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009. LEAVE NOTHING TO THE IMAGINATION
( —to present (something) in a very stark or obvious manner. )
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Surprise was an emotion Myra had never taken easily. She had laboured under the illusion of a possibility through the Sight that surprise was near to impossible.
Her head snapped in the direction of the door upon sudden footsteps. The Mandalorian, in all his winner glory and warrior blemishes, stood suavely with a hand resting on the frame. As if he were contemplative about stepping in and minding his own business.
She had spent too much of vehemence on keeping the village safe while the raiders had attacked and procured her own collection of bruises and wounds on her body. She sat at the foot of the bed, her shredded dress hanging in scraps as she cleaned the wounds with a damp towel. On a footstool near her was a basin of crimson coloured water, which she continued to soak in and scrub down her bruises.
"I never said my thanks," he started in a polite voice. But only, Myra didn't want to return it.
"For?"
"Helping out there."
"I did that for the tribe," she sighed. "Not you."
"Myra," he tried, exhausted about the feud between them. He had come in with no holes barred, the least she could do was hear him out.
"Just come in," she spoke clearly, shaking her head. "Platitudes are dead anyway."
Relieved that she had not put up a fight, the Mandalorian walked in slowly. The room was concise for a witch grown in the captivity of the doctrine, the floor matted with gold dust from her footsteps. He questioned it for a moment before seating himself beside her feet. His armour chinked with the movement to which, Myra cast him a weird glance.
