SWTOR Fanfic - Jaeda and Torian
Apr. 20th, 2012 05:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
catlinyemakerI'm a trifle stuck on the Adiira and Quinn storyline. Working on something to fill in between "Escape from the Manor" and later, pre-written pieces, but it's coming very, very slowly. In the interim, in the interests of keeping up with Friday Fanfic, have a couple of short pieces about Torian Cadera and the bounty hunter he'd like to woo. No spoilers other than companion names.
“Don’t. Mock. Me.” The low snarl filled the room with sudden shocking menace. Torian went prudently still; the relaxed, loose-limbed woman who’d been laughing with him across the table a second ago was suddenly a crouching fury, fists tight on the table edge, either to hurl it at him or leap across it for his throat. Bright spots of color burned in her cheeks. Behind her at the counter, Mako was likewise motionless: ‘good reflexes for a neverd,’* a corner of his mind thought charitably. He kept most of his attention solidly on the hunter; no looking away from danger, that was the rule.
“Peace,” he said carefully, laying his own hands on the table palms up, open and empty, defenseless. “Didn’t mean any disrespect.” He riffled through their conversation in his mind, wondering what the heck he’d said wrong, as she visibly throttled rage down to mere anger and unclenched her hands from the table.
Standing, she growled, “I have things to do if you don’t,” and stalked out of the room, launching her empty mug at the sink with force just shy of breakage.
They’d been hanging around over the last of the breakfast coffee, chaffing each other as comrades do. He’d made some comment, he couldn’t even remember exactly, about the broken hearts she was sure to have left behind. Looking to draw her out, find out if she was claimed. Or if not, how many rivals he’d have to contend with.
Mako glared at him as the hunter left the room and shook her head. She gestured at her own face, fingers making circles around both eyes and then clawing down one side. He looked at her, incredulous. The hunter’s prostheses? Her scars?
“She’s ashamed of her SCARS?” he asked lowly, careful that the hunter not hear. No Mando would wear scars like that with anything other than pride. They were her badge of honor, proof she’d fought and won against great odds.
“Look, buster,” Mako said, equally quiet. “I don’t know how things go on Mandalore, but out in the real world? Girls with faces like hers don’t get dates. And they sure don’t leave broken hearts across the galaxies.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? The hunter was Mando, but by adoption, and recently. Not born to it the way he was.
She didn’t know the truth that her scars made her beautiful, a hundred times more beautiful than the bland-faced girl in front of him. He frowned, thinking. On the one hand, good. His rivals would only be the worthy, the ones who could value her as she deserved.
On the other hand, bad. If she believed her scars made her ugly, how to bring her around to the right way of thinking, his way? He could show her the congratulatory holo he’d saved from his brother in arms, cheerful lust and honest envy at his good luck in coming to her ship. But what if she saw his brother as the better catch, where would he be then? No...
He could let her know about the boys and young men who kept that famous picture of her (blood-spattered, smoke-stained, holding the head of the great beast from the cave high in triumph) close for late night study. No, that probably wouldn’t be taken as the flattery it was, either.
He’d have to think of something. It was a challenge, that was good. In the meantime, honest admiration might be best; she’d realize he meant it over time. He hoped. “Pirun koti ruus,”** as his mother often said. And incidentally, he’d have to make time to find the man who’d made her ashamed of those scars and kill him. Mako could help with that. Plenty of fools around; the galaxy wouldn’t miss that one.
*civilian, non-Mandalorian.
**proverb: lit. “Water defeats rock.” colloquially: “Water wears away the rock.”
“Don’t. Mock. Me.” The low snarl filled the room with sudden shocking menace. Torian went prudently still; the relaxed, loose-limbed woman who’d been laughing with him across the table a second ago was suddenly a crouching fury, fists tight on the table edge, either to hurl it at him or leap across it for his throat. Bright spots of color burned in her cheeks. Behind her at the counter, Mako was likewise motionless: ‘good reflexes for a neverd,’* a corner of his mind thought charitably. He kept most of his attention solidly on the hunter; no looking away from danger, that was the rule.
“Peace,” he said carefully, laying his own hands on the table palms up, open and empty, defenseless. “Didn’t mean any disrespect.” He riffled through their conversation in his mind, wondering what the heck he’d said wrong, as she visibly throttled rage down to mere anger and unclenched her hands from the table.
Standing, she growled, “I have things to do if you don’t,” and stalked out of the room, launching her empty mug at the sink with force just shy of breakage.
They’d been hanging around over the last of the breakfast coffee, chaffing each other as comrades do. He’d made some comment, he couldn’t even remember exactly, about the broken hearts she was sure to have left behind. Looking to draw her out, find out if she was claimed. Or if not, how many rivals he’d have to contend with.
Mako glared at him as the hunter left the room and shook her head. She gestured at her own face, fingers making circles around both eyes and then clawing down one side. He looked at her, incredulous. The hunter’s prostheses? Her scars?
“She’s ashamed of her SCARS?” he asked lowly, careful that the hunter not hear. No Mando would wear scars like that with anything other than pride. They were her badge of honor, proof she’d fought and won against great odds.
“Look, buster,” Mako said, equally quiet. “I don’t know how things go on Mandalore, but out in the real world? Girls with faces like hers don’t get dates. And they sure don’t leave broken hearts across the galaxies.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? The hunter was Mando, but by adoption, and recently. Not born to it the way he was.
She didn’t know the truth that her scars made her beautiful, a hundred times more beautiful than the bland-faced girl in front of him. He frowned, thinking. On the one hand, good. His rivals would only be the worthy, the ones who could value her as she deserved.
On the other hand, bad. If she believed her scars made her ugly, how to bring her around to the right way of thinking, his way? He could show her the congratulatory holo he’d saved from his brother in arms, cheerful lust and honest envy at his good luck in coming to her ship. But what if she saw his brother as the better catch, where would he be then? No...
He could let her know about the boys and young men who kept that famous picture of her (blood-spattered, smoke-stained, holding the head of the great beast from the cave high in triumph) close for late night study. No, that probably wouldn’t be taken as the flattery it was, either.
He’d have to think of something. It was a challenge, that was good. In the meantime, honest admiration might be best; she’d realize he meant it over time. He hoped. “Pirun koti ruus,”** as his mother often said. And incidentally, he’d have to make time to find the man who’d made her ashamed of those scars and kill him. Mako could help with that. Plenty of fools around; the galaxy wouldn’t miss that one.
*civilian, non-Mandalorian.
**proverb: lit. “Water defeats rock.” colloquially: “Water wears away the rock.”
