Spectrcsix​ // Ezra Bridger

mvchinery​ // Depa Billaba

admittedly, depa wasn’t at her most clearheaded, distracted by scanning the shelves behind her, looking for a specific file that should have been right around here, somewhere. she hadn’t always been the biggest fan of spending hours in the library as a youngling, but she knew the value of some good research, wanted to catch herself up on both some things she had missed & some ancient history.

she took a step back as they stumbled into each other, wincing apologetically. “it’s quite alright, it’s my fault — “ she leaned down to help them pick everything up, then tilted her head slightly at her question. “i don’t think so, no ? i’m depa billaba.” perhaps that would jog their memory, though she did not know them.

The woman had a kind demeanor, handing the Mandalorian back the few items she’d been careless enough to let drop. When question met its answer, their dawning realization was met with a gasp.

“Depa? Kanan’s master?” 

The handful of stories they’d heard on nights huddled around dying embers, nights full of laughter and guilt and regret and love-- the little she knew of Kanan’s past before meeting Hera...it’d been etched with admiration for the person that stood before Sabine now. Quickly, they shuffled the research materials into her bag, extending a now-free hand in greeting.

“Osi’kyr, it’s wonderful to meet you! I’m Sabine. Sabine Wren.”

for   @beskarbuir and @finitefm​  // din djarin and tarre vizsla

──   MANDALORE,  YOUR  SCENERY  IS  LIKE  FAMINE.   mandalore,  the most stagnated,  ravaged part of it,  is too lucid for him.   the landscape straddles between home and desolation,  thriving in that liminal space;  that is to say,  it welcomes him without communion.  but that is alright,  for his learnings were true.   this is a cursed planet,  far past death and onto lying in wait.   feverish and weak.   imperials looming over and gorging on the fruit of their lands,  gloating as its acidic juice drips into the corpse’s eyes.   mandalore bares it’s clenched teeth and hungers,  too.  for ichor,  for people,  for love.

din will not be the one to satiate it.   the love he offers is for his people beyond this soured heart,  reared in their ways in places far from here.   they are a nomadic people steeped in an idea.   they are more than mandalore alone.   still,  he stood close to his companion in these past days,  keeping an eye on their surroundings but mostly on them.  it almost seemed like she would choke on the prospect of coming here,  of walking into the maw of their once home.   since their arrival,  her grief was mute;  hemorrhage kept internal.   he hopes they know that if they dotter,  he will bear their weight. 

though there,  in the distance,  rises a haunting:  arriving in beskar adorned in gilded fractures, as if shattered and rebuilt.   his steps nearly stop there,  hand so willing to pull sabine back for her safety.   to din,  they are an unknown beauty and terror looming forth   ─   and though the feeling is transient,  he dallies the tiniest bit slower than sabine when she perseveres in the face of a phantom.   then,  she drops to her knee as if the very sight of them is sacrosanct,  bowing their head in reverence.   ‘ tarre vizsla ’ ,  they had said,  and all besides the clan name and shriek hawk garners no recognition. 

his next move is less calculated.   there is a bow of his head,  hand to the heart while the other still grips his spear like a walking stick.   a commingled greeting less pronounced as sabine’s,  but respectful to a title that eludes him.   ❝  su cuy’gar.  ❞  a fraction of an accent lilts his words,  obvious in comparison between him and them,  but there is no shame in it.   he lifts his head and glances to his companion,  then back,    ❝  as had we.  ❞   concern edges his voice,  ❝  how long have you been here ?  ❞   this is a dead land.  there will be no survival here.

the   reactions   tarre   has   faced   from   their   people   have   been   many,   in   this   time.   they   cannot   say   that   the   awe   is   their   least   favorite,   for   they   have   felt   the   brunt   outraged   violence   at   assumed   deception.   the   PAIN   that   lay   beneath   those   interactions   bests   the   creeping   discomfort   of   respect   for   a   mythos   larger   than   their   life.   they   were   mand’alor   in   their   time,   after   all   –   they   know   the   INTENSITY   of   mandalorian   devotion.   but   they   have   only   made   martyrs.   to   BE   one   ?   it   is   something   entirely   different.  

when   she   kneels,   they   are   surprised   by   the   instinct   to   kneel   as   well,   to   find   the   level   of   her   eyes   beneath   her   colorful   helmet   and   assure   her   that   deference   is   largely   unnecessary.   but   this   is   not   a   force   call,   only   human   LONGING,   and   they   have   spent   years   attempting   to   calm   their   gut   punches   of   emotion.   they   mirror   her   companion   instead,   a   hand   raised   to   their   heart.   these   two   are   sharply   different   in   more   than   their   armor.   their   knowledge   of   HISTORY,   they   can   assume,   yet   the   importance   lies   in   the   force.   she   is   fireworks.   he   is   something   more   unobtrusive.   they   find   both   intriguing   on   a   level   that   may   speak   only   to   their   own   desire   for   new   connection   with   their   people.

there   are   more   pressing   matters   than   any   slowly   sharpening   edge   of   desperation,   however.   their   voice   is   smooth   as   mandalore’s   hot   winds   as   they   reply,   ❛   i   am   them.   please,   RISE   –   i   am   no   mand’alor   in   this   time.   ❜   they   would   insist   that   ALL   mandalorians   are   clan   enough   to   do   away   with   such   formalities,   if   they   had   not   begun   to   grasp   that   these   descendants   of   theirs   are   not   nearly   so   united.   ❛   i   am   glad   to   find   others.   what   is   left   of   history   is   something   worth   revisiting,   i   believe.   ❜

the   bittersweetness   of   it   all   is   beginning   to   burn.   they   tuck   the   feeling   underneath   their   tongue   and   let   it   rest   there,   tangled   up   in   the   core   of   them.   ❛   only   briefly.   there   is   better   accommodation   not   too   far   from   here.   i   wanted   to   see   what   this   became.   ❜   their   words   come   freely,   yet   remain   careful   with   that   bittersweet,   that   knot   of   feeling.   their   head   tilts   slightly   as   they   look   back   to   the   ruins.   ❛   this   is   a   place   of   BLOOD.   it   is   good   that   it   is   no   home.   ❜   it   had   been   theirs,   once,   and   they   suppose   that   that   is   the   tragedy   of   it.   this   loss   will   not   leave   them.

So, it was them, Mand’alor be’ruyot. How or why the leader had returned during their peoples’ most desolate hour was far beyond her understanding. Despite years spent in the company of Jedi, this was perhaps the most impossible thing she’d ever witnessed. Tongue heavy, Sabine found that they had no words-- no amount of training could have ever prepared her for this. Still, at their ancestor’s command, she rose, glancing over at their brother-in-arms.

The younger Mandalorian knew that their companion was not as versed in the history of their people-- which was not something she faulted them for. It just was, a product of circumstance. They examined him-- a shared language of silence only the two knew, unreliant on the visages hidden beneath beskar. This was the nature of their friendship: an understanding that silence had its own place in the conversations they held. So much was shared with so little sound. Despite the unease and confusion that now plagued them both, Sabine understood.

Attention turned, shifting back to the words spoken by one who held so many stories from an age lifetimes before her own. Guilt seized their breath once again. This place was no home, not for anyone. Nor had it been for years, and there were few more to blame than she. Sabine felt their voice waver and crack in response to the bitterness of the haastal.

“No. It is not.” So many skeletons haunted this wasteland once called prosperous, once called beloved. “It belongs now only to the mercy of the Ka’ra above.”

Noticing how uncomfortable the formalities had made their ancestor, Sabine extended an unsteady arm, anticipation of the traditional salute for Mando’ade.

“I am Sabine of Clan Wren and House Vizsla.” There was a moment of pause, consideration. Her companion could share their name if he wanted. It was optional, as most words between the two were. “It is an honor to share your name. Gedet’ye, what may I call you if not ner Mand’alor?”

They couldn’t help but hope her friend wasn’t too lost right now. She gave them a glance as if to reassure him that she’d explain later.

galaxywon​ // Hera Syndulla

There  was  a  sick  knot  in  Hera’s  stomach,  hands  dropping  from  Sabine’s  arms  as  another  blast  made  them  duck  for  cover.  She  hadn’t  even  bothered  to  bring  a  weapon.  At  one  point  in  their  life,  it  would  have  been  baffling  not  to  have  one  on  their  hip.  She  imagined  it  was  even  worse  for  their  Mandalorian  child.  “  Good  idea.  My  comm  was  smashed  in  the  commotion.  We’ll  have  to  go  to  Chopper,  tell  him  to  prepare  the  ship.  “  she  informed  them,  eyes  scanning  the  vicinity  one  more  time,  hoping  for  Zeb’s  purple  fur,  Kanan’s  tall  frame,  Ezra’s  dark  hair.  They  weren’t  there,  at  least  not  in  her  view.  “  They  should  know  to  evac  to  The  Ghost  when  they  can,  when  they’ve  done  all  they  can  do.  “  When  there’s  no  one  left  to  save.  “  We  just  have  to  make  sure  the  ship  is  prepared.  “  

The two ducked through the chaos, the eruption of violence continuing its ruinous wake around them. Fires burned in the reflection of Hera’s eyes, and Sabine felt nothing but raw, unfiltered fury, white-hot and burning in their stomach.

“Well, we’d better keep the engine running for them, huh?”

The two of them would see their family again. Sabine had to believe it, had to commit it to memory with every tension of muscle, every kick and thrust and stab and bite. If she had to tear the throats out of every Hapan guard between here and the Ghost, they’d do it. The two of them were going to see their family again, and fuck anything or anyone that stood in the way of a Mandalorian determined.

thinking about ThemTM

Anonymous asked | Favourite Mandalorian Characters? — The Wren Family

beroyafett​ // Jango Fett

Jango sighed and pulled his helmet off before he noticed the Mando coming his way. If they had spotted the darksaber, he wasn’t about to fight in a crowded bar, so he hoped they were reasonable. 

He sipped at his drink as he watched the other approach and raised a brow at her, gesturing to the empty seat across from himself “Not business. But I suppose that depends on if you’re looking for a drink or a fight, burc’ya.” he said with a chuckle.

He hadn’t been challenged yet, but he was sure it wouldn’t be long. He’d do all he could to retain the saber and his pride. He’d even finally repainted Jaster’s symbol on his pauldron. 

_

The reveal of the warrior’s face was disorienting, to say the least. She’d seen that countenance a few times before, had shared meals and battlefield and laughter with someone who held the same lines of worry and laughter. Was this man a clone? But, then, why did he have the armor of a Mandalorian? For now, they resolved, all she could do was listen.

“Oh, I think you misunderstand me, friend. I don’t-- Er, I really don’t want that saber. I’m no leader, trust me. I’m just interested in how it’s traded hands since I last held it.”

They motioned for the bartender to bring another of whatever he was drinking, taking the seat across from him with a smile and an extended hand.

“I‘m Sabine. Sabine Wren. And I’d love a good story if you have the time.”

beskarbuir​ // din djarin

──   HEAVY  BOOTS  DIP  INTO  HOT  SAND,  and the suns remain relentless.   it bears down on metal,  as it bares down on all things,  but he pays no mind  ─  there are more haunted places to befall,  and here,  there is a bounty to be made.   confluence of calculation and muscle memory,  the hunt begins with relative ease.   a few questions,  a bribe,  and he moves onwards. kilometers pass by,  though he slows at the sight of a shared silhouette,  brows knitting beneath the shadow of his visor.   even if recent affairs allowed for crossed paths,  encountering vestiges of his home,  his culture,  his people,  remained a rarity.   curiosity surges through him when the closing distance clarifies the mandalorian.   their numbers are minuscule and yet he still finds surprise in their variation;  the other’s armor stands stark against the ecru,  painted iridescent by the desert.

the conclusion comes quickly:  they’re here for the same goal.   while both following the same cardinal direction is slim reason to assume such things,  this is barren land and the payment is hefty.   tatooine is filled with hungry hands.   people take what they can get.   hesitation cannot be found in his approach,  yet he stops the borrowed speeder a few meters short to keep distance ( he’s been mistaken before ).   lips press to a line as he dismounts,  bracing for the revelation of a separate sect he had never heard before.  ❝  i haven’t seen another of our kind around here. ❞

     ─   @call-me-spectre-five

The job was an easy one, something she had completed hundreds of times before. Track a target, acquire them, and turn them over for payment. It was a practice they were well-versed in; any time credits dipped below the price of food and fuel, they had no qualms taking bounty on some runaway criminal unlucky enough to warrant capture. It was a refreshing break from the excitement of the Rebellion, and a good excuse to brush up on her hand-to-hand combat. Not for the first time, they settled on a desert planet defined by little more than twin suns and endless wastes of sand.

Information was easy enough to obtain if you knew where to listen. Word passes quickly from tongue to tongue in a starving galaxy, so she wouldn’t be fazed if another had come to claim the score. What they were surprised about was the sight of another clad in the beskar of their people.

Kriff.

Her eyes widened behind painted metal at the sight of the stranger. It had been an...uncomfortably long time since they had seen another Mandalorian, and the figure admitted to just as much. There was a shared uncertainty between them, but that was more than fair. To be wary was to survive.

“Neither have I.”

Sabine extender her arm, vambraces forward, in anticipation of a returned handshake. Trust had to be carefully built and not just given away, after all.

“Su cuy’gar, vod. I am...glad to know our people still survive.”

@spectreoflasan​ // Zeb Orrelios

“I am cool,” Zeb snapped. “You know what’s not cool? Karking up your guts before it’s even hit kriffing midnight because you don’t know how to hold your liquor.” Karabast, he’s going to have to set a good example, isn’t he. With once last wistful glance at the mutlicolored and very potent-looking drink in their hand, Zeb slid it down the bar to the person on their other side and grumbled, “Knock yourself out, mate. You! Barkeep! Two waters, now.” Zeb’s gruff edge lingered as he turned back to Sabine. “Now hydration, that’s cool. You want to actually enjoy your drinks? Then pace yourself.”

Oh, for the love of Alderaan. ‘Hydration, that’s cool’ ?  Zeb had never felt so old in their kriffing life. But that’s what Sabine needed right now. Guilt twisted his stomach as they stumbled against him. Hadn’t Zeb’s lousy excuse for a parallel-timeline counterpart bothered to teach her to drink properly? Zeb set a steadying hand on Sabine’s shoulder, even as their last comment provoked a growl. “And for the last time, Kallus is not my boyfriend. ‘Sides, he’s in no state to be looking after anybody right now.”

“I w-would hold my liquor fine! If you would give it back to me!” They yelped as he pawed her reaching hand away. (Heh. Pawed). They shot the bartender a nasty glare and tried standing on her own. Feet felt like lead and head too thin, and the metal of the counter dug into their skin. 

“Zebbbbb, don’t you think I deserve a drink after the shit year I’ve had?! W-why not! Why not get fuck-king shitfaced?” She huffed. This had to be a joke. First all of the-- the shit! The shit with Ezra and Kanan and Mandalore, and-- and it hurt! It hurt and it was scary and it made her hands shake and her chest tight and!  And they just wanted it to mute, just for a moment! Moisture pooled at their eyes as Zeb spoke, as they responded. At his words, her face fell immediately, turning from anger and fear to...to something that ached deeper. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.

“Wh-what do you mean he isn’t your boyfriend? Did. Did something happen?”

sacreficied​ // Kanan Jarrus

a huff of laughter pushed out of his nose and he nodded his head in agreement. no, something being hard had never discouraged them all from doing something –– it had only made them get a little more creative with how they had approached it. but he would give the others credit for that before himself, easily viewing them all as vastly superior to his own. he had his own strengths, that was just one that he saw being more advanced in the others.

“oh, absolutely,” kanan agreed with a deep chuckle escaping, giving a nod of his head as his arms folded across his broad chest. they would have all been lost without hera, not just him –– something that he was painfully aware of. “we’d all be lost without them.”

a beat passes, something heavier clearly laying on his mind from the crease between his brow. “if i had to choose between, i know the choice i’d make. i just hope i never have to make that choice.”

Their smile turned somber once again with his dire words of sacrifice and loss. He doesn’t have to tell her the choice he’d make because they’d already lived it. The aftermath of his decision to protect Hera, to protect all of the crew that Sabine called aliit--  it weighed on them both. Weighed on all of the Spectre crew, really, but it sat in between them in the here and now.

“Yeah, me, too.” The tone-shift was heavy and awkward to navigate, something she didn’t really want to adopt right now. With everything that had happened in the last few years, loss was always on the forefront of their mind-- often partnered with guilt. “Still, uh, we’ve always been lucky enough to have each other.” Almost always. “What’s on your mind, Kanan?”

bly-5052​ // Bly

Bly was pretty sure the last time they had seen an actual Mandalorian, it had been one of the trainers that Prime had brought in. And they didn’t exactly have great memories of those days either. But this Mando seemed much younger than those who had trained the Vode would be if any had survived.

They were still wary as they approached though, they knew that many Mandalorians hadn’t approved of the Vode’s existence. But they had promised Prime that they’d give his comm code to any they came across.

Bly just hoped this one wasn’t a shoot first and ask questions later type. “Su cuy'gar.” they said quietly as they stopped next to her.

_

The figure seemed to move with a level of unease despite their obvious military training. Sabine wondered if they were meeting with someone else, someone she was in the trajectory of, but the stranger kept their course towards the Mandalorian. Curiosity alighted; Sabine didn’t know many clones apart from Rex, Gregor, and Wolffe (and the latter two, she hadn’t known for long). What this person wanted, she wasn’t sure, but they returned the Mando’a with a tentative smile.

“Su’cuy. I like the patterns on your armor, burc’ya.”

Politics around the clones’ involvement with Mandalore were...above her pay grade, to say the least. The Clone Wars had ended when they were in their infancy, and the soldiers been phased out of the Empire soon after its formation. Sabine hadn’t grown up knowing them, had little ideas about their claims to the Mando’ade. Still, this person was approaching with amity, so they returned the sentiment.

“Anything I can help you out with?”

beskarbuir​ // din djarin

──   THE  CANTEEN  IS  EASILY  CAUGHT,  its coolness permeating past leather.   it’ll be another while before they drink from it,  at least until they can find another retreat from eyes,  though they raise it up with a slight shake to signal thanks.   they swallow down the lingering iron.

as anxiety passes through her,  nicks at her speech,  din lifts themself from against the ship’s side and approaches her with a languid stride.   there’s not much else to indicate that there shouldn’t be so much worry around questioning them   ─   though when they finally reach them,  a hand grips their upper arm as reassurance before falling back to their side.   the touch is as brief as a breath.   in truth,  they’re surprised she had waited this long to ask.   her patience is wholly appreciated,  of course,  but they do not open themself from within.   they could hide themself infinitely.   a being encased in shell upon shell,  they must be pried with anything but a knife.   ❝  yeah.   ❞   their tone is open,  paired with a nod.   wariness lies there,  too.  ❝  go ahead.  ❞  

in turn,  nerves do not bind them but an old weight pulls at their spine,  pooling at their feet and the ends of their fingers.   they’re not sure what to expect,  what vital differentiations will contrast the both of them.   one of their tenets already invites perplexed looks   ─   sometimes it leads others to cruelty,  like it was a challenge to break it for them.    ❝  i’d like to know more about yours,  too  ─    ❞   really,  they already know the response before it leaves them.   but if their companion sought permission for their history,  they will give the same courtesy.  ❝  ─   if you’re willing.  ❞

The trepidation, though never malignant, was always present. It was a dance Sabine had practiced with every sibling by creed, but none more so than this one. There was no resentment or exhaustion or shame in it-- this was just the cost of their relationship. And Sabine was more than content to measure their words, to weigh their steps, to share meals in separate rooms, to avoid painful questions-- if it meant spending time with her friend. For them, it was worth it. 

Their touch was as gentle as it was brief, and it returned her to the present. Sabine greeted his gentility with a waning smile from unmasked lips. Their answer was relief, another brick to the altar of trust built by them both. Of course, he knew her reply. Though nothing in the steel countenance conceded it, the fact made itself known. She would share with him whatever was asked. (They appreciated the formality nonetheless.)

“Yeah. Um. I think that would be...Yeah, I would like that.”

There was no telling where to start. Certain things were known, yes, but others? How were they to tread the trauma they’d experienced in the last few years alone? And how much of it did they really share? Amid the torrent of questions, a quiet reassurance chimed from the back of their mind: let’s start here. 

“Did you-- er, do you have a family?”