WriteHaven

Tho Yorla Spaceport > Yanibar.
~249 ABY.
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Zhi hadn’t called much attention to it that he’d been squinting his senses at certain vocal accents in the bustle of noise, let alone at every impression of an armored figure to cross his attention. He hadn't seen any benefit to attracting attention from strangers, or in going out of his way to put every well-armed trader, mercenary, or soldier on edge, when the vast majority of them were not what he wanted. Not a single one of them had been in fact. He wasn’t sure yet if he should consider that odd or not. It wasn't that he particularly expected to find one here, but he had yet to find one on Ryloth or Tatooine either. Where were they?

He’d almost given up that there were any Mandalorians to be found in the whole of this city, when something about a man caught his attention. Armored, armed, disciplined but relaxed enough, probably human. He was conversing in Basic, but something about the inflection was right.

“On second thought, let's wait to pay for the passes,” he told the pair he was with. He shrugged and offered them a hint of a good natured smile, even if his bounty collecting companion was beginning to hate the expression. “I’ll be back.”

The tall, sparely built, and tanned complexioned young man left his companions to their own devices. Zhi purchased a refill for his water canteen at a nearby stall, giving himself quieter opportunity to verify his first impressions of the somewhat older adult warrior. Whoever it was, the man was relaxed and good natured enough while he seemed to conclude the final recap negotiations of an average security deal. The man caught a small pouch of credits an armored hand and then tucked it away somewhere. He wished the client successful travels before the interaction ended, and the client returned the farewell with genuine thanks and relief. The man was certainly Mandalorian, and nothing about Zhi's first instincts felt off or concerned about him.

Not much about Zhi’s clothing or gear were especially interesting; the hilt of his weapon was tucked away, and he carried a simple bag slung over his left shoulder. His trousers were a little short to have been his preferred cut, but it wasn't drastic. He was clean enough, fit enough, his short hair was tied back. There was nothing especially noteworthy about the calm man in his early twenties except that his eyes didn’t seem to focus well. He could make out his surroundings well enough, of course. He must have been able to; he didn't seem especially slowed down or as if the metal staff he carried was much more than a precautionary tool, perhaps bordering on a defensive one. But nothing about him gave the impression that he saw well, or for example, that Zhi had any business piloting anything.

“Su'cuy,” Zhi approached the slightly shorter armored figure when it was timely enough. He offered a calm-mannered nod. “Tion’jorhaa’i mando’a?”

‘Tion.’ Was that inflection right? He was a couple years out of practice, but what he wanted to ask or hear was well within his means, and he already knew the answer to his question. The Jedi continued simply in Mando’a.

“Forgive any interruption. Do you know if K’ven Bralor is still alive? There was a message for him or his family, but our crew had difficult fortune. He may be with Beviin, or Koht.”

There were lots of different types of people in the galaxy. Mandalorians stood out among the thronging masses as a distinct people, but even among their ranks, the same could be said. Craddock Spar was a man who was arguably past his prime, but at the ripe old age of 43, he considered these to be the good years. His body and mind were more in sink now than ever they had been before; he could claim the wisdom of age, and still sport the vigor of youth in the moments that truly mattered. He no longer desired the recognition of being the greatest, like his little cousin halfway across the galaxy, he no longer lived for the glory of battle, he lived only to bring honor to his family name, and to live his life in a way that allowed him to enjoy the things in which he had come to find joy over the years.

The fact that he’d torn his iliotibial band completely loose two years ago had been a decent wakeup call as well.

The fact of the matter was, Craddock had found a niche here in the outer rim that he could fill quite nicely, with very little effort. Charging modest protection fees for the security of individuals who barely needed security wasn’t a glamorous way to make money, but it was far easier than continuing to risk life and limb on high-stakes jobs month after month, and in the long-term the pay was not significantly less, either. The real perk, however, was the guaranteed job security. Offering his services to the sort of clientele that he did, Craddock had no trouble finding an abundance of jobs – he was in demand! People who usually wouldn’t dream of hiring a Mandalorian as personal protection jumped at the idea of having a beskar-clad warrior watching their backs when they took risky business trips. Selfishly, it was easy work, but altruistically, Craddock took pride in knowing that his services gave confidence to the little guys in a very big galaxy. So for his own satisfaction and the peace of mind it afforded others, he worked as a freelance bodyguard, and slept well every night.

What Craddock did not do, however, was find himself speaking his native tongue on a regular basis. So when a kid no older than his nephew, who stood nearly half a head talker than him and couldn’t have weighed more than 70 kilos soaking wet, approached him with mild manners and greeted him in passable mando’a, Craddock was intrigued.

He merely nodded his chin upward in response to the initial question, but the kid’s question was so precise that he almost wanted to glance around and see if they were being watched. But Craddock was a Mandalorian, he didn’t need to turn his head to glance around, he simply turned his eyes to glance at the peripheral display in his helmet. They were indeed alone, for all intents and purposes.

“I’m familiar with the one you speak of, Aruetii,” said Craddock, his voice cool and guarded behind the veil of the synthesizer in his helmet. “Odd request… I can’t say it’s my place to decide if you’re a friend of Bralor, though.”

He studied the young man for a moment, thinking of any reason he might have to be suspicious of him. He wasn’t coming up with much, which didn’t make him feel any better. Craddock was neither the most insightful nor the most glib of mandalorians, and he knew this, but he also knew when to source out a job to a more qualified specialist.

“There is one in the area currently who is a friend of my clan, and more connected to the clans you’ve mentioned, as well. They’d be a better judge of your need, and probably better suited to connect you with Bralor if that is deemed suitable. The one you seek is called ‘The Interdictor’ in many circles. A seller of rare naval antiquities. I’m loathe to waste their time, and they’re not one to be trifled with, but if your need is great, I could… possibly, arrange a meeting.”

The young man remained quiet-calm and attentive; nearly as steady as the Mandalorian's armor. He felt relieved to be told that K'ven Bralor was still breathing, though. Zhi had tried days earlier to passively look the man up and see what information could be gleaned about him… But there wasn’t much. Plenty of the Mando'ade had been private with their information to begin with, and that seemed to be more true now than before.

K’ven had been at least a dozen years older than the young Jedi. They had never shared a cohort, and Zhi couldn't remember ever speaking to him much. But he knew enough. He knew that K'ven would have been missing his family for a decade before the stasis in carbonite. He knew K'ven's wife, Emeline. He had heard the stories she'd passed on to her daughters—whom he also knew and felt a burden of responsibility for. His mind itched to mentally replay the pod settings again in his mind, but Zhi quietly brushed the compulsion away. He'd checked and rechecked the math in those weeks until his mind ached. There was nothing more now that he could do about it except for what he was right here doing. K’ven would be in his forties now. There was no particular reason for the non-sensitive man to have ever even heard Zhi’s name; but between the intensity of Mandalorian fatherhood, family, and honor, prior familiarity was the last thing that mattered.

“Aliit before blood. Sir.” the tall black-haired young man lapsed back into Basic and dipped his chin.

“I need to find Bralor or at least your Interdictor. It doesn’t get more urgent to him or me. Please tell me how to meet them.”

This was either an elaborate rouse to gain access to a mandalorian of marginal political importance, or it was a peculiar but legitimate claim that this young man was making. Either way, Craddock trusted that his contact would be able to sort the situation out. That was sort of a specialty of theirs, if memory served. After a moment's steady regard, the mandalorian nodded his chin and pulled a data pad out of his hip case. As he began plugging in characters, he glanced back up at the young man.

"You haven't offered a name."

“I know.”

Zhi nodded acknowledgement. He’d thought about that already.

“Bralor doesn’t know me. I don’t have any names that would mean anything to him. Please tell them: it is a sensitive matter. I won’t insult him by putting his business under a spotlight without knowing the consequences. Or the messenger; with all thanks and respect.”