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12 mos ago
Current I am going to smuggle wholesomeness into your RPs and there's not a damned thing any of you can do to stop me.
1 yr ago
"Bud, you're like a pizza cutter; All edge and no point!"
1 yr ago
Habanero ain't the spiciest pepper but it's pretty tasty on things, ya gotta admit.
2 yrs ago
And in addition to boneless wings being overrated; Anybody who looks at sauced and tossed wings, lovingly spiced and perfectly crispy and says; 'I'mma dunk that in blue cheese' has missed the point.
1 like
2 yrs ago
Boneless wings are overrated.


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Duncan MacTyr
??? — Dirt Road

Duncan let out a little breath of relief as the noblewoman seemed to approve of their motley trio and turned her attentions to other matters. Namely the poor girl laying wounded by the carriage. Hikari had been quick to volunteer, and Steven was not long behind her, our old man, on the other hand, well...

Two was great, but three started to make a crowd when administering first-aid in his experience— too many hands and too many brains moving about the same body and bumping into each other— and there was also the little fact that the last first-aid course he'd ever been to had been an army refresher module back in '84... And he'd honestly slept through most of the damned thing because he knew he was retiring soon and there was nobody in that bloody room who outranked him enough to give him hell for it.

So instead, Duncan busied himself by tearing off another piece of green cloak and giving his sword a wipe down; not particularly wanting all that gunk to get into his scabbard where it'd undoubtedly start to smell like all hell and be a right pain in the ass to clean out. Before tearing off another clean piece and giving the shield he'd used so enthusiastically before the same treatment, pausing for a second to register that his manic melee-ing earlier seemed to have unfastened a clasp he hadn't noticed earlier; one hiding a much longer strap that might allow him to carry it on his back instead of having to lug it around on his arm.

Which was a welcome sight, truth be told; fucking thing would probably get heavy on the arm after a while.

Frowning somewhat at a particularly stubborn piece of brain that still clung to the shield's face, he reached down to tear off another piece of green cloth and came to a sudden stop as he felt something... different through his gloves. Causing his head to cock to the side slightly and his eyes to cast down toward the corpse beside him for a moment, before he plucked up and pulled the cloak out of the way.

There he found... two rolls of paper, tucked into the back of the bandit-turned-stiff's belt. One looking like a hastily folded note and the other appearing as a more proper looking scroll. His eyes cast upward again as he gingerly plucked the two parchments free, taking another, deeper look around him.

For as much as their previous attackers had outnumbered them, and as much damage as they had done... there was an awful lot of them laying dead or dying on the ground. And Ol' MacTyr had been around the block in enough places over the course of his career to have encountered bandits and highwaymen before— less so while fighting the Germans, but definitely in Korea, Lebanon and Egypt. And it was his experience that men who operated like that generally didn't start fights they didn't know they'd win very quickly; different tools and different lands aside, men generally needed to live to spend their coin.

Which is why it now struck him as rather... odd they'd stuck in as long as they'd had— ten minutes at least by his reckoning, measuring from when Steve had picked them up with his fox-eared sonar to their arrival—, taking those kinds of losses, especially against an adversary that fought like the woman with the claymore did.

Which meant they must've been motivated by something else. Or after something specific.

His eyes turned towards the noblewoman again, and his brow furrowed. Perhaps they'd wanted to ransom her? It'd be a helluva a payout, seeing as how she's the daughter of a Duke.

'...Which also means she's very high on the food chain. And even if they did get paid out, their days would likely be thoroughly numbered... unless...' He added mentally, turning his eyes downward as he unfolded the rougher-looking note.

On it's surface he found, to his lack of surprise... a map. Of a road. With an arrow pointing down it's path and symbols he at first couldn't make out until a momentary blurring of his vision seemed to transcribe them into... numbers. With a few other accompanying notes. Not to leave a stone unturned, he quickly thumbed open the scroll as well, but only found scrawled on it a series of symbols and a merciful lack of visual distortion. Nothing he could make sense of, at least— some kind of code, perhaps?

He'd have to think about that little hallucination later, but first things first; he stood to his feet, sheathed his sword, slung his shield over his back and picked up his helmet before calmly approaching the maid who'd exited the cart last— mainly because of those nearest to the Lady, she seemed the most the most likely to put something pointy somewhere he'd rather she not if he'd approached her Liege directly, judging by that subtle movement in her arm and the look she'd given him and his fuzzy friends earlier.

It honestly kinda reminded Duncan of himself when he was younger and a bit twitchier.

Which is exactly why he stopped just barely out of arms reach of her. And made sure she was between him and the Noble she served before looking past her and speaking directly towards her boss; something borne out of equal parts professional courtesy and understanding how to act around someone who was already 'switched on'.

"Found something, M'Lady." He stated matter-of-factly, offering the documents out in one hand to whoever would take them. "A map, showing your direction of travel, numbers and disposition. The other one looks to be some kind of cypher, but I can't make heads or tails of it."

@VitaVitaAR@PKMNB0Y@Raineh Daze

Duncan MacTyr
??? — Dirt Road

"Holy shit..." Duncan muttered under his breath, watching the armoured maid go to town with her great sword. Honestly a little surprised at the raw power she was apparently hiding in that modest frame of hers, but still rather grateful that between the force of her offensive and his own (by his standards, anyway) haphazard flailing, their emerald-caped attackers had apparently decided to cut their losses and run.

A gratitude only vocalized by a loud exhale as the old man visibly relaxed, stabbing his sword into the ground and waving Steve and Hikari over before undoing the straps on his shield starting in on those of his helmet. Taking the opportunity now that the immediate danger had passed to not only address that little cut above his brow but... well, he had crunched at least three skulls in that little melee there.

...And truth be told, the sensation (and smell!) of what he suspected were teeth, chunks of bone and bits of brain sliding down his face was more than a little unpleasant, now that he had the time to think about it.

So, taking a knee, the old man let his shield down before finally pulling off his helmet. Tearing off the cleanest piece of green cloak he could find on a nearby corpse to wipe all the gunk off his face. Slowing to a pause halfway through as something he felt through the cloth and the leather of his gauntlets' palms began to click in his head.

This... was his face— same scars, same shape, same teeth in his mouth— but not the one he had when he was on that plane; with it's many valleys, wear-lines and wrinkles.

An almost comical expression came to him as he began to put it together.

'Am I...?'

"How dare they assault a carriage belonging to my family, I-I'll have these bandits exterminated for this."

The arrival of a new and haughty to the scene caught his attention and ended that train of thought almost as quickly as it began, the man's head snapping up and catching sight of the very obvious noblewoman as she stepped out of her ornate carriage. Which both made sense, the maids and their soldiers had to have been guarding something so fanatically and presented a bit of a problem; Duncan didn't exactly have a lot of experience dealing with any aristocracy. And the ones he had met in passing once or twice over the course of his long life, well...

Ol' Queen Lizzie couldn't legally have his head lopped off on a whim. This girl? Ehhh... that wasn't so certain.

So he quickly finished wiping off his face, discarded the rag and maintained his position down on one knee. Bracing his right hand on the hilt of his sword, still stabbed into the ground, and bowing his head slightly in (what he vaguely recalled as) a gesture of respect as she addressed them and— being the closest to her at the time— responded.

"It is as you say, My Lady." He said, pulling hard on the memory of novels he read as a boy and all those D&D sessions he ran for his son and his friends when they were young. "The three of us were traveling the road before stumbling into the tail-end of that ambush. Where those men drew little distinction between our party and yours and... well, things played out the way they did."

He supposed he could have claimed that they had charged in there like big damned heroes looking to save the day, but being up-front and honest would probably serve them better in the long run.

"I am called Duncan MacTyr," He continued, before indicating towards the pair of kitsunes. "And these are my companions; Hikari Abe and Steven Yu."

@PKMNB0Y@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze

Duncan MacTyr
??? — Dirt Road

"Remember what I said." Duncan noted with a resigned sigh, eyeballing the group of men who'd broken off from the main fight and were now rushing towards them and clanging his sword on his shield a few times to make sure he'd have those men's attention. And began to advance. "Keep backing up. Keep the sword up. And if you have to, run."

Those steps became a jog. Then a run. And then a full on counter-charge.

Sure, the old man didn't know a damned thing about proper swordsmanship; the footwork, the techniques or really anything you'd find in an actual medieval treatise... but he did know how to kill. How to harness his aggression. How to feel the rhythm of a fight, how to move his body, how to read an adversary and, most importantly:

How to improvise.

Hugging his large, circular shield tight to his body, Duncan rammed himself right down the centre of the fast-approaching approaching attackers. Ducking under a falchion that came at his neck from the man to his right and responding in kind with a chop to the bandit's knee that he didn't need to see to know it found it's mark with the jerk of the hilt in his hand and immediate blood-curdling shriek that followed. Not that he could anyway; his mind somewhat occupied by the scraping of the man to his left's axe against his shield— said bandit having tried and failed to hook his axe beneath it's lip— and the revelation of the existence of the man who'd been running behind those two, bill-hook held at the high-port so as not to stab his buddies if they stopped, the realization that with their combined momentum along with all the steel Duncan was wearing meant that they were about to have a very intimate encounter and the look on the guy's eyes as he realized it too.

So Duncan threw the whole of his weight behind his shield and planted the edge of it directly into the poor bastard's face. Crushing through his nose with a sickeningly wet 'Crunch!' and stopping just shy of his ears. Not that it granted him any room to breathe mind you; as the weight of his armour still made stopping a stumbling, awkward affair. With the added bonus of having a full person basically welded to his handy-dandy big ol' maybe-not-die dinner plate.

...Oh yeah, and Axe-Guy was still coming at him. Weapon up high.


Shuffling and twisting his hips in a way that might've actually killed him a week ago, the old man spun and braced his shield up with his swordarm, putting it into the path of the axe and it's meaty essentially into the face of the man wielding it. Hissing at the rattle that went up the bones in his arm at the force of the impact and quickly planting his boot into the stowaway corpse and shoving it off onto the man, keen on not feeling that particular sensation again anytime soon. Which also didn't grant him any real respite, seeing as how he was immediately afterward grabbed from behind and caught captive view of a knife that was clearly aimed for the eye-slit of his helmet careening into it's cheek. Prompting Duncan to drop his sword entirely and grab a hold of the offending wrist to stop it from finding it's mark on the next thrust because damn that.

"HEY! C'MON! HELP ME WITH THIS!" His would-be killer shouted, drawing the attention of another of his friends and prompting Axe-Guy to struggle even harder to get out from under the remains of his rather rotund comrade.

All as the knife inched it's way into his visor and ever-so-slooooowly began to dig into the flesh above his eyebrow.

'...Not good.' Our Canuck snarled internally, letting out a pained hiss before raising his left foot and slamming it down as hard as he could. Feeling metatarsals snapping beneath his heel and having that confirmed by the scream that soon followed.

Sure got buddy to stop focusing on his knife, however. Which allowed Duncan to yank that thing out of his face and slam the back of his helmet into his attacker's. Hearing an audible, wet 'Crunch!' that he suspected and honestly kinda hoped was the man's nose becoming a two-dimensional object, before batting away the mace of the man charging him with his shield and throwing his entire weight behind an armour-clad haymaker directly to his face. Eliciting yet another bloody crunch and making the man tumble over in an awkward heap, and then not move at all.

That got him a reprieve... for all about three seconds before Axe-Guy was on him again. Charging in out of the old man's peripheral vision and barely giving him enough time to raise his shield that came hard enough that it snapped the haft of his attacker's axe, sending another decidedly unpleasant shockwave up Duncan's arm. And, completely unfettered by the seeming loss of his weapon, latched onto the top of Duncan's shield for dear life while screaming to his buddy with broken foot and broken nose to, and we quote;


Which was a bit of a problem, seeing as how Duncan was kind of very literally strapped to that shield.

...Though a problem that was soon solved as the armour-clad and blood-soaked knight quickly looked at where the bandit previously known as Axe-Guy's hands were, down to the ground, grabbed his own wrist, looked the man square in the eye and stated flatly:

"I really don't like you."

Before bringing the sum total of his weight, that of his armour and that of his shield directly down upon the man's foot. Shearing it right in half with the brim of the latter. Eliciting a piercing scream that carried on all the way through Duncan shoving him to the ground but was very quickly silenced as the old man brought the defensive equipment down a second time upon the man's throat. With a hand up top for extra leverage.

And then did it again just to be sure.

Picking up his sword again, Duncan turned and fixed the man with the flattened foot and flatter nose— who had managed to get back to his feet and had been limping towards him to finish the job with Stumpy's discarded falchion— with an absolutely murderous glare through the slit of his visor.


He did. Bucking himself up and charging forward in a awkward, limping gait. Sword held above his head and screaming (also slightly whistling) at the top of his lungs. For which the old swore a little under his breath, reeled back and cracked him in the nose again with his shield, dropping him to the ground like a bag of hammers.

Now Duncan had earned an actual reprieve, bending over slightly to catch his breath and analyze what he'd just done. Fundamentally, this wasn't all that different to some of the things he got up to over seventy years ago. In practice, however... while his suit of full plate didn't really hinder his movement too much, the added weight meant that every swing, step had a whole lot more momentum behind it. Which was actually useful in some ways, but extremely disorientating in others; causing him to nearly nearly slip and fall a few times there which would've likely ended with him doing his best ground-beef impression on the edge of one guy in particular's axe. Nevermind the sweat he was working up doing this.

...Also, it didn't help that he was very clearly a little rusty.

The old man's head turned towards where he last saw the other two crash survivors; Were they alright? Did they manage to get the hell out of here?

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@PKMNB0Y
Duncan MacTyr
??? — Dirt Road

"Uh... Well, I'm pretty sure you can't tell elevation apart when everything level, so I guess we'll go... That way?"

"Works for me," Duncan concurred with a shrug and a bit of a snort as he followed after the most-likely younger man, though minding his pace so as not to get too far ahead of Hikari who, by default, had a bit of a shorter gait than either of them to say the least. "All aboard the heel-toe express; next stop... damned if we know."

Honestly, there wasn't much to fault in that logic; any way forward was still progress at this point. And, even if they happened to run into some kind of obstacle along the way, as long as they had the road as a landmark, they could always just... turn around and go back the other way.

All that aside, it was still a damned fine day out. And the simple act of walking— without a cane, his feeble bones or the constant ache from times long past— was... surreal. Pleasant. Something he hadn't up until that very moment realized he'd been missing for decades now. Post-mortem hallucination or otherwise, our armoured old man couldn't find it in himself to protest too much about the hand he'd been dealt since waking in a grassy field in full plate and accompanied by the pair of his fellow survivors who'd apparently been resculpted and clothed by some apparent cosmic plastic surgeon.

That last thought did linger in Duncan's head for a few seconds. And again, his free hand began to travel back up to his helmet to check if anything had changed—

"...There's fighting further down the road, Be careful."

...And down the hand came again.

"What. How—?" He asked flatly, head turning slightly toward the taller man for a half-second before connecting the dots himself.

'Oh, right. Fox Ears. That's pretty handy.'

Instead that free hand found it's way to the hilt of his sword as they continued forward, until the trio came upon the cause of the steadily louder and louder disturbance; a group of apparent bandits attacking what appeared to be...

...A caravan of Knights and Maids.

Quietly, Duncan cast a quick look back Hikari's way, then down at himself before taking a deep breath and uttering a single word;


And out came the sword with a calm, measured draw. As old and worn-in as his armour looked, but also just as strangely comfortable. in his hand, something he again filed away in the back of his head as he took two paces forward, both taking in a more clinical view of the carnage before him, and began paying more attention to his peripheral vision, casting his visor from one side to the other ever so slightly to not give away that he was checking his flanks.

One last time, he cast a glance down at the weapon in his hands with a narrowed glare.

Duncan was no stranger to hand-to-hand combat; in fact, he'd made a name for himself with it in places like Ortona, Falaise and the Scheldt. It was the whole reason he was handpicked to do the kinds of things he did in Korea.


That was a very long time ago.

Still, his eyes came back upward as he spoke; a cold, surgical calm in his tone.

"Both of you, start backing up. Don't get separated. Steven, get that sword out; whether you use it or not, it's a barrier between you and anyone trying to kill you." He said, checking his shield one last time. "If things start going south, you grab Hikari and you run like hell."

With one last exhale, he raised his weapon.

"Am I understood?"

Sure, he'd mentioned watching eachother's backs earlier. But this was something else entirely from spooking off some wayward predator. And quite frankly, Duncan had already lived his life. He was far less concerned about his than those of his companions.

@PKMNB0Y@Raineh Daze
Duncan MacTyr
??? — Dirt Road

The smaller fox's question hung in the for a moment, unanswered. Not that it really needed one— Duncan knew that something was just a bit fucky here to put it mildly, a change of clothes aside. To start, all things considered, he felt fine... which was honestly kind of the most obvious that something was very wrong here; a man of his age wasn't supposed to be feeling 'fine', nor able to walk around so easily. He also rather quickly picked up on the girl's diction, tucking away in the back of his that he'd rarely— if ever— encountered a kid who spoke quite like that. And that's not even getting into the surplus of fuzzy tails in his immediate vicinity at that moment... though the thought did inspire him to unconsciously wave his free hand behind him slightly to make sure he didn't have any fuzzy bits of his own.

...He'd really need to find a mirror or something at some point.

More to the point, however, the apparent knight answered the Fox's query with a simple, flat statement as he took a quick look around him. Nodding in acceptance at the inarguable— albeit frankly ridiculous fact of the matter:


The old Canuck let that one hang in the air for a solid quarter minute before letting out a breath and finally actually strapping on the shield he'd been deftly holding in his left hand.

"Well, on the off-chance that every holy man I've ever met wasn't tragically mistaken and this isn't the afterlife... at least we're not screwed." Duncan continued. "We can watch eachother's backs, we have some means of defending ourselves and most importantly, we have a road: That means that people live, or at least lived nearby. And if we follow it— preferably, whichever way takes us downhill— we're likely to find a town, shelter or at the very least a source of water. Hopefully while we still have daylight."

He then cast a quick glance between the other two before adding, probably realizing he was being a little rude;

"...Oh, and you can call me Duncan, by the way."

@Raineh Daze@PKMNB0Y

Duncan MacTyr
??? — Dirt Road

Blue skies seen through a narrow slit. A gentle breeze he could feel softly caressing his face through and below his visor, the snug, but not uncomfortable weight of his armour—

"Wait, what?"

Rapidly blinking away the mental fog of staring at what honestly looked like a pretty nice day, Duncan sat up with an ease he almost didn't register and let that last thought marinate as he cast a glance down at himself through the slit of... helmet? Yes, a helmet. Under a cloth hood he gently peeled back with an armoured hand, to get a better look at himself.

'...Why am I wearing armour?' The question echoed unanswered in his own head as he found an old shield laying in the grass beside him to his left and a sword sheathed at his waist all while rapping his curious knuckles against his cuirass; finding it rather worn but... still quite sturdy. Comfortable, even. As if he'd been wearing it and the rest of his get-up his entire life.

Which by itself was a bit confusing because— at least, as far as the old man could recall— Duncan was pretty certain he'd very recently died in a big damned plane crash. The memories of which all came flooding back to him in that moment; a bang, the screaming, the feeling of broken glass slamming into the back of his nec—

"Hey, wake up!" A voice called out from behind him. "Nothing good's going to come from lying about... Or something like that."

There was someone else here.

"Ah, I apologise, I was distracted by how much my body has changed."


That got Duncan's attention, as he calmly picked up his shield and stood to his feet— albeit, not without nearly stumbling over himself with just how little effort the act took— and turned to face where those voices were coming from, where found a tall young man.

With a big bushy fox tail.

And a little blonde girl bowing to said fox man. With even more tails, and a pair of big fuzzy fox ears to boot.

Duncan felt no shame at pausing a few seconds to let the hamster wheel in his brain catch up to what he was seeing— it was kind of a new one for the old man after all. Still, that line about bodies changing stuck out in his mind— if... they weren't like this before and he certainly didn't remember dressing up like a knight, then maybe...

"I, uh..." He had to pause for a second to check his throat, the sound of his own voice sounding alien but... strangely nostalgic all at once. "I don't suppose either of you remember being on a plane recently, do you?"

@Raineh Daze@PKMNB0Y

Not entirely sure if this will fly, but here ya go; A wholesome (yet also slightly terrifying) old man returned to his prime.

I'll probably neaten it up a bit for easier reading after I get some sleep.

Grand Bazaar of the Uniter, Keldabe, Mandalore.
25th Founding Day, Noon.

"Lor'ika. Mixed and wrapped. Two skewers and extra sauce, please."

"You want a drink with that, Vod?" The apron and armour clad woman behind the counter asked, her skillful hands already going to work while her visor remained locked on her customer— if not cocked to the side only slightly.

"Oh, shit. Yeah, big bottle of uj'gal if ya got it." Toryn replied, tossing the front of his gam'surpan over his shoulder so he could fish through his wallet, count out a few coins. Placing three on the counter and another pair in the tip jar.

For that, he received a nod in the affirmative, a friendly click of the tongue, a bright red glass bottle casually tossed into a waiting hand and an infiltration of a familiar scent of spices and cooking food that both put him at ease and made him even hungrier as she got to work.

Lor'ika— literally; 'Little Meats', thin strips of marinated and spiced meat cooked on a skewer with sauteed mushrooms and vegetables over a grill or hot plate, intermittently brushed with oil and sprinkled with a little extra spice before being drizzled with a sweet sauce and either served on the skewer, as bits on a plate or, as he preferred it, tightly wrapped in a toasty flatbread made on the spot— had been a staple street food of his people for Ka'ra knows how long, and a personal favourite of his since he was a boy. The longtime presence of Mandalorian mercenaries on the Huttese moon he once called 'home' insuring both that one was never too far from a stand and that of what few memories Toryn had of that distant time, one thing he recalled with absolution was of how much he loved going to the one across the street with Ruusad and Zara a few times a week. And how the old Mando cook there would just snort and stuff a bit of extra meat in there because the three of them looked 'too skinny'.

Something approaching a little chuckle escaped the Jedi at that thought. Pleasant and sad all at once.

The lor'ika on Keldabe was good, yeah, but he'd never quite found something that beat ol' 'Mama Mando's' in the years since.

...Ka'ra dammit he was making himself hungry; ten hours of work out on Taris and two more of travel time back had left him with just enough time to toss his armour in the ol' sonic scrubber and catch a quick nap before throwing it all back on again and heading out to Keldabe for a debrief. Before being sent back to the Dog to scrub his armour again and throw on a fancy poncho because apparently he had dinner reservations.

Needless to say, there hadn't been a lot of time between then and now to cram food into his face-hole. Or get some shut-eye. And with a few hours to go before the Feast, Toryn knew in his heart of hearts that if he tried to take a quick nap somewhere, he'd somehow wake up to either a disappointed Taung hauling him to his feet or, far worse, a certain Arkanian shaking him by the throat.

Honestly, the whole thing was giving the man three different kinds of headache. So much so that he almost didn't notice the approaching figure behind until they'd already bumped into him.

"Oh, my apologies..."

"No worries, Kiddo. It happens."

Toryn said with a shrug, instinctively checking that his wallet was still there as he gave the newcomer a quick glance; some kid in their early teens. A girl, dressed up in an Imperial uniform, near-human with blue skin just a tad too light to be pureblooded Chiss or Pantoran, a face speckled with Mirialan tattoos around the bridge of her nose, scarlet eyes (currently locked on the food being prepared) and a bob of raven hair with a slight green tinge to it.

Toryn didn't need much thought to figure out what her heritage could be.

For her part, said kid took a few seconds before she found the courtesy to actually look at the man she'd bumped into. And honestly, the look of wide-eyed shock, and open-mouthed frozen horror was the funniest thing he'd seen all day.

"You are... The Hound of Mandalore..." She finally managed to squeak out after a half-minute of awkward silence.

Toryn winced internally; he never really liked that name, though he'd never show it. Least of all in front of a kid.

"That I am. And you..." The Mandalorian stated neutrally. Coldly, even. Managing not to crack a snort as the kid visibly flinched at his words. "...Look hungry."

The twist of visible confusion on the poor girl's face was enough to finally break the dam. And out a little chuckle came from within Toryn's helmet as he turned his visor back towards the woman behind the stand, whom he noticed was having a chuckle herself at the whole thing.

"Can I get that last order doubled, Vod?"

"I'm not opposed to taking your money, Mr. Hound."

'And here I thought I was the one starving.'

Was all Toryn could think around a mouthful of food, watching the little blue terror seated next to him on the fountain's edge outright tear into her food like a starved kath hound. The quiet, awkward yet polite creature of about fifteen minutes ago lost in a ravenous hunger for cooked gizka, bantha and very quite possibly— he mused with a raised brow— anything within grabbing distance that had the misfortune of being made of meat.

If there was any confusion as to at least one side of this kid's family, that display pretty much killed it.

Still didn't stop the Mando from speaking once he'd swallowed his own mouthful, though.

"Gotta hand it to ya, Kid." he said, popping the cap off the girl's drink and handing it to her, which she took with an enthusiastic nod and a loud swallow before knocking it back to take a big gulp. "Most Imperials I've met shy away from our food."


"Swallow and breathe, Kiddo." Toryn cut her off.

"Apologies." The kid began again, after a moment of chewing and swallowing. "But if so many of my countrymen are so desperately frightened by food such as this, then I regret that you have apparently met only the cowards."

...Oh, he liked this kid.

'Maybe there's hope for the Empire, yet.' The Mando thought as he handed the girl a napkin, making a quick motion with his finger to let her know how much of her meal she was currently wearing as a face decoration. Leading her to hastily wipe herself.

"Forgive me again, I am usually more... civilized... when I eat." She said between wipes.

"Don't worry about it; you're on Mandalore, we don't have much in the way of formal rules for dinner etiquette, and the one's we do have, you're basically following right now anyway." Toryn replied with a slight wave of his hand as he took another bite of his own meal. "'Sides, I've been around Chiss most of my life. I'm used to seeing that metabolism and especially that appetite in action."

The girls eyes narrowed for a second.

"I never said I was—"

"You're at least half. There's hungry, and then there's Chiss hungry. And if you've seen it even once, you'll never mistake it for anything else... well, all that, and I've yet to meet a non-Chiss kid that talks quite like you do."

The girl maintained her stare for a few seconds more before a slight upturn of her lip made itself known on her features.

"Observant... you are not quite what I expected, Hound." She said finally. "That is a pleasant surprise."

"Oh? By all means, what were you expecting." Toryn replied, taking a swig of his own drink.

"Well, according to some in my homeland; You are a Hero of the Empire, but serve different masters. You prowl the Galaxy, striking down the wicked, that fire, vengeance and fury live upon your blade and that wrath erupts from your body as lightning!" The kid explained with gratuitous flare, ham and hand gestures unbecoming of a Chiss before adding, quite flatly; "...Also, I thought that you would be taller."

Aaaand, out Toryn's nose that drink went as he desperately managed something that was all at once a wheeze, a cough and a laugh.

"Ffffucking WHAT?" He managed, between yet more laughter, even as he clenched his nose in pain. "Are you serious?"

"Extremely." The kid added, with a non-plussed tone that made Toryn laugh just a little more. "So you can understand how... reassuring it is to see that you are actually quite normal."

It took Toryn a good few minutes to recover from all that, before wiping away a tear and holding his drink out to her to toast.

"My name's actually Toryn, by the way."

"You may call me Tanis." The kid replied, clinking her bottle with his and taking a drink.

"Huh. Small Galaxy."

"Pardon?" Tanis inquired, head cocking to the side.

"Eh, Doesn't matter— Ever been to a range before, Tanis?" Toryn asked, brushing the earlier question aside.

"I have, to learn how best to defend myself and meet benchmarks set by my tutors." The kid replied, with a slight nod.

"...Ever go to one just to blow something up?"

A moment of silence passed between them. And Toryn could almost hear the cogs turning in the girl's brain as a downright diabolical smile formed across her lips.

"I have not."

Toryn met that look with a little smirk of his own as he turned his attention back to his meal.

"Well, I got at least five hours of nothing to do after I finish this. So blowing shit up is what we shall do."

Maybe... just maybe this day wouldn't be too bad, after all.
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