Seris inclined her head to Tekton when he made room for her. She settled near the fire with the two of them, close enough to be part of the conversation, but not so close that either felt crowded.
"Thank you," she said to Tekton first, before her attention shifted back to Quinn.
Her gaze settled on Quinn a little more fully then, not because of the title alone, but because of what came with it, recently crowned Queen of Eshan. Warden of a Mandalorian world. Seris did not need to know the whole history of Eshan to understand that being given a crown did not mean it sat lightly.
"Congratulations," Seris said, quiet but sincere.
"For the coronation. A crown is not a small thing to carry, not that I have any experience in such things." She offered it plainly, the smile on her lips carrying respect and a bit of admiration.
Only after that did Quinn's question about the clan draw a small, almost amused breath from her, not quite a laugh. It was not at Quinn's expense. If anything, the guess made more sense than Seris expected it to. Red hair, armor, and enough Verds in the galaxy to make the assumption a fair one. Still, there was something in Quinn's expression after the question, something brief and carefully hidden, that Seris noticed without knowing what to make of it.
"No," she said, a gentle laugh left her as she spoke.
"I am not a Verd. My mother managed to escape Mand'alor's father despite years of service in the Confederacy. I'm afraid somebody else stole her heart before he could."
Her grey-green eyes stayed on Quinn a moment longer, letting the answer sit there plainly before she looked toward the fire. The flames shifted across the white of her armor and caught in the copper of her hair, making it seem warmer than it was.
"My father was Clan Wren," she continued after a moment.
"I never knew him, so I suppose that makes the answer less simple than it should be."
There was no bitterness in the words, only a quiet honesty. Seris had spent most of her life with her mother's teachings, her mother's discipline, her mother's view of the Force and the galaxy. Mandalore had come to her later, carried in stories, blood, and a lightsaber given before she left. It was strange to stand here now and be asked what clan she belonged to when she was still learning what belonging was supposed to feel like.
Her gaze shifted to Tekton then, and there was a faint hint of dry humor in it, soft enough not to disturb the tone of the conversation.
"That is how it works, yes?" she asked him.
"If your father was Wren, and you came to Mandalore late, you do not simply choose a clan. I myself was a foundling until the Verd'goten." She looked back to Quinn after that, her expression easing slightly.
"So, Wren, I think. Unless someone decides to correct me before the night is over."
There was a small pause, and then her eyes moved briefly toward the larger fires where the younger Mandalorians were still making fools of themselves with enough confidence to make it almost admirable. The corner of her mouth lifted faintly.
"I am new enough to this that I am still deciding which parts are tradition and which parts are people using tradition as an excuse to do something reckless." Her gaze returned to Quinn, warmer now, but still measured.
"Though I suspect the answer is often both."
TAG:
Quinn Varanin
Tekton Artez
