Colours of Manda'yaim

1 Grey

It was cold, bitter cold. The icy wind was tugging at her dark cloak and it made her shiver. Glimpsing up into the twilight the only thing she could see were clouds. The image of what this moon's sun must be profoundly hidden.

Nestling with the dark woollen cape at the crook of her neck she got the hood loose. Despite the immediate loss of some warmth around her neck and throat – the black scarf had to be sufficient – she pulled the hood up hiding deep within.

Wrapping the cape around her form she felt better protected from what she had to face: the long walk across the icy field, the harsh winds and whatever was to await her in the cantina.

Though cut off from her surroundings by her clothing the lingering shiver still did not leave her, did not cut her off from the subliminal feeling. For several months she had already felt it. It had pulled her and it had guided her.

She made her way across the icy toward the few buildings. Even if she didn't exactly knew where to go, which building it was that would intensify the notion, the cantina was always a good guess.

And she could actually feel it getting stronger with each step that brought her closer to the cantina. For once she did not hate it to have these strange feelings. This was a new sensation for her, to actually appreciate to be guided in a way.

Almost soundlessly the door to the cantina slid open. Host and costumers slightly stirring to the intrusion of the cold gust that came with the newcomer. Some mumbled grouchily.

For the landlord a newcomer meant a new opportunity of business, of credits. But the feeling that he got from the cloaked and hooded figure standing in the doorframe was not a good one. He overcome his instinct, after all kinds of customers had come to his cantina and so it didn't matter if this new costumer was humanoid or not.

"Come in, stranger! It's cold enough outside. No need to have it also cold in here," he gave what he thought an amiable smile. Actually he didn't care if the greed for credits could be seen in his eyes or not.

One or the other present figure either nodded or grunted affirmation. But besides that they kept silent, having learnt from the incident just a few days earlier. Although they might have felt a slice of pity for the Mythrol when he got cornered at first. But as soon as the armoured hunter had appeared and cleared the room in a very convincing way everyone's interest in their beverage, the table in front of them or the blank wall had grown immensely.

The lingering feeling had slightly intensified, yet not enough to trust, follow or identify it wholeheartedly. The landlord's voice pulled her out of a moment of contemplation in which she inwardly scanned the room.

Turning her hooded head slightly she took in the interior – a dirty backwater cantina as any other – yet. The dim lights did nothing to hide its shabbiness. She felt the bland notion at the entrance. The blood had been washed away, but it was almost like she could smell it.

Ever so slightly her right hand moved from its position next to her side forward, outward – a quick gesture easily missed. A gesture which was not taught and learnt but which was dictated by her subconscious mind. Only a trained eye might have seen her gloved palm hovering in a delicate arc, her fingers slightly spreading once.

Following this instinct she moved up to the bar, her hand passing along a measured length, hoovering just inches above its surface. She felt the flare of anger and impatience that had sparked here.

Her head turned abruptly, her followed the move. There – there it was again, the notion. Closer to the middle of the room. Duller this time. Duller than at the bar and much duller than at the entrance, yet it was there.

She moved to the table emanating the pull on her, radiation dully with the notions she was able to pick up. Stilling in front of it, slowly her hood tilted down.

After circling the table she glided into a seat facing the room. Conveniently she had everybody present in her line of sight. Unobserved by the others her palm pressed against the underside of the table. Feelings of confidence, only a bit of impatience and irritation tickled her fingers.

"A quiet one. A very strange one. Not unlike…", the landlord stopped himself from remembering the recent event while he studied the sitting shrouded figure. He hoped that not thinking about the commotion would keep it from getting repeated.

Not that there is much to see of this customer. Just someone cloaked and deeply hooded in a dark fabric. But he had heard it. The thud of heavy-duty boots, a soft jingle of metal and a quick glimpse of it too. Something silvery and black along calves and thighs as they had walked in. But he did not hear the sound of a tracking fob, that was a good sign so far. He didn't want another bounty hunter in his bar, they were not good for business.

He had to categorize the impressions fast while the figure was about to sit. Nobody in this area wanted to be observed too closely. Involuntarily his thoughts trailed again back a few days. That damn Mandalorian had wreaked havoc on his cantina.

When the hood sharply zoomed in on him he swallowed down a stab of fear and walked over. After all they were a customer, there was still the chance to make some credits.

As the landlord moved his body from behind the bar towards her table she leant forward. An unseen smile creeping into her face. An aspired "Good boy" went unheard. Even less audible was the "Saves me to move," that followed. She wanted information. The kind of information not normally came not willingly without making her suspicious by asking about it, but he made her task easy by placing his hands on the table.

Before he could address her she quietly formed her question without moving her lips.

"What happened," a voice whispered in his head. He felt a gloved hand cover his and at the same moment he was overcome by a feeling not unsimilar to having run into a wall. He couldn't twitch a single muscle and more than unbidden his mind replayed every single moment since the Mandalorian had entered his cantina. He couldn't help but remember minute by minute, even second by second. In his mind he could see and remember details which has escaped his eyes because of the rashness of events back then. And it made him cringe.

As his own inner eye sees the bounty hunter leave his business with his prey in tow, the door closing behind them the tightening sensation slowly left his form.

A rasped and distorted "Thank you for letting me warm up," had him grumpily growl "Whatever." He turned briskly as soon as the glove lost contact to his hand. How long had he been standing at the table? Why had he gone over to the table anyway?