Across the skies

One year later

Guinevere had her feet kicked up on the table of the cantina as she milked her second drink of warm liquor. The tip of her ring finger traced the lip of her cup as she lost herself in her head. The cantina was brimming with so many differing emotions: jealousy, inadequacy, confidence, lust, anxiety. They all lived inside of her and filled the air around her until she was practically swimming in them.

She blinked and pulled her attention back to the present as she felt a shift in the Force. Somewhere behind her, someone felt conniving.

Her head ticked slightly to the side as she honed in on them over everyone else.

"I'm telling you, it's her. They all say the identifier is that scar on her cheek."

She lifted her hand to trace her middle finger along the thick scar plaguing the apple of her cheek as it sliced up horizontally to her temple.

"They say she got the scar from an actual Clone back in the days of Order 66. She barely escaped with her life before she became known as a traitor to the Republic."

She dropped her hand from her face to grip onto the hilt of her lightsaber. Her teeth gritted as she fought through her own rising fury. It drowned out all the other emotions in the cantina until she only felt her boiling rage. Her fingers tightened until her knuckles bleached and the lightsaber shook in her grip.

Her anger faded out, however, as the door to the cantina opened and a figure stepped in. With him, came an overwhelming sense of urgency. It drove off of him in hammering waves that crashed through her resolve until she could feel nothing but his intrusive emotions.

Her grip slipped from her weapon as she felt her heart speed up in worry. Whatever was concerning the new bar patron, it plagued her.

She lifted her gaze to the door to see a man adorned in the shiniest beskar armor she had ever seen. It was a startling sterling silver with no imperfections or paints to blemish its surface. The armor covered the front of his thighs, pauldron proudly sat on his shoulders and fitted over his biceps while his chest and torso held a thick plate cut into three separate parts that intersected so there wasn't a single weak spot along his front. His helmet, probably his most defining feature, had cheeks carved out of it that gave him a depth. The T of his visor dug into the helmet and was set with a black glass that refused to let any light in.

A Mandalorian.

Guinevere smirked at the thought of the previous Mandalorian she had come across. In her entire life she had only heard stories, and now in the span of a year she had come across two.

The entire cantina broke out in an infectious case of bundling nerves. They whispered about the man who walked to the bar. He had a mysterious silence about him. Even his footsteps were light over the concrete floor. Though every pair of eyes in the place were on him, he kept his gaze locked on the bartender.

"Do you have any bread and soup available?"

It was such an innocent question for a man of his stature to ask. The bartender must of thought the same as confusion flooded through him.

Her right brow twitched up as her gaze flicked from the bartender to the Mandalorian. He had his gloved hands placed softly on the bartop as he watched the bartender walk off to retrieve his order.

Her head fell to the side in deep though, causing both of her braids to slide along her shoulder blades.

"Oi, Mandalorian," she called out to him.

The stiff figure turned at the sound of her voice and stared her down, his entire helmet bending forward in order for him to see her. A rush of familiarity fell over him and swam across the divide to her.