Nei
Far Adrift
Neigalomeatiga Waikatu, Son of Salt and Tide, Traveler of the Tuatahi sat outside the starport of Mos Eisley, amongst other vendors and trinket hawkers. His ship had died. His blaster broke on the last job. His armor beyond his ability to repair, and him without the tools or materials to even try with his talent at crafting. A canvas bag contained the remnants of his durasteel 'gam. But none of that was his focus right now. The mountain of a man, hair pulled back in a scalp knot and braided himself this morning, shone blue-black in the harsh sun as he shook his head and held the japor snippet he was carving between sausage like fingers that twirled the piece with surprising deft delicacy, the razor-sharp knife spinning and swirling around the piece that seemed to almost glow in the twilight rays of the twin suns.
These knives he had not sold, despite the hard times. Food had been bought as hired muscle and a gladiator first. Shame would have filled his father at that, but the Mandalorian had little else to turn to. Between carvings and the pit fights, he made enough to survive, if not thrive. Though eventually his strength or luck one would give out. Adjusting his bent back for comfort, dark brown eyes squinted at the piece in consideration as calloused hands turned it this way and that as if seeking answers to a question unspoken.
As he moved, the flap of the canvas gear bag slid open, revealing the broken visored helmet resting on top of his armor, all ignored as he worked on the piece at hand, humming in a deep baritone rumble.
Vren Rook
These knives he had not sold, despite the hard times. Food had been bought as hired muscle and a gladiator first. Shame would have filled his father at that, but the Mandalorian had little else to turn to. Between carvings and the pit fights, he made enough to survive, if not thrive. Though eventually his strength or luck one would give out. Adjusting his bent back for comfort, dark brown eyes squinted at the piece in consideration as calloused hands turned it this way and that as if seeking answers to a question unspoken.
As he moved, the flap of the canvas gear bag slid open, revealing the broken visored helmet resting on top of his armor, all ignored as he worked on the piece at hand, humming in a deep baritone rumble.
Vren Rook