☆

ID :    djarin,    @mandoacreed 
            
            you got it covered,    eh?    ( ... )    i can pay,    love.    's alright—

[ din goes quiet—-  more than usual.  slowly,  gloved hand lifts to brush against the now brown locks;   it felt   &   looked like he was a completely different person but one glimpse to the hazel eyes is enough of a ressurance that   /this/   was still cobb.   a scoff breaks through the helmet’s modulator. ]
            
            ...  not—-  bad.   just different.  did she  ‘attack’  you while you slept? 

i.    @mandoacreed 
            
            jo happened.    said i gotta start    'takin'    care o'    my hair',    whatever that means.    ( ... )     's bad,    ain't it?    :/

i.    @mandoacreed 
            
            suit yourself.    *   hand clutching a pouch full of water is extended    &    offered out to din,    &    cobb stands upright once more,    scarf wiping the last remaining beads of sweat from his face.    the suns will weather anyone,    no matter how much armor they may have protecting themself—    he's sure din knows this,    &    opts not to press.    *    i gotta head in t'    town later.    jo says she saw some guys walkin'    'round the territories,    so...    *    a beat.    cobb chuckles,    brow arching as he examines din's body language.    *
            
            ...    you sure you're alright,    partner?

[   time freezes for a moment    &    he blinks at the nickname,  having grown foreign to it as the last time he had heard it from the marshal—   he could barely recall said night.   his gaze drops,   even if cobb can’t see his eyes,   because he feels like he might.   a breath leaves him before he dares to look back up at his sunkissed face,   a sigh leaving his mouth,   sweat collecting on his upper lip  &   trousled hair beneath the helmet.   ]   
            
            i’m alright.  

i.    @mandoacreed 
            
            *    a chuckle escapes chapped lips,    &    metal arm reaches up to swipe across the sweaty skin of his forehead,    wet beneath the glowering heat of the twin suns.    *    nothin'    yet.    waitin'    for the banthas t'    get overwhelmed by the heat—    that's when everything goes sideways.    ( ... )    you not bakin'    alive under all that beskar,    darlin'?

[   even when symbolism was as meaningful to someone like din,   he still thought a little less of the authority the scarf represented,  mainly because he had deconstructed every other meaning and attributed the fabric to cobb  / only. /   the warmth,  the softness.  his gaze stays on their hands as his fingers linger over his own,  before he is stuffing the scarf in his pocket and looking around cobb’s small house.  ]  
            
            however long you’ll have me.  i don’t have anywhere to be—  not for now,  at least. 

i.    @mandoacreed 
            
            yeah,    it was.    kinda.
            
            *    it had started as just a scarf,    of course—    one used to hide the mark branded on to his neck,    then to protect his face during sandstorms,    then as a badge.    a badge that is no longer cobb's to wear.    he's not the protector of the town anymore,    but din is still a mandalorian.    he protects more than cobb does.
            
            hand brushes along din's gloved one for a moment longer than intended,    &    he turns back to busying himself with the pile of old clothes strewn across the room.    *    
            
            yeah.    yeah,    uh—    are ya...    leavin'    soon?    how long do i got with ya?

you talk as if it was a badge.
            
            [   he notices,  but doesn’t complain when he takes the scarf back from the marshal,   brushing the fabric with his gloved thumb and forefinger almost too affectionately  ]
            
            [   at the mention of the weather,   the facade is also broken down and din chuckles for the first time in a while.  though cobb might not know  ]  
            
            something to remember you by,   i suppose.  whenever i’m not—  here.  

she didn't have to  'do anything'  for me to not like her.  her personality is enough. 　[ she almost forgot how much worse the heat feels you're wearing all black,  not like that'll stop her though, ] 　and it's— 　[ a sharp breath, ] 　fair.  she doesn't like me either.

watch it.    i don't care how y'feel    'bout me,    but jo didn't do nothin'    to ya.    *    rolling his eyes,    he scratches at his beard as he treks through the streets,    lugging a large box of scrap in his arms.    *    hurry up.    i ain't waitin'    for ya.

i don't like jo. 　[ she states simply,  following after him like a very upset child, ] 　i don't like you either but jo is worse.

/ !!

/⠀does a dance

/  well well well

/   giggles n kicks feet

ᵗʰᵉ marshal's TALE!    //    ACT III..  ⁿᵒ. ²¹  ( rey skywalker! )  ,  @quarterstaffs
            
            mos eisley spaceport,    eh?    no.    no,    you ain't goin'    the right way,    stranger.    you're in mos pelgo territory.    *    while it's been decades since cobb had been marshal of free town,    the intrigue    &    suspicion surrounding newcomers—    especially now,    what with the first order—    had yet to disappear for good.    *    mos eisley's that way.

/⠀spam on @calavity rn

/⠀fiiiiine i'll bring back vi