Latest Posts by anitzeineko - Page 5

Knight Dooku and his ten-year-old Padawan Rael Averross travel to Oleracia, a planet in the Outer Rim, to bring home a Force-sensitive child.

Read the fic here!

shes pretty obscure / legends only but i was curious how you felt about komari vosa

I thought the premise was an interesting one. A talented Jedi who became infatuated with her Master (Dooku) and thus was barred from the Trials altogether, leaving the Order in disgrace and shame. She turned to the Dark Side after torture by the Force-worshipping Bando Gora cult and ultimately rose as its High Priestess. When Sidious ordered her dispatched of, Dooku turned it into a kind of contest - the bounty hunter able to take out the power Force-wielder would become the template for the clone army. And yes, that being would be Jango Fett.

A lot of the beats in this story hit the right chord - a young Vosa falling for her urbane, older Master, which is not unheard of in these intense, one-on-one training relationships (ask me about music conservatory culture one day, oof). To Dooku’s credit, he wanted nothing to do with this (and I sincerely doubt he would even as a Sith - that’s just not his M.O., thank the Force). Her falling into a Force-worshipping cult, which is absolutely fantastic (and something I wish had been utilized in the Sequels). And then finally, Dooku’s inability to actually kill her directly, manipulating the situation into “The Box? Version 1.0 is 100% on-brand for his character. I actually don’t think he’s ever been able to take out a friend/Lineage member directly. He hired the Pykes to deal with Sifo-Diyas, bounty hunters for Komari, more or less left Ventress to die but never actually ensured her death, ditto for Savage, and never actually landed a killing blow in a situation with Obi-wan, even though he certainly had the upper hand in those encounters. 

Now, it’s been a while since I’ve read those comics and to be perfectly honest, I am wholly in love with Rael Averross and his whole schtick so I’m willing to let go of Komari Vosa in exchange for Rael. That being said, it wasn’t a half-bad storyline. 

The muse came to me. Who was I to say no? 

Dooku at the Opera: A Lineage Tale (A Comedy in 3 Acts)

Featuring: Yan Dooku, Rael Averross, Qui-gon Jinn, and Obi-wan Kenobi

—————————————-

“Here, take this.”

A dented, silver flask was thrust into Qui-gon’s inner pocket, the weight of the object throwing his deep brown dress robe off-kilter. 

“Rael!” Qui-gon hissed, trying to fish the object from his voluminous, velvet-trimmed outwear. By the Force, he hated wearing this thing. “I’m not - “ The fabric tangled, wrapping around Qui-gon’s arm - once, twice - somehow pinning his limb immobile against his side. 

Rael Averross tossed his head back and laughed for a good minute, leaving a scowling Qui-gon half-bound, trapped in the finest Jedi robes the Temple had to offer. Chuckling, he stepped forward to help Qui-gon unfurl from his self-made prison. “Just trust me, kid. You’re gonna need it.”

“I’m not sneaking Rodian liquor into the Coruscant Opera with Master Dooku at my side. He’ll flay me alive if catches me!” Qui-gon shuddered, testing out his freed arm.

“I’m not asking you to drink it,” Rael cocked his head with a small sigh. “That stuff would strip the paint off the side of a Grellan nightclub.” 

“Oh, that’s a relief,” Qui-gon snapped, rolling his eyes. He didn’t want to know how Rael had such intimate knowledge of the infamous Grellan nightclubs.

“All I’m saying, kid,” Rael’s voice softened as he wrapped an arm around Qui-gon’s bony shoulders, leading him to the full-length mirror standing in the corner of his and Dooku’s shared quarters. “Is that Master Dooku has probably forgotten about about this particular escape tactic.” Rael put a finger to his chin, glancing to the ceiling in thought. “It was twelve years ago.”

Qui-gon frowned, his own confused expression staring back at him in the polished glass. The boy - man - seemed a stranger, wrapped in a long, velvet-trimmed robe, his tunics a darker shade of his customary beige, pressed, absent the usual dark soil spots and off-green streaks that so infuriated his Master. He looked…well, respectable. 

He was fifteen now, had been Master Dooku’s Padawan for just over three years. He had also had the dubious honor of keeping Rael Averross’s occasional company for almost as long. 

“Rael, it’s the opera, not the Citadel. Why do I need an escape tactic?” Qui-gon gestured with the flask in his hand, liquid sloshing against its container. “And if I’m not to drink this, then what in Nine Corellian Hells am I supposed to do with it?”

“I don’t know, kid, you’re a Jedi. You’ll figure it out,” Rael shrugged, pushing wavy black hair from his face. He cocked a crooked smile in Qui-gon’s direction, ruffling his short, spiky hair. 

“Make your exit after the first intermission, but not too close to the start of the second act. Did that one too many times and Dooku’s cottoned on to it.” Rael began to push Qui-gon towards the door, ignoring the boy’s stammered protests. “Now get outta here before he gets suspicious.”

Qui-gon gaped from the other side of the threshold. “Rael!”

But the door only closed with a final whoosh, leaving a very confused Qui-gon Jinn in an empty Temple corridor, battered container of Rodian gin in hand. 

What in the galaxy was that all about? It was the opera. Not just opera, but a Serennian opera. Truth be told, Qui-gon wasn’t much one for the more prestigious arts, not like his Master was, at least. But he had learned to keep those opinions secret after spending two weeks dusting and reorganizing Master Dooku’s extensive holoart book collection, a consequence of expressing his opinion at an exhibition of Tuerrilian landscapes that all the paintings “looked like the same smashball field with the goalposts removed.”

But this would be different, this wouldn’t be a bunch of boring green lawns perched atop various boring curved, silver architectures. This was a story about Serenno. Yes, with large-bodied, multiple-lipped Trellian singers in strange, pointed hats and all, but it was a way to get to know his Master better, learn something new about him, about his planet. 

Behind Qui-gon, the door to Dooku’s quarters opened halfway. “Oh, and kid?” Rael called down the hall. “Say hi to Brigindia the Breadthful and Hagvor the Hu - “ Rael clicked his tongue, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks flushing. “Anyway, tell ’em Rael Averross sends his regards if you happen to leave by the stage door exit,” he finished, sly smile spreading across his face.

—-

Knock knock knock.

Rael looked up from his holobook, tapping the bookmark button as he glanced at his chrono. 

Not bad, kid, he thought, giving his arms a long stretch before leaving the comfort of Dooku’s plush arm chair. He stopped in the pantry before answering the door, pouring two cups of cold, Nemishian tea.

“So you got out,” Rael said as greeting. “Record time, too.”

Qui-gon pushed past the older Jedi, a flurry of wrinkled fabric and frustration, the faint odor of burnt Ceylla wood drifting from his robes. He made a series of aborted half-circles, like a jittery, indecisive Lothcat before Rael took pity on him and led him to the sofa, pushing a glass of the Nemishian tea into his hand.

The young Jedi sat, unmoving, for a good minute, eyes wide as he seemed to replay every last event of the past three hours in excruciating detail. Rael took his own glass, downing half of it in one go, giving a satisfied smack of his lips. Dooku always did have better provisions than the Jedi commissary, a way of enticing wayward Padawans out of mealtime trouble and sometimes extracting an extra hour’s work out of them.

“It was terrible, Rael,” Qui-gon finally spoke, eyes still wide, voice somewhat haunted.

Rael laughed, slapping his thigh as he sat back in Dooku’s armchair, extending his legs long, his ankles crossed. “C’mon. It couldn’t have been that bad,” Rael teased. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Five of them, actually,” Qui-gon murmured, taking a sip of his tea. The drink seemed to restore some of the color to his pallid face. “Each with a thirty-minute aria.”

“Ah, The Fall of the House of Carellic.” Rael grinned. “A classic.”

Qui-gon’s eyes widened, as he nearly dropped his glass. “You mean he’s seen this one before?”

“It cycles in every seven years or so,” Rael answered. “I imagine at this point Master Dooku has it memorized.”

“But then why,” Qui-gon’s voice rose, “did he give me a three-hour running commentary of everything wrong with its portrayal of Serennian culture if he knows it so well?”

“That, my young friend,” Rael drawled, eyes tightening with barely restrained laughter. “Is all part of the experience. Now,” he leaned forward, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “How’d you escape?”

The corner of Qui-gon’s mouth quirked upwards. “Spilled your paint stripper on the mezzanine-level bar. Was a real shame everyone knows the Senator from Gorrusk likes to smoke indoors, although I think both his outfit and pride will recover from the mishap.“

“And being the dutiful Padawan you are,” Rael continued, grinning, “of course you volunteered to accompany the poor Senator to the on-site healer, ensuring your Master would not have his night interrupted.” Rael tutted. “It’s just a damned shame there was so much paperwork to fill out.”

Qui-gon raised his glass in Rael’s direction. “Takes forever, really.”

Rael nodded, raising his own glass in salute. “Not too shabby, kid.”

The two Jedi sat in contented silence for a few moments, the adrenaline rush of Qui-gon’s frantic escape finally waning, the younger man’s head slowly tilting downwards, his eyes closing. A minute later, Rael heard a soft snore emanate from the pile of tunics sprawled on the couch. 

Chuckling, Rael stood, collecting both glasses, pulling Qui-gon’s long legs fully onto the couch, boots and all, covering him with a soft blanket plucked from a nearby closet. Dooku could snipe at Rael later for letting his Padawan desecrate his furniture in such a manner. He wouldn’t be back for at least another five hours anyway.

Qui-gon was going to be one of the good ones, Rael thought. Still needed to loosen up a little bit - Dooku had him scared to rights most of the time, but he’d learn soon enough that his old Master was just as much bark as bite - at least, most of the time. 

Fifteen years and Dooku has never gotten anyone to sit through the entirety of one of those Force-forsaken circuses. Rael had never been sure why he insisted on the charade every year - Dooku had to know full well his Padawans were sneaking off. Hell, even the other Jedi Masters always seemed to find a polite excuse to avoid Dooku’s yearly invitations to the opera, Master Windu going as far as claiming he needed to “shave his head and was busy that night and all the other nights the act was in town.”

Force help all of us the day he finds some kid willing to sit through that schlop. They’d probably end up being more terrifying than Dooku himself.

—-

“Master,” Obi-wan Kenobi gave a series of gentle raps on the door to Qui-gon’s room. 

Qui-gon peered his eyes open, squinting at the bright morning sun shining through the small gap in his curtains. Morning already?

“Obi-wan, come in,” Qui-gon groaned, voice still full of sleep. “How was the opera?” he asked, suddenly remembering where his Padawan had been last night, shuttled away in a familiar velvet-trimmed robe by his old Master. 

Qui-gon felt a pang of disappointment. He had hoped his Padawan would come to him after making his escape, would share in his escapades with Qui-gon over a glass of Nemishian tea, that they would laugh like two younglings as he and Rael had every year until Qui-gon’s Knighting.

But like most other parts of their partnership, this, too, Obi-wan seemed to approach with cool, measured detachment. 

Obi-wan brightened at the question, however, pulling out a crisp holoprogram from his robes. “It was delightful, Master! Master Dooku and I had a splendid time. He even treated me to a Drynarian spiced wine during the second intermission.”

Qui-gon gaped at his student, certain he had heard him incorrectly. His eyes flitted to the cover of the holoprogram - The Fall of the House of Carellic - emblazoned in regal Aurebesh and Serennian script. 

“You - you stayed?”

Obi-wan furrowed his brow. “Of course, Master. Granted, the opera as a whole was a bit bloated, the singers past their prime - Brigindia the Breadthful’s range didn’t quite match up to her alias and Hagvor the Hu - “ Obi-wan hissed, his cheeks flushing red. “Well, Master Dooku said that wasn’t really his name, that it was a ‘improper moniker bestowed upon a great artist for base reasons.’ I didn’t ask after it, but he was alright, as tenors go.”

“But Padawan, the letter-opener I gave you - “ Qui-gon stammered. Not that he had expected Obi-wan to stab anybody with it in an attempt to escape the opera, far from it. But he had thought - Qui-gon let out a breath - hell, he didn’t know - maybe rip a curtain or sabotage some official’s clothing? 

“Oh yes, that was quite useful Master, thank you,” Obi-wan beamed. “The packaging on those meiloorun pastries can rather difficult.”

Qui-gon nodded dumbly at his Padawan. 

“Oh, before I forget, Master, this is for you, from Master Dooku.” Obi-wan held out a flimsi, folded in half, Qui-gon’s name printed in familiar, elegant script. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a shower and a short nap before the day begins.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Padawan,” Qui-gon said, distracted, not bothering to close the door as Obi-wan hopped out of the room.

With no small degree of trepidation, Qui-gon opened the note.

“Qui-gon - 

I would like to thank you for allowing me to borrow your charge for the evening. It is rare to encounter a young mind with such intellect, curiosity, and, shall I say, an inherent sense of taste and propriety. I find myself wanting to repeat the experience, if Obi-wan (and you) should be open to it. 

As for your letter-opener, I am disappointed that you would arm your student with such an unimaginative weapon. I would say that next year you should confer with Rael in the matter, but I do believe that will not be necessary, given Obi-wan’s sincere enthusiasm throughout the evening. Senator Rembran of Gorrusk sends his regards to you, as he does every year. Ever since the incident at the bar, he has been convinced of the Jedi’s importance in the Republic, so I must thank you for the unintended repercussion of your clumsy sabotage those years ago.

Brigindia and Hagvor also send their regards to Rael. I do hope you didn’t share the mortifying origins of Hagvor’s colorful moniker with your student. He has yet to encounter Rael Averross in person, and I would prefer he and Obi-wan to meet without any prurient preconceptions, as Rael is a good, if infuriating man. How he remains my former pupil is still one of the great mysteries of the galaxy.

Finally, I would like to extend an invitation for you to join me (and Obi-wan, again, if it is to be allowed) for next year’s production of The Sentinel’s Progress, which has not been staged in over a millenia. I am told it is a most inaccurate depiction of our ancient Serennian culture and I would be glad to share my thoughts with you and your Padawan. Of course, if you feel the need to come armed with a letter-opener, you need but slip the blade through Madame Tursky’s silver gown-train. Rumor has it she is most protective of her honor and can be seen hovering near the mezzanine-level bar like a drunken hawkbat at most intermissions. 

Until then, Padawan. And may the Force be with you.

             —Best Regards,

                    Yan Dooku”

Day 5 of Codyan week -  Morning After (alt. art prompt)

Happy birthday @hoodedmiho and thank you so much for introducing me to this ship! <3

Obi-Wan Kenobi fought with three different lightsabers during his lifetime. His first two lightsabers, which he used as a Padawan and a Jedi Knight, were almost identical in design. After attaining the rank of Jedi Master, he constructed his third lightsaber and used it until he sacrificed his life on the Death Star. Each lightsaber always had a blue plasma blade.

Reblog this if you ship C-3PO x R2-D2, the tag is barren and I feel alone

Y’all mind if I Fordo Concept Art?

Nautolan feet v2.0

I can’t find it now, but I really didn’t like my previous attempt to draw decent swimming feet for them in 2019, so here’s version 2: T-Rex frog edition.

There ARE shoes for Nautolans, but most prefer to go without or with simple foot wraps. And whether or not they blunt their claws is up to personal preference, but it’s more common for off-world Nautolans to do so.

here’s my worldbuilding hot take for the day: the whole “Miraluka veils” thing is not, in fact, an artifact of their own culture (because that makes no sense to me whatsoever), and came about solely because other species are so often unnerved by their lack of eyes.

Miraluka as a whole started hiding their vestigial empty sockets in order to facilitate relations with other species, since it turned out to be an easier solution than just telling the entire rest of the galaxy “get over it.” There are, however, groups of Miraluka that do in fact refuse to wear such garments out of defiance for often-Human-centric norms, as a borderline-political statement to challenge the idea that one should try to appear as “Human-passing” as possible just because other species won’t make an effort to move past their biases. Such groups are contentious in some areas, and largely ignored in others.

In private, among other Miraluka, and oftentimes among friends, Miraluka will frequently remove the veils/masks for comfort. The rare non-Miraluka individual who visits Alpheridies is often shocked and unsettled to realize that the veils/masks are a courtesy to other species which is usually discarded on Miraluka-dominant worlds and ships, and is forced to either adapt to a sea of eyeless faces or end up leaving the planet.

(Supplemental headcanon: Miraluka clothing, architecture, etc. often seems incredibly bland and boring to sighted species - because it’s not crafted with sight in mind. Dyes and paints are a completely foreign concept to Miraluka. Art and decoration is instead based largely on texture and shape, and clothing is primarily functional (warmth, physical support, carrying items, etc.) with the texture and weight of a textile valued instead of its color.)

Do you have any Mirialan headcanons?

OH BOY DO I!!!

Ok… ok I can do this. I apologize, this is my first anon and I’m a little beside myself with excitement right now.

Ok, Mirialans.

Canon says they’re a near-human species, and other than some weird colored skin and tats, the only inhuman thing they have is their flexibility and agility. Their home world, Mirial, is cold and dry. Their geometric tattoos are usually done after some sort of personal achievement, which I personally read as a ‘right of passage’ sort of thing.

So, they come in yellow, green, and pink, and other than their skin color, their tattoos are their most notable attributes.

Personally, their tattoos always looked to me like the sort of patterns you’d see on a snake. I mean, I live in the American southwest, this is prime rattlesnake territory, and several of the tattoo designs you see in SWTOR look just like that. Yellow, and green are pretty common colors in snakes, and I dare you to find me an animal that better fits their ‘super flexible’ attribute.

So Mirialans are snake people.

More specifically, they are a reptomammalian species that resemble humans through convergent evolution.  As reptomammals, they possess both reptilian and mammalian characteristics. The way I saw it explained with Tauntauns, Mirialans are covered from head to toe in scales, and certain scales grow hair, say on their heads and faces.

Unlike humans, they don’t have body hair. Men can have beards, but that is usually due to having some human in their ancestry.

Their body can regulate its temperature, but not quite as well as a full mammal, so they generally run very cold compared to humans and they tend to suffer more in extreme heat.

Depending on what region of Mirial their ancestors come from, their scales can be thicker and rougher, or smaller and smooth. They do not have any natural patterning to their scales, but it is fairly common to have their palest scales on the chest and belly and the darkest at their spine. However, long ago their ancestors did have scale patterns, and so that is where their tattoo designs came from.

Having evolved on a cold planet, and being omnivorous, they needed to bring their prey down quickly to avoid expending precious heat and energy chasing it down, thus their ancestors were venomous. And unlike the scale patterns, they kept the venom. Their incisors are sharper than a human’s and they have a set of upper and lower fangs. Like snakes, their upper fangs are hollow and they have a pair of venom glands situated just beneath their cheekbones. They can open their mouths well beyond a human’s range of movement, and at full flexion, the muscles surrounding the glands squeeze the venom down and out the tips of the fangs. The venom itself is fatal to anything smaller than a medium sized child and is composed of a mix of neurotoxin and hemotoxin.

The neurotoxin causes localized paralysis, making it difficult for a victim to flee, and if it’s small enough, respiritory failure. The hemotoxin destroys red blood cells and makes clotting difficult, but mostly it’s there to cause pain and hopefully shock to the victim. Left untreated, a Mirialan bite can cause days of agony and permanent organ damage to an adult. Common poison antidotes can alleviate the paralysis and prevent any organ damage, but little can be done about the pain.

A general Mirialan antivenom exists and can stop the majority of the toxin, but only antivenom made from the offending Mirialan or related family members, will fully counteract it. It’s because of this that more responsible individuals carry personalized antivenom. Still, in this day and age of blasters and thermal detonators, you have to have majorly fucked up for a Mirialan to bite you.

They have good senses of smell, and average vision and hearing, but like snakes, they are able to ‘see’ in infrared. Its like someone turned up the color saturation on hot objects and they practically glow in the dark.

They’re from a largely matriarchal society, and if you want those sweet sweet tats, you need to complete a sort of coming of age feat. The feat in question is often tailor made to each individual to test their strength. Ex. A girl who likes hunting could be asked to go kill a certain tough critter, or guy who likes science could be asked to write a dissertation in his field. Basically something that was a challenge but not impossible

The facial tattoos were the ones they had to earn, but body tattoos were just for decoration, like any other species. Although it is common for those with facial tattoos to have that pattern repeated or expanded upon on the rest of their body.

Oh.

And a Mirialan man’s dick is held inside his body and only comes out when it’s party time.

Aaaaand I think that’s it. If I think of anything else major I’ll try to post it. 

Thank you so much for your question!

yes I made a floor plan for Din’s new ship in oh the things we left behind, no I do not have any other reason except I fucking love floor plans thank u

it’s a kom'rk class fighter/transport - this thing:

base floor plan found here

Keep reading

The entry on mandoa.org for the adoption vow really is, honestly, fucking hilarious.

"Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad."

The website helpfully provides the translation: "I know your name as my child." Except... that's not what that quote means.

That's a typo.

The actual vow is:

"Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad."

Kar'tayl comes from kar'taylir (and thus, since it's a verb, its use in the vow should actually be conjugated as "kar'tayli", rather than using the noun version, but I digress) which... broadly means "to know."

Specifically, though, it means "to hold in one's heart."

"I hold in my heart your name as my child."

Awww, so poetic, so romantic, isn't that lovely, isn't it just so sweet?... Oh, but what does the typo turn it into, you ask?

A little less sweet, I'm afraid. You see, the problem is that one letter. That one little oopsie-daisy. An "a" into a "y", what a silly little mix-up.

Unfortunately, the word "kyr" in Mando'a means "end." Typically in the most final of ways.

Yep, the very fatal mistake in changing the first word from "kar" (heart) to "kyr" (death) is that when combined with "taylir" (to hold, to keep, to preserve) it suddenly becomes rather more sinister. To know something in death.

"I hold in death your name as my child."

Which is an altogether different kind of vow, don't you think?

Clone mom Shaak Ti requested by @lindsaygallof

I really want to emphasize the slightly ridiculous timeline of Bruce taking in children and how funny this has the potential to be re:Dick being the eldest, because I think it's really important that people understand that Bruce basically only has Dick around for like...11-12 years. Dick formally moves out when he's around 19 or 20, and roughly six months to a year later, Bruce picks Jason up. Dick and Jason never live in the same house at the same time, and three years later, Jason dies. So he gets 2 kids over a 15 (ish) year period, which doesn't sound too ridiculous, right?

Except then his adoption tendencies accelerate, because he picks up Tim and Cass within 2 years of each other (and Steph came as a package deal with both of them) and then finds out about Damian 2-3 years after that. Then we've got Duke, who (when you vaguely fit together timelines) enters stage left about 2-3 years after Damian.

So after a 15-year period with two kids, Bruce manages to pick up 4 1/2 others (counting Steph) within the 7-8 years afterwards. The sheer missed comedic potential of Dick being a grown-ass adult and then his dad decides to adopt a pack of kids within 5 years of him moving out is incredible. Dick went from being essentially an only child for his entire life to being eldest of 6, only one of which he's ever actually lived in the same house with, all because Bruce got Empty Nest Syndrome and went "well I raised one child to adulthood successfully. What's another 5 or 6 at the same time?"

Hope the words come back to you. If it sparks any interest, QuinObi where Quinlan had to save Obi-Wan after being captured. Maybe the aftermath of that? Good luck!

“Quinlan,” Obi-Wan says, all polite surprise and social grace, like they're meeting in the halls of the Temple and not a desolate moon in the middle of Hutt space. “You found me.”

Quinlan rolls his eyes, dropping the guard whose handprint he used to get through the scanner. “Why do you sound so surprised?” he retorts. “You're the one who kept leaving bloody clothes everywhere, asshole.”

“There's no need for name-calling, Quin,” Obi-Wan reproves, like he didn’t know precisely how much of a heart attack it would give Quinlan to trip over the first bloody shirt rag and see visions of Obi-Wan being kriffing beaten. “And I was operating under the assumption that you would take the information I provided to the Council, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Quinlan echoes, a little grim, and ignites his lightsaber. Eyes the bars for half a second, then sweeps it down hard, right through the metal, and kicks the door open. “You thought I could watch them kick you around seventeen times and not come right for your sorry ass? It’s like you don’t even know me, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan looks politely disgruntled through the two black eyes he’s sporting, but he still hasn’t stood up. “Quinlan, finding the syndicate’s backer is more important—”

Quinlan gives him his best smirk. “Lucky for me that Anakin was around, then, huh? All I had to do was point him in the right direction, pretend I thought you were dying, and let him go. That commander of yours, too.”

It’s a little satisfying to watch Obi-Wan go pale around all the bruises. “Quinlan Vos, you used my padawan as a wrecking ball—”

“More of a laser-guided missile,” Quinlan says, unrepentant, and crouches down in front of Obi-Wan, reaching up. The ysalamiri around his neck doesn’t look like it’s doing all the much better than Obi-Wan; its fur is dull, eyes clouded, and when Quinlan picks it up he can feel its faltering heartbeat. The Force-bubble it projects keeps him from picking up any hint of its past through its skin, and he’s glad for that. Can't do anything but stroke it lightly as the last few heartbeats fade, trying to offer a little warmth in the cold of space, and then carefully, gently sets it aside, brushing his fingers over its fur one last time as the sense of the Force trickles back.

When he looks up, Obi-Wan is watching him with an odd softness on his battered face, red hair in his eyes and mouth twisted in something that’s almost a smile. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Quinlan doesn’t push. Doesn’t really want to know what Obi-Wan is thinking right now, honestly, because it’s never what he wants but it always manages to be too clear all the same.

“You're an idiot,” he says instead, and brings his lightsaber up, then around, and slices through the chain holding Obi-Wan’s hands above his head. He shuts it off as Obi-Wan hisses, and leans forward, catching his elbows before he can pull his arms all the way down. “Easy. You know what muscle strain is.”

“Yes, well, forgive me for not wanting to be chained to the wall any longer,” Obi-Wan says, vaguely annoyed, but his breath catches painfully as Quinlan digs his fingers into sore muscles. He can't do much in the way of healing, but Aayla pulled enough muscles when she was a kid that he knows this. A little heat, a little easing of muscles that have locked up, and Obi-Wan groans a moment later, slumping back against the wall as his eyes slide shut.

“You have magic hands, Quinlan,” he says, and sighs in relief. “Please, never stop.”

“Normally I'm the one saying that,” Quinlan teases, and snickers when Obi-Wan’s boot thumps against the outside of his thigh in silent reproach. Carefully, he eases Obi-Wan’s hands down into his lap, then tips his chin to the side, checking the lump on the side of his head. “Let me guess, you mouthed off and got your skull bounced off something solid?”

“I never mouth off,” Obi-Wan lies with perfect dignity. “I offered an opinion they were inclined to disagree with, and they retaliated with excessive force.”

“You sassed them and got your ass kicked for it,” Quinlan translates. He remembers their missions as padawans, even if Obi-Wan tries to pretend he doesn’t. “Aren’t you supposed to be the diplomatic one?”

“I'm certainly more diplomatic than you,” Obi-Wan shoots back, and opens his eyes. For a moment, he just stares at Quinlan, gaze steady, thoughtful. Then, slowly, he lifts his hands with a faint wince to cup Quinlan's face.

“I'm astonished that you found me, Quin,” he confesses quietly.

Quinlan turns his head, can't physically resist the urge to lay a kiss against Obi-Wan’s palm. “Like anything was going to stop me once I realized,” he counters.

Obi-Wan snorts. His thumbs smooth along Quinlan’s qukuuf, heavy against the golden tattoos, and—

Obi-Wan’s not the type of person who will ever ask for something for himself. Quinlan's known that since they were kids. It’s always a little annoying, especially combined with Obi-Wan’s inability to realize that he deserves nice things, but usually Quinlan can roll his eyes and deal with it and not push. Pushing Obi-Wan is like trying to push a mountain, after all.

Right now, though, Quinlan's tired. He’s coming off a solid week of limited sleep, having to see images of Obi-Wan getting his face pounded in over and over again as he tried to track the syndicate members. The sight of Obi-Wan in the cell was both gutting and the greatest relief he’s felt since finding Aayla in her uncle’s possession, and he physically can't stop himself from reaching out right now. He grabs Obi-Wan, wraps his arms around him and hauls him in to a tight hug, burying his face in coppery hair with a huff.

“Kriff, Obi-Wan,” he mutters. “If you could not make me think you're dead for at least a month, I’d appreciate it.”

There's a pause, startled, and then a heavy breath against his cheek. Obi-Wan’s hand comes up, fisting tight in his dreadlocks, and he wraps his other arm around Quinlan's back, clutching at him in a way he hasn’t since he got back from Naboo with a new padawan, a new Knighthood, and a new grief in his eyes.

“Careful, Quin,” he says, for once a little less than perfectly composed. “Someone might come to the conclusion that you're not the wild, emotionally unavailable free love enthusiast you pretend to be.”

“Did you just call me a slut in flowery language?” Quinlan asks, grinning. “I think I'm obligated to dump you in a sand pit for that.”

“If that’s what you choose to take away from my words, I suppose I can't stop you,” Obi-Wan says airily, but he still hasn’t let go.

Quinlan turns his head, presses a light kiss to Obi-Wan’s collarbone. Gets a flicker of the past, quick and gutting, of Obi-Wan sitting beside him in a dingy bar, Quinlan practically draped over his lap, Obi-Wan’s fingers in his hair. Not one of Quinlan's memories, even if it’s the moment he looked up at Obi-Wan’s face and realized instantly, achingly, that he was in love, but—

Obi-Wan’s memory of the same moment, and an overwhelming sort of fondness, sweet and warm in his chest as he played with the beads in Quinlan's locs.

“Idiot,” he manages, even though it’s hard to get the word out. “I thought—”

Obi-Wan snorts, pulling back, and he touches the qukuuf again, then slides his hands up, fists them in Quinlan's hair. “Apparently I'm not the only idiot here,” he drawls, raising a judgmental eyebrow at Quinlan.

There's no response Quinlan can possibly give except kissing that stupid smirk right off his face. 

Freemor/Alpha-17 fluff whit alpha loving his jedi

The weight against his side is sun-warm, there are gentle breaths against his collarbone, and Alpha has his blaster resting on his knee, ready to shoot the first idiot who thinks about making a smart comment and waking his Jedi.

And if that doesn’t work, the fact that he’s spinning his favorite knife between his fingers should probably get the message across nicely.

Rex, who was never one of Alpha's trainees, apparently nevertheless has more brains than most, given the way he’s keeping his head down and very determinedly not looking anywhere even close to Alpha, even when Feemor shifts and stirs. Alpha doesn’t bother moving from the chair he claimed, even though it’s probably supposed to belong to the planet’s king; the old bastard can eat bantha shit for all Alpha cares, because it’s a huge, pretentious thing, and just about the only chair in existence that he’s ever found that’s big enough for both him and Feemor to share. And it’s nice, having Feemor curled against his side, legs hooked over one of Alpha's knees, fast asleep like at Alpha's side is the safest place to be in the universe.

Entirely pleased with himself, Alpha curls his arm a little more tightly over Feemor's shoulder, resettling him against his chest, and Feemor hums, drowsy and exhausted and content. It makes Alpha press a lingering kiss to his bright hair, then smooth a thumb over the edge of a sapphire-blue tattoo he can just see through a rip in the shoulder of Feemor's robes. He idly rolls the knife over the top of his hand, rests his cheek against the top of Feemor's head—

With a clatter of entirely unacceptable noise, the door slides open, and Alpha's least favorite trainee ever says loudly, “—get karked, Wolffe, we’re not staging a ground operation just to soothe your ego—”

Rex's head jerks up, horror flashing over his face as he signs abort abort abort with increasing desperation. Alpha knew he liked the little brat for a reason.

“It’s not about my ego, it’s about routing the damn Seps—” Alpha's other least favorite trainee says just as loudly—

Alpha's knife buries itself in the edge of the holotable, two precise centimeters from Cody's hand.

“Voices. Down.” Alpha bites out as Cody and Wolffe both freeze, their gazes snapping right to him. Mildly murderous, Alpha scowls at the pair of them, stroking Feemor's shoulder with soothing passes of his knuckles, and dares either brat to test him.

Much more quietly, Cody clears his throat, sidestepping carefully as he eyes the blaster resting on Alpha's knee. “Sorry, sir,” he says, barely audible, and Wolffe swallows, nods, and keeps his damned mouth shut, just the way it should be.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Alpha sinks back into the chair, and when Feemor stirs he immediately turns to resettling him. “Easy,” he says. “Just go back to sleep, you're going to get your idiot self killed one of these days if you keep not sleeping.”

Feemor huffs, but sinks back down, one of his hands skimming Alpha's chest in a clumsy brush that trickles his gratitude and love through Alpha's mind. “Be nice,” he mutters, but his breathing is already evening out again, and Alpha snorts softly, kissing his forehead. It’s only partially because Cody and Wolffe are both staring at him like they’ve never seen a bastard in love before.

“Never,” he says, and catches Feemor's hand in his own.

[On AO3]

In response to why Obi-Wan is losing armour during the course of the war (now that i've been released from captivity):

The suicidal ideations theory: Obi-Wan is slowly losing his armor during the course of the war because he is getting more careless with his life since he is losing the will to live. -- The loss of armour symbolises the decline of his mental health.

The practicality theory: Obi-Wan is losing armour beause as the war drags on he simply does not have the time to deal with the logistics of wearing armour. He is simply cutting back the time he would spend on maintenance + putting it on/taking it off + storing it. -- The loss of armour symbolises increasing urgency.

The martyr theory: Obi-Wan is tired of changing his fighting style to accommodate the extra weight and restrictions. He is prioritizing speed (which in the case of his preferred lightsaber style, Soresu, means acting as a human shield) over his own protection. -- The loss of armour symbolises his desire to protect others at the cost of his own safety.

The identity theory: He is losing his armour in protest because he feels like his duties as a soldier are in contradiction with his Jedi lifestyle. The armour, or rather what it represents, conflicts with his principles. -- The loss of armour symbolises his reaffirmance of his Jedi identity.

The aesthetic theory: It just isn't his look. -- The loss of armour symbolises Obi-Wan's status as a bimbo.

I’m in the middle of watching Citadel Rescue (03x20) and can we just give a hand to the clone who got to ride Obi-Wan Kenobi. Henceforth he shall be known as Rhyder, since he wasn’t given a name. I’m pretty sure Rhyder survived, and I like to think that this moment gave him bragging rights for the rest of his life.

LIKE

GUYS

Imagine him bragging about it...to poor Commander Cody!!!

Star Wars AU where everything is the same except Anakin converses with himself when he’s about to do something dark-sidey like Gollum from Lord of the Rings.

Just—

Imagine—

Anakin, squatting on the floor while rubbing hands together: The Jedi are wicked, tricksy, false!

Anakin, in softer voice: No, not Master! Not Obi-Wan!

Anakin, growling and getting spit everywhere: Yes, precious… false! Obi-Wan will cheat you, hurt you, lie!

Anakin, whimpering: But Obi-Wan is my friend!

Anakin, growling again: You don’t have any friends! Nobody likes you!

Obi-Wan, yelling in exasperation from the other room: Anakin, dear, I promise I’m not trying to trick you, I just want to know what you want for dinner tonight!

Han is all “there’s to much Vader in him,” without mentioning that there is too much Vader in Leia too. 

Like, Bail Organa, bless his poor poor soul, tried to politician the Vader out of her. He tried SO FUCKING HARD. 

But the fact that she abandoned politics to be a General in the Resistance says a lot about her similarities to Anakin Skywalker. 

I recently came out to my mother's side of the family who are majority conservative christians and it went much better than I expected. Like, they were weirdly supportive. I only got one comment insinuating that I might possibly be going to hell but it came from my aunt and she's dying soon anyway so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Anyway, I'm telling them how shocked I am and that I honestly thought that they'd have more of a problem with it when my grandma is like "Well you know we've been through this before with your uncle Nicky" and I'm like "what" and so it turns out that my uncle Nick was born a Natalie, came out as a boy at 19, and my great grandma proceeded to pay for his top surgery and hormone therapy. In 1974. And I just had to process for a bit because my entire life no one has referred to him as anything other than he/him and his chosen name. I ask why no one ever thought to mention this and they're just like "tbh we forgot. It's been so long that he's been a man" This man is married. He has a wife and three kids. I ask my relatives how they went about having kids, whether through adoption or sperm donor or what and none of them know. Apparently he just told everyone that they were gonna be parents and then one day showed up at my grandma's house with a baby. No questions were asked. Just. He and his wife had a baby now and that was that. Three times. Weeks later when I finally talk to my aunt Sarah (Nick's wife) all she tells me is that neither of them have ever been pregnant and, I quote, "sometimes you just come into children". She phrased it like people use the phrase "come into money". Like children are something that just happens to you. I ask my relatives if any of them had a problem with Nick being trans at the time, saying I'd understand if they had negative feelings about it, as it was the 1970s after all. They were like "nope" and i was just like "you didn't think anything of it?" And my grandfather was like "these things happen" while the other adults nodded sagely. So I guess the moral here is that if my conservative christian relatives could accept my uncle as trans in the 1970s then there really isn't any excuse for anyone. And also my family needs to ask more questions because I'm fairly sure my aunt and uncle stole their kids.

I'm laughing my ass off at that last sentence- But I'm so glad your coming out went well! That's one heck of a way to find out you have LGBT relatives.

This is a Captain Howzer stan account

Mandalorian Gear, a basic guide

Mandalorian gear comes in quite a few variations, and it can vary based on things like era, clan, status and taste of the wearer. There are, however, some basics that can be helpful to understand how it all fits together. Let’s start with the soft parts, part 1:

Flightsuit

A normally one piece suit that goes over underwear and stuff like thermals, and the like. We do see characters in partial ones, like Sabine Wren, however considering she was a teenager on the run & that she later acquired one would perhaps indicate that it was not a choice but rather out of necessity.

There are several variations of flightsuits, but the basic types we see are the classic Boba Fett based type with extra sleeves & a type that is more like the stormtrooper/clone trooper undersuits/blacks and equally tightly fitted.

Bo-Katan for example wears the first type in live action, but the second type in animation. (Also of note is that the blacks type has so far only been worn by female characters. Gee, I wonder why.)

Materials

Fabrics, like a cotton twill or denim for the Boba Fett style suit. Softshell, strechy fabrics & thicker athletic wear like for the blacks type suit.

Visual References

Here’s concept art of Sabine Wren in the two main types, blacks type to the left and in the middle with a flak vest. Boba Fett style to the right with a flak vest:

Boba Fett (OT):

Flak Vest

Flak vests come in a myriad of variations. Normally made out of a tough material that you use to attach you chest, back & neck pieces too. Sometimes the shoulder pieces as well, depending on the type. In The Mandalorian most mandos seem to favor variations of the sleeveless vest type.

Materials

Heavy duty fabrics, quilted fabrics, canvas, leather, rubberised cloth, etc.

Visual References

Bo-Katan in a t-shirt style flak vest over a blacks type flight suit & Bo-katan in a vest type flak vest with leather reinforced shoulders & a Fett style flightsuit:

Boba Fett in his OT flak vest (sandy color vest type with flaps to attach shoulder armor to) & Boba Fett in his new flak vest (black with pleated shoulders that stick out over his armor, shoulder armor attached to sleeves that on close inspection appears to be pleated as well and attached to the flak vest, so far this style is unique to him):

Jango Fett, wearing a leather or rubbery looking flak vest with attached flaps for shoulder armor & a blue Fett style flightsuit:

(Interestingly during the empire era several female mandos switch to a style with no flak vest, notably Clan Wren, while Bo-Katan favors what looks like black leather like material in a t-shirt shape that might simply be a part of her flightsuit, but concept art implies it’s a separate piece. This might simply be because of the sleek look of Rebels animation)

Boots

Round or square toed. Work boots, ankle boots, tall boots. Chunky soles, often covered with spats and/or armor.

Materials

Leather or leatherlike, spats material can vary.

Visual References

From left to right, from the top: Din Djarin (altered light brown chelsea boots with brown spats), Boba Fett OT (chelsea boots with spikes, worn greyish black), Fenn Rau (black with blue spats), Sabine Ren (tall black boots with slight chunky heel), Bo-Katan Kryze TCW (ankle high black combat boots, chunky sole), Ursa Wren (brown, grey spats)

Koska Reeves and Axe Woves, both are wearing dark brown ankle boots covered in spats made of a leather like material.

Gloves

Combat gloves, leather gloves, fingerless gloves. Usually with a handplate. At least long enough to hide edge under the bracers.

Visual Reference

Part 2, armor. Coming…. whenever I have the time. 

Mandalorian Armor, a simple guide

Oh dear. Several months late, but here we go. This will be a broad term overview of mando armor in canon at the moment, not an exhaustive list. Feel free to skip “materials & history” if you’d just like some more concrete guidelines and refs! 

(Remember to click on the images for a better look!)

Material & History

A Small Intro Course

Mandalorian armor is supposed to be made out of beskar, an alloy (and yes all beskar is an alloy in disney canon (at least as of May 2021), like steel for example. Yes even “pure” beskar). The secrets of how to make it is limited to the Mandalorians, and the materials used to make it are most likely limited to Mandalore or the Mandalore system. It’s been in confirmed use as an armor material for at least 900 years & can take straight blaster bolts or hold off the circulating energy blade of a lightsaber for short periods of time, possibly until the beskar heats up enough to loose its integrity, but the heat would most likely cause serious damage to the wearers body before that.

Beskar armor is most often inherited, passed from generation to generation and reforged to suit the current wearers needs. It’s seen as passing down the history, the battles and the will of those who have worn it before and making it your own. However the material is rare, possibly because the mines have run dry ages ago (old EU), or because war and/or the New Mandalorians stopping production. The Empire interfering by taking over Mandalore and trying to get their hands on as much beskar as possibly and then later “glassing” the planet while hunting its only known creators surely did not help either, in any case.

This means that not all Mandalorians had access to the material, or at least large enough amounts to make a full suit of armor. This lead to the make of “impure” beskar that can take less of a brunt & armor made of other metals such as durasteel. This is most likely what makes up the majority of Din’s kit, beyond the helmet and possibly the chest piece, when he’s introduced in S1 and he still wears pieces that might be one of these materials as of Season 2. 

Characters like Sabine Wren, Bo-Katan Kryze and Boba Fett all inherited their armor from their aliit  (clan/family) through several generations and it’s most likely already pure beskar based on its age and how it reacts to blasterfire.

The armor is most often painted and there are various designs and colors that indicate personality, achievements or allegiances, but that would have to be another post. (Would anyone like a post on Mandalorian armor fashion? Because I have thoughts)

Helmet

Let’s start from the top. The helmet, aka the bucket. The buy’ce.

In the “modern” era it’s usually a helmet with a rounded top and some kind of cheek indents. It has a T (or occasionally closer to a Y) shaped visor that obscures the wearers face. It also contains a large amount of technology that allows for various visual filters, binoculars, built in comms and audio enhancers (allowing for near perfect 360° hearing in the old EU, as possibly shown by Din Djarin in the new), among other things. The earcaps seen on most modern styles of helmet allows for various specialized attachments, like rangefinders.

The styles of the helmets vary between clans and eras, but there’s a few distinct modern bases that are pretty easy to identify as Mandalorian and worn by all major Mandalorian characters. 

The Boba Fett, based on the original helmet as seen in the OT, and worn by basically every male character with various types of cheek indents, ridges and the like. Some are thinner or longer, but the base of the design is still very clearly the OG Boba Fett helmet. T visor, sharp slope indent that takes up the entire cheek, long ear caps & a brow ridge.

Visual Reference

The Nite Owl, based on the helmet worn by Bo-Katan and the Nite Owls in TCW. It has a cat eyed Y visor and a more of a cut out cheek indent style, or simply a less severe smaller curve under the visor ridge (the area painted red on Boba Fett’s helmet). 

Visual Reference

The Kast, is the rarest so far only seen on Rook Kast & the Maul-aligned female Mandalorians. It slopes slightly inwards below the uniquely shaped T visor and has no ear caps.

Visual References

And finally, some mandalorian helmets with slightly more unique shapes and/or shape combinations that put them outside the general easy to identify pile.

From left to right, The Armorer, Paz Vizsla, Pre Vizsla and Fenn Rau:

Chest, Neck, Back & Shoulders

As with everything else, there are various styles for these pieces of armor, but here are some basics.

Breastplate

Most commonly visibly segmented into three big parts, two on the chest and one below, with a small diamond shaped heart piece in the middle. The heart piece design can also been seen on Mandalorian clothing and architecture. In The Mandalorian these parts are generally attached together to give the armor a more solid look, but they are still distinguishable. Before the fall of the empire several female mandos favoured a more solid two part design that interlocked with their neck piece and had a thin rectangular bar instead of a classic heart piece. During the clone wars women of the faction supporting Maul (mostly clan Kast and clan Saxon) used a semi-connected two part design with six smaller pieces trailing down the stomach, three on each side. There are also various other designs with solid one part chest pieces, but most at least have a variation of the heart piece in the middle, as seen on Paz Vizsla. 

The chest piece usually does not go below the navel, for bending over reasons.

Neckplate

Either two pieces on the side of the neck, or a longer single piece that goes in front of the neck & sits over the collarbones. Both of these variations are usually semi connected to, or line up with where the backplate ends.

Shoulders

Bell type, like Din Djarin & Axe Woves wear. The Classic, aka the style worn by Boba Fett, Ursa Wren & most grunts. And finally a slightly rounded middle ground, smaller than the Bell but sits over the shoulder and is often favored by female characters like Bo-Katan, female Mauldalorians & Sabine Wren.

Backplate

Usually as long as the chest piece, used to protect the back and to mount jetpacks, and other useful things, on.

Jetpack

Technically not a piece of armor, but sometimes armored. Comes in various sizes and styles.

Visual References

Vambraces & Handplates

Vambraces

Both forearm protection and weapons. Developed to give a Mandalorian that extra edge when fighting stronger opponents. To that goal, they’re often fitted with various attachments such as flamethrowers, retractable blades, shield emitters, repulsors, grappling lines, magnets, missiles and various types of darts, including the whistling birds seen in The Mandalorian.

Handplates

It’s a plate that goes on your hand. Nothing more, nothing less. Can of course be fitted with various other weapons, as long as they fit.

Visual References

The Codpiece, Buttplate & Hip Plates

Ah yes. Well.

All pieces are usually worn tucked underneath and/or attached to the waist sash/girth belt/belt.

Codpiece

Look, it’s a codpiece. It’s there to protect your sensitive parts. There are less bulky variations for people who can do without the extra space. Those are often segmented. Some wear more of a lower stomach plate. Others don’t bother, or only wear theirs when they might need it since I imagine it can be a bit uncomfortable to wear day to day.

Buttplate

It’s a plate that goes over your butt. And I mean just above, not on. Din has one, Boba has one. It’s a thing. Why? Because bruising you tailbone hurts like hell.

Hip Plates

They’re plates that go on your hips. Only confirmed sighting has been on Din, but we’ve also got some good shots of them because of this so I put them in anyway.

Visual References

Thighs, Knees, Shins, Ankles & Feet

Varies from completely covered to almost no armor at all. On one end you’ve got Jango Fett, and on the other you’ve got Boba Fett. Ironic, in a way.

Thigh plates

Generally sit either on the front of the thigh or on the outer sides. The outward style thigh plates are more form fitting and allow for holsters to be mounted directly onto the plate, this was popular during the Clone Wars era. The front facing plates are often different sizes, possibly depending on your dominant hand/how you prefer to hold your weapon of choice.

Knee armor/pads

For knee protection, unless you’re like Boba Fett, then they’re also dart launchers. In the old EU the darts were laced with neurotoxin, but that seems to have been removed for new canon. Sit nebulously in the knee region.

Shin, Ankle and/or Boot plates

Over your shins, ankles and feet, for all your literal ass kicking needs. Comes in various types including but not limited to: boot caps, ankle plates, shin guards and of course full on greaves.

Visual References

-

So there you have it! A broad overview of Mandalorian armor. This has been in my drafts for months at this point so I’m not going to go over this again so you’ll have to excuse any weird phrasing or misspelt words. And how messy the visual ref sheets got. (I’m also considering putting together something for different eras & allegiances based on design, accessories, paintjobs, etc, but that will have to be another day.)

(Also, feel free to tag me or @ me or whatever on your art! I love seeing the different ways people design their mandos!)

Quick reminder.

CANONICALLY, this is what the Clones look like.

So I don’t EVER wanna hear “the Bad Batch ARENT white washed” EVER AGAIN

BECAUSE THIS

IS NOT THE SAME SKIN TONE AS THIS

They’re having a very serious conversation about Cody’s behaviour (being mean to uncle Ben)

Headcanon that Luke and Obi Wan got the money to pay Han Solo by selling the moisture farm at bargain-basement prices in Anchorhead without telling anyone that it was totally torched, and by the time anyone find out they were well off planet. Luke now has a reputation as one of Tattooine’s most famous con men despite the fact that it was Obi Wan who ran the con.

Could I please request a drabble with Mace meeting Jaster? Time travel shenanigans would be loved and heart-eyed, but are not required.

“A Jedi is hiring a Mandalorian for a job?” Jaster asks, one brow raised, and can't help the thread of incredulity that creeps into his voice. “Perhaps you're confused, Jetii, but our people have been enemies for millennia.”

“I'm well aware,” the Jedi says, unmoving. Jaster has, admittedly, never been quite this close to a Jedi, and he can't help but be faintly impressed at the man’s stoneface, particularly given the bright-eyed Chalactan girl peering around his side. Her hands are hooked into his sash without any apparent fear of being shaken off, or any apparent concern for her Master’s dignity, and Jaster finds himself reluctantly amused despite the man’s temerity.

“Oh?” Jaster asks, leaning back in his chair. His blaster is within easy reach, and the Jedi is far enough away that Jaster has the advantage. “Bold of you to approach me with a job offer, then.”

“Is it?” the man asks, and reaches up, folding his hood back. Jaster stills, startled, because he hadn’t thought there were Korun Jedi—Myles has always been very insistent that the Korun people have their own Force traditions, and outsiders aren’t welcome to step into them. He’s a handsome one, too, tall and broad shouldered, with a lean strength to him that even the loose, comfortable robes can't hide. Steady, he meets Jaster's eyes, and says, low, “It seems to me, Mand’alor, that our status as enemies means no one will suspect me of having hired you.”

Ah, Jaster thinks, smiling. Like that, is it. He hums, then says, “Jango, who don’t you show this lovely padawan the gardens? I'm sure she would like to see them.”

“What?” Jango demands, outraged the way only a fourteen-year-old can be. “Buir, I'm not leaving—”

Jaster levels a pointed look at his son, and his mouth snaps shut. He scowls, deep and affronted, and crosses his arms over his chest. “You shouldn’t be meeting with a Jedi alone,” he says grumpily. “Myles is going to yell at you.”

“Myles will survive,” Jaster says, though it’s likely true. “Master Jedi, I hope you don’t object to speaking privately.”

“Of course not,” the Jedi says, perfectly calm, and glances down at his padawan. “Depa. Be polite.”

That is, Jaster reflects wryly, an incrediblyfamiliar tone of voice. He’s willing to bet the girl gets herself into almost as much trouble as Jango, given how practiced it sounds.

And, on cue, the girl beams up at her Master without hesitation. “I'm always polite, Master Mace,” she protests, perfectly, wickedly innocent. Mace doesn’t answer, just sighs, and Depa laughs, rising up on her tiptoes. She hauls him down, no thought given to dignity, and plants a loud, showy kiss on his cheek, then hops back two steps and turns that smile on Jango, who freezes like he was just dipped in carbonite, his eyes going wide.

She is, Jaster thinks with amusement, a very pretty girl. He wonders how quickly Jango will manage to stick his foot in his mouth this time. Within ten minutes, judging by last time. Jaster doesn’t precisely have high hopes for their interaction, but at least this isn't the daughter of a high-profile client that Jango is going to offend. The Jedi needs them, not the other way around, and given Jedi morals, he likely won't turn to the Death Watch the instant he’s insulted.

“Depa,” Mace says, a warning, but Depa ignores it, grinning at Jango and folding her hands behind her.

“I would love to see the garden,” she says cheerfully. “Jango, was it?”

“Jango Fett,” Jango says, only a little mulishly, and takes a careful step forward, like he’s worried she’s going to bite him. “It’s this way, I guess.”

He couldn’t sound less enthusiastic if he tried. Jaster rather suspects he is.

As the door slides shut behind their two witnesses, though, Jaster's amusement fades slightly, and he turns his gaze on Mace, narrow and thoughtful as he considers the man, his presence on Mandalore, the quiet, entirely understated way he arrived.

“This isn't a mission from the Jedi Order,” he says, weighing. “I might even go so far as to say they have no idea of your presence here.”

“They don’t,” Mace says bluntly. “I'm here on my own business, and acting on information the Jedi Council isn't privy to.” There's a pause, and then a rueful curve just touches one corner of his mouth. “Believe me, Mand’alor. I do not go behind the Council’s back easily. This is vital, and I'm willing to provide the funds to prove it.”

Jaster smiles, a little humorless, a little thin. He’s not fond of being played, and this sounds very much like Mace is trying. “I have plenty of credits, Master Jedi. Why should I find yours any more appealing than anyone else’s?”

Mace doesn’t hesitate this time, just raises his chin. “Because I have something that is far more valuable than credits,” he says calmly. “I can provide you with information.”

It is, Jaster will admit, a tempting prospect, but he’s still wary. “Jedi information? Access to the Archives, perhaps? If I wanted dry Jedi tomes on political law—”

“No,” Mace interrupts, flat, and takes two steps forward, until he’s right across Jaster's desk. “Far more important and immediate information. Such as the name of the traitor who will kill you. And the location of Jango Fett's older sister.”

Jaster freezes, hardly daring to breathe. Arla was gone by the time he’d made it back to the Fett homestead on Concord Dawn, and no trace of her has ever surfaced. Jaster has been looking, because Jango speaks of her endlessly, but—

“That,” he rasps, voice half-caught in his throat, “could be considered blackmail, Master Jedi.”

Mace tips his head. “Proof of my desperation,” he says, and there's no self-consciousness to it, just blunt honesty. A pause, and then he says, faintly rueful, “I’ll give you her location whether you take the job or not. The Death Watch has her.”

Jaster was afraid of that. He breathes out, slow, careful, and—the willingness to offer up half of his bargaining chips makes him more inclined to trust Mace, even if a flicker of wariness still remains. “And the job is?”

Mace doesn’t waver, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch. “I want you to assassinate the senior senator from Naboo. Sheev Palpatine. He’s a Sith apprentice.”

Of all the things that Jaster was expecting, that most certainly wasn’t among them.

It takes him a long moment to scrape together a coherent response, another still to get the words right. “Apprentice,” he echoes. “Usually, an apprentice follows a master. Who is the Sith Master, then?”

“A scientist and a banker,” Mace says coolly. “Palpatine is the more dangerous target, and a better duelist. I can handle the Master, but the apprentice I would leave to someone more adept at assassinations.”

It would hardly be the first time the Mandalorians have been hired for such a thing, and Jaster is more than willing to do it. Knowing that Mace will be fighting his own battle allays some of Jaster's fears as well, and he leans on one arm of his chair, considering the man.

“A fraught mission,” he says, “on both parts. You have a plan, I assume.”

If anything, Mace looks amused at that. “The Jedi do not plan,” he says, a trace of humor in the words. “I trust the Force to see me through, however. And as I am training Depa, I will have all the time I need to see things through.”

Jedi, Jaster thinks, and doesn’t roll his eyes. Quite. “And would you care to tell me where you got this information, Master Jedi? Particularly about a traitor within the ranks of the True Mandalorians. I must admit that one surprises me.”

Mace is silent for another moment. “From the future,” he finally offers. “I traveled back with the help of a Force nexus. In the time I came from, the True Mandalorians were wiped out, and the Sith won.”

Something cold slides down Jaster's spine, and he rises slowly, comes to his feet to face the Jedi. Mace meets his eyes, holds his gaze, and—

He looks tired, Jaster thinks, calculating, considering. Tired in a bone-deep, weary way that Jaster had managed to miss before, buried as it was by his determination. Traveled back from the future, through time itself, and Jaster didn’t know such a thing was possible.

Not possible for most people, he thinks, watching Mace. And not optimal even for this one.

“Very well,” he says after a long minute of silence. “But on the condition that you stay here and provide your information throughout the mission. I won't have a Sith kill my men because you think you have better things to do.”

The relief that slides over Mace's expression is subtle, but—Jaster catches it easily. “Agreed,” he says. “We will rely on your hospitality, Mand’alor.”

“Jaster, please,” Jaster says, and moves around the end of his desk, taking Mace's arm. Muscled, he thinks, and that’s likely a good sign. Not a useless Jedi, hopefully. Not if he’s certain he can take on a Sith. “I think the use of first names is allowable now that you're my guest.”

“You have a liberal interpretation of guest,” Mace says dryly, but he doesn’t pull away as Jaster leads him out of the office, and Jaster is willing to count it as a win.

[On AO3]

“Give me a healthy teen romance!’

“Give me a queer couple!”

“Give me biracial couples!”

“Give me queer and biracial couples! And this time wlw”

“Now give me a queer, biracial, wlw couple and one of them is deaf!”

In conclusion: The Dragon Prince is one of the best shows on rn and the amount of representation, especially with the couples in it, is just great. Go watch it!

The Silent One by Jonathan Wesslund

This artist on Instagram