#kly'd

***

The last of the firewood burned bright in the deep cave, casting shadows on the wall that you watched dance and flicker before you as the blinding snowstorm raged outside.

To your right sat the stoic companion, dressed in beskar from head to toe and blocking the cold outside with his broad body. His armor and canvas flight suit provided a fair bit more warmth than your coat did. He had hoped the storm would pass soon, the winds and heavy cloud cover disrupted his helmet’s navigation for the time being. He also suspected you wouldn’t last too long in the elements for the trek back to your ship.

His visor snapped in your direction, hearing your teeth chatter, recognizing that you were losing body heat fast. Without hesitating, he scooted closer and removed the beskar plate that covered his chest.

“Cyar'ika,” his voice gravely though the helmet’s vocoder, “I-I need to keep y’warm.”

Throwing his cape over you, he pulled you into his body. All he had to offer wrapping around you as you grunted in gratitude.

You felt his hands fiddle behind you, followed by a soft plop as you clutched to the material that separated the source of the heat you craved. Shifting you into his lap, you felt the gentle touch of his warm hands, now bare, digging through your layers and wrapping around your skin.

Finding the little bit of extra warmth you could between his cowl and helmet, you nudged the delicate skin of his neck and sighed, your teeth no longer chattering.

“One day you’ll have to tell me ‘cyar’ika’ means, Kly’d.”

You were sure a low chuckle floated out from his helmet. The lack of distance allowing you to hear it more clearly than usual. 

“Go t’sleep, cyar’ika. I’ll wake y’when the storm’s passed.”

***

Thank you for reading!

**

His skin is fair and sprinkled with moles and freckles. Ornaments and marks illustrated by genetics, people before him, and most importantly, The Maker. Scattered over his body, forming constellations that mirror the night sky used by travelers to guide them across land and sea, now guiding you across the peaks and valleys of his muscles and softer parts.

He’s adorned his skin himself, also a calling from The Maker. Images to honor his aliit. Images to honor his time with the akaan'ade. The largest one taking up most of his torso. These signets and a tableau etched into his skin in shades of dark blue ink over alabaster.

“A Lucksprite?” you run a finger over the outline of a wide flattened skull, with a wide jaw and close set eyes on his chest, over his heart. “Y’heard of ‘em?” Humming in response, you continue to trace the outline, behind it a curved shape, thick with a design of seven holes punched through. “It’s on your armor and this… a shoe?”

“An orbakshoe.” He pauses, waiting for a response from you. Continuing to trace his skin, you shift your weight on his chest. A smile gracing your lips, “this is all very lucky…” Your tone amused and his chuckles. 

“Yeah, well… When Erl took us in as his foundlings, he became our buir and we his ade. We became a clan of four, Clan L’gon.” He recalls a family tale of cursed happenings and coincidences. How he traced tragic occurrences through his family tree. Untimely deaths, collapsed roofs, their parents perishing and the farm being burning to the ground. His tone more somber when he recalls fleeing from Imps from his home planet with Erl. How they embraced his Mandalorian culture and life.

He describes Jym’s training accident. He was once a promising verd, rising the ranks of his company and a champion in sport combat until his knee suffered a devastating blow during training. His leg in a permanent brace, so he took on being a runner. Bringing supplies to the covert, keeping to himself and away from the taunts of the other verd.

Kly’d had also suffered during his time with the akaan'ade. Having lost his hand in an unfortunate landmine explosion in a skirmish with the Empire. Their scouts had missed the landmine as they were preparing to leave the area. It took another verd and Kly’d’s hand with it. He now had a mechanical hand in place, keeping it skinless as a reminder to himself.

Once the youngest L’gon swore the creed, the tribe’s alor had asked Erl about their clan signet. He recalled Kly’d’s tale of the family curse taking his aunts and uncles, then his parents. In turn Erl told him about the Lucksprite found on the Forest Moon of Endor. They were believed to bring either bad or good luck to all beings on the moon and really reveled in their abilities. Kly’d had settled on the idea that the L’gons were bound Lucksprites. Bringing them bad luck but balanced with good. In this case, Erl was the good the Lucksprite had brought them. The Alor and Erl decided the L’gon clan signet would be the skull of a Lucksprite.

“After my hand, I figured Lucksprites had something to do with that. Lost m’hand but kept m’life. That day I rode an orbak in t’battle against those Imps. She didn’t make it, but I did. She shielded me from most’a the blast. So I added an orbakshoe in her honor an’a bit of extra luck.”

His helmet hides the sadness and a bit of hope in his eyes. His jaw works back and forth in thought. Dipping your head, you press your lips to the markings. Whispering “for luck” against his skin.

Under the skull and orbakshoe are numbers, coordinates from what you can tell. You trace those as well, raising your eyebrows. Before you can ask, he tells you they are the coordinates of his family farm and home planet. You repeat the numbers to him and he nods in approval. A modulated hum filters through.

Your fingers walk across his chest, you touch the Mando’a writing on his forearm. “That’s the Ranger company I fought with. We all got the same markin’s.” You don’t press, his voice is full of pride but also sorrow. His mechanical hand moves up, gently resting on your hip. Lightly tapping.

Moving further up his arm begins what can best be described as a tableau. It pans from just above his forearm, up his bicep, over his shoulder and down his chest. A bit of it cascading down his side to his hip. The centerpiece is a Mythosaur. It’s long body spanning the length of the tattoo, it’s tail covering his bicep, the body and legs curling over his shoulder down to his chest, where the head curls back up, reared back in a roar. You trace the scales and ridges of the mighty beast. “This is a Mythosaur?”

“Cyar’ika, not just a Mythosaur. This is Te Sol'yc Mand'alor, he conquered Mandalore.” He points to a shadow atop the beast. He grips your hips as he rolls you both over, sitting back on his haunches. Roaring, his arms stretch out as his body animates in front of you, the same over exaggerations and theater you’ve seen him use while recalling stories to the tribe’s younglings. You let out a little yelp and a series of giggles as a low growl emanates from his vocoder and he slowly crawls up the length of your body, up your torso. He hunches his massive shoulders as he describes the mighty and magnificent Mythosaur.

A massive dragon-like creature with tusks framing it’s head, a long powerfully muscular tail, and tough skin. Their mouths were lined with long teeth and they walked on four powerful legs with clawed feet. Te Sol'yc Mand'alor arrived from the planet Roon. He and his people, the Taung, took to conquering the world and the beasts.

Sitting back up, his hands mimic the fins on the sides of Taung’s heads. Fingers hooking above the crown of his helmet, he wiggles them like antennae. Your eyes widen and you gasp at his fluid movements as he repositions his leg, swinging it over your waist as he half kneels. Growling and swinging an invisible axe. Making clashing noises. His invisible weapons making contact with an invisible beast. Finally bringing them down on himself he howls in pain causing you to shuffle out from under him, laughing as he falls forward into your lap. Rolling onto his back, your legs framing his sides as he shimmies his body up, resting his back against your front and his helmet on your shoulder. You hiss at the coldness of the beskar, your skin pebbling at the shock and your giggles subside.

He grabs your hand and guides your fingers over the markings of the shadowy warriors slaying the mighty beast. Taking the land as their own and claiming the Mythosaur as their signet. Calling themselves the Sons and Daughters of Mandalore.

“They’re extinct, the Mythosaur… but they conquered ‘em and rode ‘em. They were two powerful forces on that planet, and one of ‘em had to win. The story is bigger than Mandalore and we carry that spirit inside us. Mandalorians aren’t a specific race, they are a choice people make and take into their heart. It’s almost a fairytale…” His words fall away as he’s lost in thought.

He slips your fingers under his helmet, his lips pressing against your fingertips as you bring your forehead down to his helmet.

“Y’know when I tell that story to the foundlings, they scream less than you.”

***

Translations: verd - warrior/soilder akaan'ade - army aliit - family/clan Te Sol'yc Mand'alor - Mandalore the First buir - mother/father ade - son/daughter alor - leader Cyar’ika - darling

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