional and practical. Food was for strength, for energy.  Since becoming an adult, Din had discovered that that was not always precisely so.  His helmet only allowed the slightest of aromas to get through, but the hints of herbs that he could get were tantalizing.  

Marathel had dished up a bowl of the stew that stood on the hob, and she mashed the contents into a puree with a spoon.  She then picked up the loaf of bread, tore off a hunk, exposing the fluffy center that made Din’s mouth water.  She spread a soft cheese on the bread, deftly tore it into child-sized chunks, and placed the food on the table.  “Sit,” she said.  Din sat. Grogu immediately reached for the bowl, but Din moved it into a better position, set Grogu on his thigh, and began spoon-feeding the stew into the ungrateful maw. Marathel had her back turned again, putting herbs into mugs and filling the mugs with hot water from the reservoir, and Din briefly wondered if he’d have enough time to slip a bit of bread under his helmet before she turned around again.  Before he could, though, Marathel sat opposite him, sliding a steaming mug over to him.  “Does he approve?”  

“He does.”  

“Good.” She sipped her tea.  “He is a charming creature.”  

“He does have that effect on people.”  Din was about to let Grogu sip from the mug of tea when Marathel said, “Oh no, the tea is for you.  The tea is … a …. digestive?  Good for stomachs.  Too strong for little ones, unless they are ill.”  

Din slid the mug out of reach.  “Grogu needs no help in that department.”  

Marathel chuckled.  “I understand.  I helped with the little ones at the Hold.”  

“The Hold?”  

She gestured vaguely.  “Up there, where the others are.”  

“Why is it that you’re down here, all alone?”  

Marathel hid her face for a moment in her mug.  “The Dahlrhddwhyrs – the Dahls – of course.”  

“Why are they so important?”  

She shrugged and kept her eyes on the tabletop. “I don’t know.  Status, maybe?  The Ancient Ones had use for them, but I don't know what that was.  There are things known in the Oldtalk, but girls don’t learn those things.  The men and the boys who have changed learn that in the Round Building.  The girls only learn what Oldtalk and Newtalk is needed from the Diwhyns.” 

“Diwhyns?” 

“The … older women.  The mothers.  I’m sorry, you speak Newtalk …I will try to keep up.”  Marathel took another long sip of her tea. “But you were asking about the Dahls.  The Elders want them, but you can’t just take a Dahl.  You have to care for them while still in the egg.  When they hatch, you have to be there … that way …” She scowled, looking for the right words.  “They become yours, you become theirs?” 

“They bond?” 

“Yes!  Bond.  That is the word. I take them the eggs each season, but they will not bond with The Elders.”  Marathel slipped her hands into her sleeves and swallowed while she stared at the tabletop. She finally lifted her eyes to look at Din’s helmet. It was then that she noticed that he was not looking at her but seemed to be focused on something just behind her.  She glanced over her shoulder and her eyes fell on the bread.  “You are hungry, then?” 

“No.  I will eat later.” 

“If you want bread, you may have bread.  Or stew.  I have plenty.”  She got up and pulled another bowl from the shelf.   

“I cannot.” 

“You cannot?” 

“I may not eat before others.” 

Marathel’s brow furrowed.  “I don’t understand.” 

“I may not remove my helmet before any other living thing.” 

She contemplated this for a moment.  “You require … privacy, then?”  Din did not answer.  “This is easily fixed.”  She pulled out another one of her ubiquitous baskets and removed a stack of folded dark-colored fabric. 

Din stood.  “I do not wish you any trouble.” 

“It is no trouble.  You are hungry but may not eat before me.  I understand.  Let me fix something.  In the meantime, I expect Grogu will need the necessary?” 

“The necessary?” 

“Babies fill, babies must empty, yes?”  Marathel pointed towards the corner just past her sleeping pad.  “Hop down there and go about ten meters around that rock outcrop.  Look to your left, you will find it.  Go on, then.” 

Grogu was indeed squirming, so Din followed her directions and found a latrine just as she said.  It was little more than a wooden box with a hole in it, but the rock outcrop gave some privacy, along with a weatherproof curtain that was tied to an adjacent tree.  There was even a covered bucket of clean cloths.  All the comforts of home.  Din took care of Grogu, took a constitutional himself, and then headed back to Marathels’ hut.  On the way, he washed his hands and Grogu’s in the cold stream that flowed under the platform.  Upon climbing back up into her home, he saw that Marathel had constructed a fabric cubicle opposite her sleeping pad.  The fabric seemed opaque enough to serve the purpose.  Marathel was standing on her loom stool, stretched tall to clip the panel at the top, when she overreached and began to lose her balance.  Din quickly crossed the platform and put a hand on her waist to balance her, but Marathel yelped with surprise and overcorrected, causing Din to wrap his arm around her waist to keep her from falling.  She looked down at him with wide eyes, eyes that Din finally saw were the same liquid silver color as her hair, framed by pale lashes.  Marathel jumped down and smoothed her tunic where he had touched her.  Gesturing to the curtained area, she said, “This will work?” 

Din nodded.  “Yes.  It will suffice.” 

“Good.  Wash your hands, I will fix you a plate.” 

Din again followed her directions; it seemed that she would brook no quarter if he protested that he ate with his gloves on. He turned his shoulders away from her to remove his gloves, and he began to pour out warm water from the reservoir when she slid an open jar towards him.  “Soap,” she said simply while she filled a larger bowl with the stew and slathered an enormous hunk of bread with the soft cheese.   She placed the food on the stool and carried it into the fabric cubicle.  Din quickly washed both his hands and Grogu’s for good measure.  Marathel turned to him and said, “Please eat.  If it pleases you, I could take Grogu out with me.  We will leave you alone, but we will stay in the yard, so you can see us.  He could help me gather.” 

“That is fine.” 

 Grogu was already reaching for her, so she plucked him out of Din’s arms with a smile and settled him on her hip with practiced ease.  She grabbed a large woven bag and walked down the steps of the platform.  “Come Grogu, you are a strapping lad!  Let’s see what we can find.” 

Din entered the curtained space.  The fabric seemed opaque enough, but he could still see both Marathel and Grogu in the sunlit yard.  He picked up the food and sat on the stool.  He lifted the helmet from his head, closing his eyes, breathing in the clean air of this planet.  All at once he was pleasantly assaulted with smells: the aroma of the meat stew, the cleanliness of the fabric panels, the herbs in the cheese.  Taking a bit of the stew, the meat melted in his mouth, the vegetables were flavorful.  Din had intended to eat all the stew before biting into the bread, but he couldn’t wait anymore.  His teeth bit through the crunchy, flaky crust into the soft center that had the perfect texture of porgsdown, and the sharpness of the cheese and the headiness of the herbs made him wonder what in blue fuck he had been eating his entire life if he had to travel beyond the edge of nowhere and meet possibly the strangest person in his life in order to find this, and as he chewed all these marvelous things together he believed that he would gladly face off against a Krayt Dragon armed with nothing but his middle finger if he could be eating this bread while he did so.  He opened his eyes, breathing deeply though his nose, and the wind brought a fragrance that was sea salt and the wildflowers that blossomed in this woman’s yard.  She kept her back to him – as she promised – as she knelt with Grogu in front of a bunch of berry bushes, showing him what to pick.  He happily started pulling berries off for her and placing them carefully in her sack.  He ate a few, of course, but spit them out.  Din heard her laugh as she said, “Yes, dream berries taste bad to children, which is a good thing.  Show me how many you can pick!”  Grogu did pick for a while, but then he was distracted by a flying insect, which he chased around the yard.  Marathel continued with her picking but kept Grogu in her sights at all times.  As Grogu contemplated some sort of crawly critter on the ground, she came over and they both poked at it for a while until it rolled up and rolled away.  Laughing, they began to play some sort of chasing game, while Din ate the best bread he had ever tasted, and – though he would never admit it — quietly laughed too as he watched the tall woman and the tiny green creature gambol about the yard. 

The shadows in the yard were beginning to deepen by the time Din actually finished his meal. He had chewed each morsel of bread until they were liquified, and he had even picked up crumbs from the floor and ate them too, before he would admit that he was actually finished eating. By this time the running game had ended between Marathel and Grogu, and they sat on the steps with a bowl between them. Marathel was snapping beans into pieces and tossing them into the bowl; Grogu snapped the beans with much less skill and was preferring to chew on the pieces instead of putting them in the bowl. “Stop it, Grogu,” said Marathel, with a mock-stern look on her face. Noticing that Din had moved outside the cubicle, she smiled and asked, “All done?” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

“It is no bother.” She stood and collected the bowl and plate from him, moving back to the kitchen to place them in the dry sink. Din moved off the steps and began to strap the jet pack back onto his back. Marathel came forward to the top of the steps, directly above him. “Are you leaving?”  

“Yes. We are thankful for your hospitality.” 

Marathel looked dismayed. “But …. why leave?” 

Din clicked the strap that held his blaster. “We are here for a bounty, and it would appear … we are not here at the right time. The bounty calls for you to deliver eggs. I take it there are no eggs at the moment?” 

 Marathel nodded, her eyes downcast. She slid her hands back into her sleeves. “It is not quite the season. But it is soon.” 

“How long?” 

Marathel's hands were so deep into her sleeves that they were almost rubbing her shoulders. Biting her lip, she walked back to her loom and pulled out a long chain of yarn through which she had woven short lengths of colored yarn in a complicated pattern. She counted out sections of patterns, and then looked out over the landscape for a long while. Her mouth moved silently for a moment, and then she moved back to the yard, looking into the sky. The moon was rising. She contemplated the moon. Finally, she moved closer to Din, with her eyes still downcast. Her hands went back into her sleeves – some sort of nervous gesture, he thought – and she finally said, “There will be eggs in four or five days. You will not have long to wait, Bounty Hunter.” 

Din nodded. “Four or five days.” 

Marathel shrugged. “Perhaps a bit more, perhaps a bit less.”  

Din went back to replacing his vambraces. “Come, Grogu, we will return to the ship.” 

Marathel quickly turned away to grab the bowl off the step. “Or you could stay here.” 

Din looked up. “Here?” 

Still back-to, Marathel gestured to the curtains she had hung. “You will have privacy. You will have meals. Would that not …. be all right?” 

Din tilted his head and considered her spine. She obviously was not a flight risk, which was why he contemplated just staying on the ship for the next few days. It would cost him too much in fuel to leave and come back. He was concerned about trying to take the bounty without contacting this Bishop person, whoever he was, but Din was also concerned that The Bishop and the Hold would continue to be closed off to him. This was all a mystery, a puzzle, an enigma …. an enigma wrapped in a mystery who kept her hands covered and her head down and her back to him while she held a bowl of beans. Din looked down to see Grogu wrap his arms around her ankle and look back at him with his huge eyes, pleading. Din took a breath and softly muttered, “Haar’chak.” Louder, he said, “If we will not be trouble, we will stay.” 

Marathel turned, Grogu still wrapped around her ankle, with a look that was somehow both relief and dread. “There is no trouble.” She tried to move back to the kitchen, but Grogu hampered her. She looked down at her ankle and chuckled. “I appear to have grown a Grogu. Let go, child, let’s get you and your father settled.” She pulled out yet another basket and unfurled another sleeping pad and collected blankets. She then lightly kicked the empty basket towards Din. “For your weapons. You may keep them in there. You may not wear them in my house. But you may keep the basket where you will sleep.” Marathel then set up the sleeping pad with blankets with her usual efficiency. Din removed his weapons again, placing them in the large basket, wondering what in Dha'tra he was getting himself into. She crossed the room and pulled the curtains around her sleeping pad so they were also closed. She turned back to Din. “My space, your space, yes? Privacy for both.” Din nodded. She clasped her hands together. “Very good. Now I will make us more tea, we will sit, and I will tell Grogu the story of Luad Dycwnigen.” 

Within minutes, Din found himself sitting on Marathel’s front steps, a mug of tea at his hip. She knew he obviously wasn’t going to drink any in front of her, which was why she had graciously placed a saucer on top of the mug to keep it warm. Meanwhile, she was pointing at the moon, which now had fully risen, telling Grogu how the Luad Dycwingen had left the ground to live in the sky, where the Dahlrhddwhyrs could not catch him. Unfortunately, he had to live on the moon upside down because he had jumped too far. Din gazed at the moon as well, and asked, “What am I supposed to be seeing?” 

“His shape. It’s that long, dark section there.” 

“It would help if I knew what a Luad Dycwingen was.” 

Marathel's brow furrowed. “He was a small, furry animal. Long strong legs, fluffy tail. Long ears that stand up and are almost transparent.” 

“That sounds like a rabbit.” 

Marathel shrugged. “Could be.” 

Din considered the moon again. “I guess. If I squint.” 

Marathel chuckled. “If your rabbits are the same as my dycwingens, they are good eating as well.” At this point, Grogu yawned hugely. “Ah yes, the wings of sleep are finally wrapping around the little one.” She pushed herself up and picked up her empty mug. Din stood as well. Marathel deftly handed off the child to Din and said, “My bed is calling for me as well. Have a good sleep, Bounty Hunter.” She went to the kitchen, quickly washed her face and brushed her teeth, and stepped into her curtained room. Looking over her shoulder, she realized that Din was watching her. She stared for a moment and disappeared behind the fabric. 

Din stood where he was for a short while, listening. He finally heard the rustle of her laying down and then all was silence. He sat back down, Grogu nestled in his arms, asleep. Din reached for the mug of tea, slightly lifted his helmet, and sipped. It was still warm. It tasted different than the digestive tea she had given him earlier. It was a lighter flavor with a more calming effect – something sleepier, perhaps. He quietly sighed and stared into the stars, thinking about the oddity of a mark who welcomed him into her home and fed him before he turned her in. 

Marathel, meanwhile, had curled onto her side and pressed her clasped fists into her mouth to keep from screaming. The Bishop, The Bishop was going to drag her back into that Hold, all for those damned Dahls and their damned eggs, but it wasn’t about them at all, it was about how The Bishop was never denied, NEVER, and now The Bishop had sent this man who wore more metal than she had ever seen in one place, who wore a helmet covering his eyes, to drag her back into that Hold and through the doors of the Round Building, and she was so, so, afraid.  

Tears escaped her shut eyes, and she bit her thumb to keep her from breathing too loud because she knew that the metal man could hear her, the metal man was here to end her days away from the pain of the Hold, so she tried to shift her thoughts away from her fear and thought about the child, the little green child who made the metal man soft somehow.  

She didn’t have the words, she was dumb, she knew hardly anything, but she knew what was coming in the next few days and she knew she couldn’t escape it ... and yet, there was always a kernel of a dream in the deepest part of her soul, and she let the sweetness of the little green child be part of that dream. 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter ->