The Mandalorian's Slave

Sorgan

Soft beams of golden sunlight filter in through the slats in the walls. The floor is mostly soft sand, with the occasional wooden planks. Kebabs are being cooked over an open flame, and people recline at rickety tables, their bellies full and smiles wide.

Of course, I not or the strange looks the people give us. They're probably not used to visitors, and certainly people as strange looking as us. Most of the people try to avoid staring, but one woman glares at us openly. I try to avoid staring back at her as I place the Child on a small chair and sit next to the Mandalorian.

A woman with dark curly hair and a small notepad approaches us. "Welcome, travelers. Can I interest you in anything?" Although she gives us curious glances, her voice is friendly and warm.

"Bone broth for the little one," the Mandalorian says.

"Oh, well, you're in luck. I just took down a grinjer, so there's plenty. Can I interest you in a porringer of broth as well?"

"She'll take a few of those of kebabs. Nothing for me." He has to be starving by now, but the Mandalorian never eats in front of people.

"Very well." The woman scribbles something down on the notepad. She's dressed in muted tones of brown and green. I realize how much I stick out here in my dark clothes. But someone else sticks out as well: the woman glaring at us.

"The one over there." My Master gives a short point. "When did she arrive?"

The waitress turns to see who he's talking about. "I've seen her here for the past week or so."

"What's her business here?" I notice how close the Mandalorian's hand is to his pistol.

"Business? Oh, well, there's not business in Sorgan, so I can't say." The waitress chuckles softly. The Mandalorian tosses her a handful of credits. "She doesn't strike me as a log runner. Well, thank you, sir. I will get that broth and kebabs to you as soon as possible, and I will throw in flagon of spotchka just for good measure. I'll be right back with that." She flashes us a smile before dashing away toward the fires.

"She's gone," I murmur, gesturing toward the table where the glaring woman once sat.

The Mandalorian visibly tenses. "Keep an eye on the kid." He gets up quickly, weaving his way through the crowd.

The waitress brings the broth over quickly, as well as my kebabs. The Child slurps loudly as I take my time, savoring the expertly seasoned meat and vegetables. This is the best food I've ever had.

The Mandalorian re-enters the restaurant, with the woman closely following him. Strange. She sits down at our table besides him.

The woman is nearly as strange as the Mandalorian. She's tall, with light brown skin and uneven dark hair. She's pretty in a sort of feral way. On her right muscular arm is a reddish tattoo. A strange band circles around her bicep. I wonder what they mean.

She offers me an impish smile. "I'm Cara Dune. And you are?"

I feel drab and scrawny compared to this woman. She's the sort of woman I would picture my Master going after- armed and dangerous.

"I'm Aster. I'm the Mandalorian's slave."

Cara raises one eyebrow, but doesn't say anything.

"Tell us about yourself, Cara." I try not to get bugged by seeing my Master so interested in someone else.

"Saw most of my action mopping up after Endor. Mostly ex-Imperial Warlords. They wanted it fast and quiet. They'd send us in on the drop ships. No support, just us. Then when the Imps were gone, the politics started."