Bankor

Odd was sitting before his quarters, beskar'gam off for cleaning and conservation. His Sidewinder was next in line for it.

Layne, obviously wounded, was wandering about the barracks area with purpose and an intense look. She was still hopped up on adrenaline and stim, and while she really needed some medical attention right now, Layne preferred to give priority to a shower first. Or whatever passed for one around here. And the barracks were closer than her ship was... the only problem was that because she did have her own ship with quarters onboard, she didn't actually have an assigned cot in one of the various structures. At least, she didn't think she did.

So when she found herself over to the nearest such structure, the bearded man sitting out in front of it might wonder what the hell she was doing there.

"You look run-down and a bit lost, woman." He remarked. "Sure you are in the right place? Maybe medbay be better?" His incredulousness was tempered by routine.

"Later," she said, dismissing the voiced concern. "I need to get some of this blood out first. There's showers in here, right?"

She looked at the gear, particularly the armor.

Well, if he's here he's with us at least.

"You people fight hard."

"I am a Vizsla, not a Kryze." He realised how her look at him correlated with her current general look. "But yes, Mandalorians usually do."

He paused. "The refresher I use is in there." He pointed with the hand with the polishing cloth, a tattoo of a shriek-hawk well-visible on his bicep.

"I don't really know the difference," she said, absent mindedly, then went inside unless Oddyn stopped her intent on explaining the difference.

Some time later, Layne would come back out. Still pretty hurt, obviously, but at least she'd gotten most of the blood and dirt out, and felt a little more calm and composed. Assuming the Mandalorian was still there doing maintenance, she would take a seat herself, and took out her two lightsabers... one of which looked pretty ancient and heavily modified. She wasn't going to take them apart or anything... especially given she still needed to get herself checked out... but she wanted to at least make sure they hadn't taken any damage.

He had finished on the armour and was currently cleaning the barrels of his gatling. Looking up at her, he said nothing until the lightsabres were produced. If there was a siren's song of the Force that linked the Vizsla to one particular sabre in the distant future, he might o might not have felt it. "Your tool of trade, and a status symbol." He chanced on giving his thoughts on it.

"This one," she said, the darksaber in hand, "is more than that."

"How so?" He stopped working on the barrel to contemplate the weapon before him, somehow drawn to it.

"It is unique, ancient, and belonged to my ancestor."

"A heirloom then." He nodded with respect. "Inspires you to emulate that ancestor?"

"Only when we're considering his behavior *after* death," she said, somewhat cryptically.

"Doesn't explain much, nor makes sense to me, but I don't judge." He shrugged and got back to cleaning the gunbarrel.

"Just means he did some bad things in life that I don't aim to replicate."

"So what's the reason for celebrating his blade?" Jedi were weird, but so were the Sith Lords.

"Celebrating? I don't celebrate the saber itself. It's a good, unique weapon, but ultimately just a tool. But it ties me to my blood."

"Mandalorians believe principles are more important than blood. You inherit someone's legacy when you follow it, not when you descend from them but reject what they did." He shrugged. "I guess it's different for you."

"I said I don't aim to emulate his behavior in *life*. I said nothing about not following his legacy."

"How can you have a legacy other than a life's example?" He scratched his beard. "Unless you mean something made up."

"Do Mando's never redeem themselves in the end?"

It was vague enough that she probably wouldn't have to find herself locked in an argument about ghosts.

"Depends. It's hard to do so. Resol'nare is less about glorious one-time deeds, and more about long-term commitments. So a singular heroic or about-face doesn't usually cut it."

"I see," she said simply. "Well, I'm not really talking about glorious deeds anyway."

She held the darksaber out, peering along the hilt with a single eye to check if nothing had been bent in ways it shouldn't.

He finished cleaning and began reassembly of his Sidewinder, a hell of a repeater.

"I am sure you have your logic for this or that. People tell themselves all kind of stories to make their lives make sense or just be convenient."

"And people say *I'm* a great conversationalist."

"Do you expect compliments?" He chuckled, then looked her over. "You look strong for kids your age."