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Chapter Two:
The Guest
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The rest of the day went by in a drone of insects and snuffling of wolves. Din wasn't really sure what to do with himself while he waited. She hadn't told him not to, but going inside without permission felt… rude. If nothing else, he didn't want to make her think he was sabotaging the home she'd built for herself or snooping for things to steal.
Eventually, he settled on sitting on the porch in one of the wooden rockers. But despite the constant hammering coming from somewhere above his head, all was peaceful. Warmed by the late afternoon sun, he caught himself nodding off.
Not that dozing in a situation like this was inherently a bad thing. On the contrary, learning to rest whenever you could was an important technique of the hunter lifestyle. But today the idea lost its appeal when he was startled back into consciousness by something cold and wet jutting in under his helmet and bumping into his chin.
Waking up to a gigantic wolf trying to smell under your helmet did not encourage peaceful slumber.
For a few moments, he sat stock still, worried that one wrong move would lead to him getting his throat torn out. But despite its size, the wolf seemed friendly. It's tail waved slowly from one side to the other, its sharp yellow eyes round and curious. It's fur was mottled brown and white, still halfway between its summer and winter coats, serving to make it look a bit rumpled and shaggy, but underneath, muscles rippled, strong as steel and born of the hunt.
The wolf continued nosing at his face, sniffing loudly at his clothing and armor.
"No," Din grunted when the beast tried worming its tongue under the rim of his helmet. He tried to push its great head away, his glove sinking deep into the patchy fur. "Go… go somewhere else."
The wolf wasn't at all perturbed. In fact, it seemed to take it as a sign that the strange faceless newcomer wanted to play. It tossed its head back and planted paws the size of Din's hands against his shoulders, knocking him back and making the chair rock as it did its level best to climb into his lap. Thankfully, it was too big to fit, and settled for draping the upper half of its body across his legs and mouthing at his gloved hands.
"Get… off…" Din struggled to his feet. Excited, the wolf leapt off his lap and danced in circles, almost knocking him down when it bowled into his legs.
"That's Nana." Din stiffened at the sound of the quarry's voice. She stood on the edge of the porch, pulling off her work gloves and tucking them into her belt. She was sweaty; strands of auburn hair that had fallen out of the braid fanned out around her face. Her pale eyes gleamed as brightly as the wolf's. "The babysitter. She cares for the pups. She likes to make friends."
The Mandalorian responded with a single curt nod. If the woman noticed his sheepishness at being snuck up on while struggling with the glorified dog, she didn't show it. Instead, she knocked the mud off her boots and vanished inside the house.
Din hesitated a moment, then followed - but not before knocking some of the mud off his boots as she had done.
The inside of the quarry's cottage was rustic and homey. It was built for function and maintaining heat during the winter months, but Din appreciated the decorative carvings in the tables and door frames; depictions of wolves, flowers, fish, and some of the megafauna that could be found on Movet.
The Mandalorian's hand twitched with the instinctive urge to catalogue his weapons when his eyes found the carving of an olarba; a great predator with the likeness of a bear, but twice the size and armed with razor sharp tusks.
The front of the house consisted of a seating area with worn green suede furniture surrounding a hearth. From there led two doors, one into a kitchen, and the other down a dark hallway.
The quarry jerked her chin to the hall. "Second door on the left."
She went in the direction of the kitchen, but stopped to kick aside a rug made from the same green fabric as the couch and chairs, revealing a trap door.
Din paused long enough to see her open the trap door and descend down a flight of stairs, presumably into a kind of cellar. He made a note of it, but didn't ask.
The second door to the left led to a small bedroom. It wasn't much, but more than adequate for his purposes. The covers were made of silky furs and the pillows were feather stuffed. There was a polished hardwood desk beneath a window looking out over the meadow, pale evening light filtering in through the thin curtains.
The Mandalorian took stock of everything in the room. A closet stuffed with winter boots and furs. A few penknives in the drawer of the desk, as well as some paper and matches to go with the small wood heater in the far corner. The door he originally thought led to a second closet yielded a small refresher, which he made use of.
When he felt certain the quarry hadn't left him any surprises, he eased down on the edge of the bed and tugged off his helmet. Sitting it carefully on the furs beside him, Din took a few moments to just sit and breathe. Although the day hadn't been particularly tough - long hikes weren't uncommon for someone in his profession - he felt drained. Maybe it was knowing that he could probably be back at the Crest by now and not at the mercy of a stranger.
Though to be fair, if he wasn't here, he'd probably be wolf-food by now. The other beasts didn't seem as overly-friendly as Nana.
Helmet off, he caught a whiff of cooking meat. His stomach growled. Night was falling, and he hadn't eaten since he left the Razor Crest around dawn. Remembering her promise of food, he replaced his helmet and made his way silently back into the main foyer.
The quarry had returned from the cellar, the entrance to which now closed and hidden by the rug. She stood by the stove over a large pot, stirring. On the counter was a slab of still frozen meat wrapped in cloth. Venison, at a guess.
She must have felt him looming in the doorway, because she didn't so much as glance his way before addressing him. "Top shelf, left side. The jar of peppers."
Din complied, finding the jar and passing it to her. She hummed in assent. He spent the next ten minutes or so fetching - and in once case cutting - the odds and ends that went into the pot, which was now brimming with a thick, hearty stew.
If the quarry thought it were odd to have a large armoured man in her kitchen, she hid it well. Din certainly thought it bizarre. He was armed to the teeth; still wearing his blaster with his rifle slung over his shoulder, but he was cutting potatoes and tossing them into the pot (after her insisting that he take off his gloves and wash his hands, of course).
Din was quietly proud of how neatly he was able to dice the potatoes, and was glad for the privacy his helmet offered when the quarry nodded her approval of the tidy little cubes - they would cook even.
It was weird.
Unexpectedly nice, but weird.
Domesticity was foreign to him. There had been some elements of it built into the communal lifestyle of Mandalorian barracks; taking turns cooking and cleaning for the group and caring for foundlings. But he hadn't spent much time in the covert since he'd come of age and set out on his own.
Din was more than a little bewildered at his own disappointment when the quarry turned off the stove and set the pot to the side. She fetched a large bowl from another cabinet and filled it with a heaping portion of stew.
She passed it to him along with a spoon and a large empty glass. "If you want more, help yourself. There's plenty."
"Thank you," Din said.
The quarry nodded, the barest hint of a smile twitching up the corners of her lips. Instead of making a bowl for herself, she kicked off her work boots and padded back to the door in her socks. There were a pair of rubber boots sitting by the door, caked in mud and what appeared to be dried blood.
"Where are you going?" Din asked before he could catch himself.
She toed on the boots. "Guests aren't the only ones needing fed."
The quarry vanished into the night.
Of course she would want to feed the wolves before sitting down to dinner. He had been listening to their impatient barks and yelps growing louder over the last few minutes. Maybe it was a side effect of being so violently blindsided by home-making, but he felt the urge to set his bowl down and wait for her to come back before he settled in to eat.
It was ridiculous, of course. Also pointless. Not that he could sit and eat with her anyway.
Reprimanding himself for foolishness as his gut twisted in a way that felt suspiciously like loss - or even worse, regret - Din filled his glass with water and banished himself back into the guest room.
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