Broken Soul | Din Djarin

chapter thirty-three: the marshal

The slowing of the speeder wakes you, softly jostling you from your resting position. You smile as you blink drearily from your place pressed against Din's back, feeling one of his hands pressed against the arms wrapped around his waist to keep you there while you slept. He's trying to slow down as smoothly as he can, trying not to wake you, and the pad of his thumb brushes in a soothing manner over the top of your hand.

You shift your head, raising it from his back to prop your chin on Din's shoulder as you blink away the unforgiving desert suns. The blurry and distant outline of a town appears behind a thin wall of dust, and you glance behind you to check on the kid before hugging Din's torso to silently say "good morning".

"How'd you sleep, cyar'ika?" Din says gently, continuing to trace the top of your hand with his thumb.

"Mm, like a baby," you smile, nuzzling back into his shoulder. "Now it's your turn to sleep."

"Unfortunately, I can't, cyare," Din chuckles. "We're here."

"Oh." You sit up straight, staring at the town over Din's shoulder. The speeder has entered the town's streets, and you look around at the way that people seem to stop and stare at the two of you as you pass by.

Literally. Civilians have stopped in their work, whether it be hauling crates or just walking down the street. And all eyes are on you.

Then again... you are traveling with a Mandalorian.

Din parks the bike in front of a cantina, helping you off of the bike while you turn to meet the gaze of the people.

Din might be used to being stared at... but I'm not.

Suddenly, the leftover ache of sleep had disappeared, and you stood fully alert as you carefully strapped the child's satchel around your body before following Din into the building.

You survey the empty cantina, ignoring the way the barkeep is staring at the two of you as Din makes his way over to him.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a Mandalorian," Din says bluntly, resting his hands on the bar as he addresses the barkeep. You stay nearby, giving the two of them some space to talk while you wander around the bar with the kid.

"Well, we don't get many visitors in these parts," the barkeep replies. "Can you describe him?"

Your brow raises at that. He doesn't know what a Mandalorian is?

"Someone who looks like me."

The man observes Din and his armor, humming to himself softly as he observes him. "You mean the marshal?"

"Your Marshal wears Mandalorian armor?" you ask from your place behind Din, earning yourself a glance from the barkeep.

He glances at the door before his eyes flick back to you. "See for yourself."

As if they had appeared out of thin air, a person wearing Mandalorian armor stands in the doorway of the cantina, staring at Din through the visor of his helmet. Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of them. Based on their build and stance, you're assuming that this is a man, and he's wearing a faded green cuirass, pauldrons, and helmet of Mandalorian craftsmanship. Scars from past battles decorate the armor, leaving knicks and markings of silver for the beskar beneath the green paint.

If you hadn't known Din, you would have automatically assumed that this man was a Mandalorian... but his unkempt appearance is making you think twice. He wears a loosely fitted red long sleeve under the armor, along with a scarf and loose-fitting trousers with not one but two belts: one that holds up his pants and the other that hangs loosely around his waist like a decoration. Every Mandalorian that you have seen has looked more put together, even in battle, than the man that stands before you.