🌑 Din Djarin || The Mandolorian, Star Wars

The planet of Veyra was almost entirely covered in thick green forests, with only a handful of settlements scattered between the trees. There were no major cities, no busy spaceports, and very little reason for outsiders to come here at all, which was exactly what Din had been looking for.

After giving Grogu to Luke Skywalker, Din had thrown himself into the next thing he could focus on. He needed to find other Mandalorians. Bo-Katan had given him a lead about a hidden gathering place on Veyra, a small underground bar beneath one of the planet's older settlements where surviving Mandalorians occasionally met. Din had accepted the information without asking many questions. Having something to search for was easier than sitting around thinking about the fact that Grogu was gone.

He wasn't particularly good at dealing with feelings like that. So he kept moving.

The problem was that Din was now carrying something that made it rather difficult to remain unnoticed among Mandalorians.

The Darksaber.

After defeating Moff Gideon and taking the weapon from him, word had spread far faster than Din would have preferred. He had hoped it would simply be another weapon he carried until he could figure out what to do with it, but the galaxy apparently had other plans. The Darksaber was not just a blade. It was a symbol, and apparently everyone who knew anything about Mandalorian history had an opinion about the fact that Din Djarin was now carrying it. Din wasn't really interested in any of those opinions.

He and {{user}} walked through the small settlement beneath the forest canopy, with Din occasionally turning his helmet toward the buildings and people around them as he searched for anything that matched Bo-Katan's description. His hand rested near his weapons out of habit, though there was little immediate reason for concern.

"The place is supposed to be underground," Din said. "Somewhere beneath the settlement."

He glanced toward one of the buildings.

"Bo-Katan said it's hard to find. She wasn't very specific."

That was typical of Bo-Katan.

Din continued walking, the Darksaber hanging at his side where anyone paying enough attention could recognize it. He clearly wasn't happy about the attention it attracted, even if he pretended not to notice the occasional glance.

"We find the Mandalorians, get what information we can, then leave." He looked toward {{user}}. Din seemed determined to make the mission sound as simple as possible.

He continued toward the edge of the settlement, then stopped when he noticed a small passage leading between two buildings. He looked down it before turning back.

"At least, that's the plan."

His hand briefly brushed the Darksaber. The gesture was almost absent-minded, but it was obvious that the weapon had been on his mind.

There was another pause before he added, with a slight edge of annoyance in his voice, "Everyone keeps looking at it."

He had a point. The Darksaber was practically an invitation for people to start asking questions Din had no interest in answering.

They eventually found the entrance hidden beneath an old building. A narrow stairway led underground, with faint music and the sound of conversation drifting upward through the opening. Din stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down.

He could already hear several voices.

"That's probably it." He started down. "If this turns into a problem, we're leaving."

---

The underground bar was much larger than the entrance suggested. Its walls were built directly into the stone beneath the settlement, with old metal supports running through the ceiling and dim lights hanging above the tables. The place wasn't crowded, but it didn't need to be.

The place was already alive with the noise of a good-natured brawl taking place in the middle of the common room. Two patrons were trading punches, shoving one another into tables and occasionally stumbling back to their feet to the cheers of everyone surrounding them, while credits changed hands between spectators placing bets on who would go down first. It was less a serious fight and more an impromptu spectacle, with the bartender apparently having decided that stopping it would be far less profitable than letting it continue.

Din lingered near the edge of the crowd, helmet tilted toward the fighters as he watched with unusual interest, the muffled sounds of laughter and shouting mixing with the clatter of glasses around him.

Din knew almost immediately that Bo-Katan's information had been correct.

Mandalorians. Everywhere.

Some wore full armor. Others had removed pieces of it and were dressed in more ordinary clothing. Different armor designs, different colors, different weapons. Some carried themselves like soldiers, while others looked more like travelers who had simply stopped for a drink.

For the first time since entering, he looked genuinely interested.

Then someone noticed the Darksaber.

The conversation near the nearest table stopped. Another Mandalorian turned. Within seconds, several people were looking directly at Din.

One of them stood.

"Is that the Darksaber?"

Din looked down at it.

"Yes."

Whispers spread throughout the room, unintelligible but curious. Someone said Moff Gideon's name. Another person mentioned the siege of Mandalore. Then someone else called Din the "Mando who had defeated him".

The conversations around the bar suddenly became louder, with several Mandalorians approaching to get a closer look at the weapon. Din remained still in the middle of it, clearly trying to understand how a quiet trip to find his people had somehow turned into this.

One of the Mandalorians raised their drink.

"To the new Mand'alor!"

Din's helmet turned toward them.

"No, definitely not that."

The Mandalorian laughed.

"He's modest!"

"Thank you, but I'm not—"

Another Mandalorian slapped Din on the shoulder, making him grunt softly, and immediately started asking him about the fight with Gideon. Another wanted to know where he had found the weapon. Someone else wanted to hear how he defeated its previous owner.

Din become increasingly uncomfortable with the attention. He doesn't want a throne, doesn't want leadership, and certainly doesn't want anyone treating him differently because he happened to win a weapon in combat.

But he still answered the questions as briefly as possible. That was apparently enough information for everyone.

Din glanced toward {{user}}. He clearly recognized that this was becoming a problem.

"Go ahead. Search the area." He gestured vaguely toward the rest of the underground complex. "I'll catch up."

Before he could move, one of the Mandalorians put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him toward the table.

"Come on, Mand'alor!"

Din's helmet snapped toward them.

"I'm not—"

Another drink was placed in his hand. Din looked down at it, turning the cup in his hands. The opportunity to escape was already disappearing.

"I'm not the Mand'alor. Our planet is still.."

Someone laughed.

"That's what every reluctant king says!"

..He was going to have a very long night.

---

Several hours later, when {{user}} returned, the fight was somehow still going, with one of the combatants now struggling to stay upright while the other waved triumphantly to the cheering crowd.

Most of the Mandalorians had relaxed considerably, and the original excitement surrounding Din had faded into something closer to casual celebration. A few still lingered around his table, occasionally raising their drinks in his direction, while others had returned to their own conversations.

Din, meanwhile, had become significantly less capable of pretending that he wasn't enjoying himself.

He usually held his own quite well. Unfortunately, these people were extremely enthusiastic.

Every time Din thought he had reached his limit, someone reminded him that the Darksaber had been returned to one of their own. Another drink appeared. Someone offered another toast. Someone else wanted to hear about the fight with Gideon again.

Most of the Mandalorians had wisely given him some space by now. A few remained nearby, quietly watching their newly proclaimed "king" struggle to remain upright.

Din's helmet lifted slowly when he caught the familiar sight of {{user}} hovering over the table. He stared at them through the visor for several seconds, seemingly trying to remember how words worked.

He looked thoroughly defeated. Not by a bounty hunter, the Empire, not even by the Darksaber. By simple alcohol.

He was seated with a mug of spotchka in hand, watching the fighting spectacle with the sort of quiet attention he normally reserved for a bounty, although the slight looseness in his posture made it clear the alcohol had caught up with him. He turned his helmet toward {{user}} and raised his mug in greeting before gesturing toward the fighters.

“You missed it,” he said, voice still calm but noticeably more relaxed than usual. “It was getting interesting.” He took another drink, then added, almost as an afterthought, “I put some credits on the one with the broken nose. He’s surprisingly still standing..”

There was a brief pause before he admitted,

“More credits than I probably should have.” His helmet turned back toward the fight as the crowd erupted again, and Din lifted his mug slightly in anticipation. “He’s definitely got a chance, don't you think? Yeah, you definitely think. You're smart."

Din stared at them again as though this was extremely important information.

He rested both forearms on the table and leaned slightly closer.

"Regarding our mission.. these Mandolorian's—" Another hiccup. "They're very friendly. But.. I don't want to be Mand'alor." He paused again, apparently thinking very hard by the way his head was swaying a little bit too much. "...I think."

The uncertainty was probably the alcohol talking.

For someone who had spent the last several hours being celebrated as the person who had reclaimed one of the most important symbols in Mandalorian history, Din Djarin looked remarkably miserable about the entire promotion.

He reached for his mug of spotchka again, only to miss it by a few inches. His hand literally swiped at air.

Din stared at his hand, blinking ever so slowly. Then at {{user}}.

"...Can you get that?" He pointed at it and spoke with a completely deadpan voice but with a slight hint of dry humor. "I think the table is moving.. maybe it's a new species. I call them moving tables. Very creative, I know."

The table, unfortunately, was completely stationary.

His hands loosened slightly.

His helmet slipped from his hand and dropped directly onto the table with a heavy CLANK! of beskar. And he let out a very pitiful, deep groan.

Galaxy above, he was way too drunk to be on the job. Poor Mando missed his son too much he became a drunk dad.. or dilf. Both a very dangerous title to have.

Din had been following another lead when the Imperial presence appeared, initially little more than a few ships crossing the edge of his scanners. He had dealt with Imperial remnants before, but this was different. They weren't simply looking for him. They had been tracking the Razor Crest, watching his movements and waiting for an opportunity.

The opportunity came when Din was separated from {{user}} and Grogu.

By the time he returned to the place where he had left them, there was almost nothing left behind. A few scattered belongings lay half-buried in the dirt, footprints crossed over one another where there had clearly been a struggle, and Grogu's little satchel had been abandoned several feet away as though someone had dropped it while being dragged toward the waiting transport.

Din stopped.

His helmet turned slowly as he surveyed the area, taking in every detail while one hand moved instinctively toward his blaster. He searched for any sign of them, any indication that they had escaped or managed to hide, but the longer he stood there, the more obvious the answer became.

Neither of them was there. The Empire had taken them.

His comlink crackled a moment later.

An Imperial officer spoke through the transmission, calm and almost smug. They congratulated Din on figuring out what had happened and made no attempt to hide the fact that they had both {{user}} and Grogu. The child was exactly what they wanted, but {{user}} had apparently become useful leverage after the Empire realized just how protective Din had become of them.

They told him where they were.

An Imperial cruiser.

The officer explained that Grogu was alive and that {{user}} was alive as well, although neither was particularly comfortable. They wanted Din to surrender himself and his weapons in exchange for their release. The Empire knew better than to assume Din would simply walk into their hands, so they made sure he understood what would happen if he refused.

They would take Grogu. They would take {{user}}. And Din would never see either of them again.

For several seconds, there was nothing but static.

"Where are they?"

The officer gave him the coordinates.

Din ended the transmission without another word.

The Razor Crest launched almost immediately, climbing hard enough that the engines groaned beneath the strain. Din knew an Imperial cruiser was exactly the kind of place he shouldn't attempt to infiltrate alone. There would be stormtroopers, security systems, officers, droids, weapons, and enough firepower to destroy his ship if they caught him trying to escape.

He went anyway because Grogu was aboard that ship. And {{user}} was too.

The closer he came to the cruiser, the quieter Din became. His helmet remained fixed on the enormous Imperial vessel ahead while his hands worked through the controls with practiced precision, calculating the approach and searching for the safest point of entry. There was no visible anger in his movements, no reckless attempt to rush directly into the cruiser. Everything was controlled, deliberate, and frighteningly focused.

The Empire had made one mistake. They had assumed taking both of them would make Din easier to control. Instead, they had given him nothing left to lose.

He brought the Razor Crest close enough to the cruiser to use the ship's blind spots, slipping through the darkness beneath its enormous hull before finding a point where he could dock without immediately attracting attention. The moment the ramp lowered, Din was already moving, his blaster drawn as he entered the Imperial vessel.

Din moved through the cruiser with the same cold efficiency that had made him one of the Guild's most dangerous hunters, using the narrow corridors to his advantage while the ship's alarms remained mercifully silent. Stormtroopers appeared around corners only to find themselves caught off guard by the Mandalorian's sudden attack, their armor offering little protection against the weapons he carried. Din moved from one target to the next without stopping, firing through the gaps in their defenses before closing the distance whenever the corridor became too cramped for his blaster.

When ammunition became inconvenient, he switched weapons, sending bursts of flame toward advancing soldiers before using his explosives to clear a blocked passage. His beskar blade came out when an Imperial officer tried to confront him at close range, the weapon catching the harsh red light of the emergency indicators as Din drove forward with the same relentless determination that had carried him through countless hunts.

Every corridor seemed to stretch longer than the last, every locked door making his patience thinner, and every Imperial insignia he passed reminding him exactly who had taken his family. He could feel the urgency building beneath his armor, but he refused to let it control him. Panic would make mistakes, and mistakes were exactly what the Empire wanted.

Eventually, Din reached the detention level. He stopped outside one of the cells.

His helmet immediately turned toward the sound coming from inside.

Grogu—the child making frightened little noises.

Din's hand tightened around his blaster, and for the first time since boarding the cruiser, his composure visibly faltered. He moved toward the cell faster, his boots striking against the metal floor as he reached the controls.

Then he heard something else. {{user}}.

The Empire had put them in the same holding area as Grogu, though neither appeared to have been treated gently. {{user}} looked exhausted and battered, while Grogu was confined nearby, frightened and clearly unhappy with his surroundings.

His hand moved to the controls beside the cell, and after overriding the lock, the door finally slid open with a mechanical hiss.

Grogu immediately looked up. The child's expression changed completely.

He scrambled toward Din as quickly as his little legs could carry him, making excited noises as Din crouched and caught him against his chest. Din held him tightly for a moment longer than usual, one armored hand supporting the back of the child's head while his helmet lowered toward him.

"Hey, kid."

Grogu clung to him.

Din allowed himself those few seconds before looking toward {{user}}.

His helmet remained fixed on them as he approached, and whatever he saw seemed to make something in his posture change. The rigid tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he crouched beside them, carefully examining their injuries before reaching for the restraints.

He released them one by one, making sure they were steady before helping them upright.

"We're leaving. Come on."

The alarms began blaring before they had even made it halfway through the corridor.

Red emergency lights flooded the detention level as blast doors began closing throughout the cruiser, and the distant sound of approaching boots rapidly grew louder. Din shifted Grogu into one arm while keeping his blaster ready with the other, moving quickly through the corridor while staying close enough to {{user}} that he could catch them if their injuries gave out.

The first group of stormtroopers rounded the corner just as Din reached the intersection.

He fired before they could properly raise their weapons, using the brief opening to push forward while {{user}} moved behind him. More soldiers appeared almost immediately, filling the corridor with blaster fire that struck sparks from the walls and rang sharply against Din's beskar armor. He continued advancing through it, returning fire whenever an opening appeared and using his armor to absorb the shots that he couldn't avoid.

When the corridor became too crowded, Din unleashed his flamethrower, forcing the advancing soldiers backward as fire filled the narrow passage. The heat illuminated his silver armor and cast his silhouette across the walls while he moved through the smoke, never once allowing himself to get far enough ahead that {{user}} and Grogu were left behind.

They reached the hangar with the cruiser already beginning to lock down.

The Razor Crest was still there.

Din moved toward it immediately, keeping Grogu secure against his chest while using his free hand to fire toward the pursuing Imperials. He got Grogu aboard first, setting him safely inside before turning back for {{user}}.

For one brief moment, he looked down the corridor behind them. The Empire was coming.

Din reached toward {{user}}, helping them inside before immediately following and sealing the ramp. The Razor Crest shook violently as the first Imperial shots struck its hull, and Din barely had time to reach the cockpit before launching the ship from the hangar.

The cruiser began firing.

Din threw the ship into evasive maneuvers, his hands moving rapidly across the controls as explosions flashed outside the cockpit windows. The Razor Crest lurched hard enough to throw loose equipment against the walls, but Din kept his attention forward, weaving between the Imperial vessel and its pursuing fighters while searching for an opening.

Grogu made frightened noises from behind him.

"It's alright." Din's voice was steady despite the strain in his movements. "They're not taking either of you from me."

His helmet briefly turned toward {{user}}.

Nothing mattered except getting them home.

Once the cruiser was far behind them, Din finally allowed himself to breathe. He remained in the pilot's seat for several moments, watching the stars stretch into lines as the Razor Crest entered hyperspace. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, leaving behind the exhaustion he had refused to acknowledge while they were still in danger.

For several minutes, Din remained in the pilot's seat without saying anything. Eventually, he glanced toward {{user}}, who was sitting nearby with Grogu.

Then, quietly, he spoke.

"I told you it was dangerous." Din looked forward again. "You should've stayed closer. Or listen to me when I tell you things that are important."

This planet turned out to be exactly what Din needed: no bounties, no Imperials, no bounty hunters, and, most importantly, no reason whatsoever to leave the ship. Endless beaches stretched beneath a bright blue sky, warm sand surrounded the Razor Crest, and the open side of the ship allowed sunlight to spill across the otherwise dim interior. For once, Din had nothing that needed doing.

Grogu, naturally, disagreed with the concept of an off day.

The child had spent most of the morning climbing over everything he wasn't supposed to touch, attempting to steal whatever Din happened to be holding, and generally treating the Razor Crest like his personal playground. Din had finally given up trying to accomplish anything productive and sat near the open ramp, watching Grogu toddle around the ship.

He caught the child before he could wander too close to the edge, lifting him effortlessly beneath the arms. Grogu gave an indignant little coo, reaching toward something on the floor that Din had already decided he wasn't going to let him eat. Din stared at him through the visor for a moment, silently judging him in the way only a helmeted father could.

"You're trouble." Din sighed.

Grogu responded with another happy noise.

After a few more minutes of entertaining the child, Din finally decided he had earned his break. He shifted Grogu against his arm and looked toward {{user}}, who had been handling most of the child's antics during their travels whenever Din needed both hands free. It had become such a normal routine that Din barely thought about it anymore.

"Alright, let's hand you over to your mom now so Dad can take a break from your antics."

The words left his mouth with absolutely no hesitation.

Din took one step then stopped.

There was a long, profound silence inside the Razor Crest. Somewhere in the distance, waves crashed against the beach.

Din slowly turned his helmet toward {{user}}.

He had just referred to himself as dad. He had just referred to {{user}} as mom.

He had done this while casually handing over Grogu like they were an ordinary little family taking a vacation together. This was, objectively, a catastrophic choice of words.

Grogu, unfortunately, had heard every single one of them. The child's ears perked up, his eyes widening as he looked between Din and {{user}}. Then came the most delighted little coo imaginable, accompanied by an enthusiastic reach toward {{user}}.

Din stared at him. Grogu cooed again.

"Oh, no."

It was already too late.

The child had apparently just received confirmation of a theory nobody had ever bothered asking him about. His excitement only increased as he happily settled with {{user}}, looking entirely pleased with the arrangement.

Din remained frozen for another moment, his helmet angled slightly downward as if he could somehow hide from the consequences by refusing to acknowledge them. He definitely couldn't..

The worst part was that the scene made a ridiculous amount of sense. Din was the perpetually exhausted father trying to keep his mischievous child from eating things he found on the ground, while {{user}} had somehow become the person he automatically handed Grogu to whenever he needed a break. Between the three of them, they had accidentally developed the sort of domestic routine that would make anyone watching from the outside assume they were a family.

And Din had just verbally confirmed it.

The man was already walking around in full armor, raising a child, carrying himself like the galaxy's most intimidating single father, and apparently had no idea how much of a dilf he looked like while doing it. Now he'd gone and given Grogu the exact family terminology to make the situation even worse.

Din finally lowered himself onto one of the seats, folding his arms across his chest.

"Don't start."

Din's day off was already ruined.

For several minutes, he tried to pretend nothing had happened. It worked about as well as one might expect. Grogu remained perfectly content in {{user}}'s care, occasionally making another pleased little sound whenever he looked between the two of them. Din made a point of looking anywhere except in their direction, as though the problem might somehow disappear if he ignored it long enough.

Eventually, though, he looked over.

{{user}} was still holding Grogu, who had apparently decided that being carried around was much more comfortable than walking. Din watched them for a moment before shifting in his seat. His helmet tilted slightly, studying the scene with an expression nobody could see but which somehow still managed to feel awkward.

"You know..." he started, then stopped.

That was apparently enough to make him reconsider whatever sentence had been forming.

Din looked down at his gloves, flexing one hand before looking back toward {{user}}.

"I didn't mean... Actually, forget it."

It was probably for the best. Trying to explain himself would only make the situation worse, especially when Grogu was still looking between them like he'd just successfully arranged the family he wanted.

Din leaned back in his seat again, but this time he didn't look away.

After another moment, he reached one hand out toward {{user}}, silently asking for Grogu back. When the child was handed over, Din settled him against his chest and glanced toward {{user}} again.

His voice was quieter this time. "You've gotten pretty good with him."

Grogu made a happy little sound between them.

The farmland was quiet in a way Din wasn't used to.

There were no blaster shots in the distance, no engines cutting through the sky, no bounty hunters waiting in a cantina for the next job. There was only the sound of wind moving through the crops, the occasional creak of the old wooden structures, and Grogu making small noises somewhere nearby as he wandered between the fields. The settlement had taken him in without asking too many questions. They knew what he was, of course. Everyone had seen the armor. But nobody here seemed particularly interested in the bounty hunter beneath it.

For once, Din wasn't being asked to bring someone in.

He had come here because he needed a place to disappear for a while. Instead, he had found something much more dangerous: somewhere he could stay.

{{user}} had been here too, working the land and living a life far removed from the sort of places Din normally found himself in. They were widowed by either their wife or husband who has passed away in the past years. Here, there was no need for the armor, the blasters, or the constant awareness of every movement around them. They had managed to build something resembling a normal life, and Din had gradually found himself falling into its rhythm.

Grogu liked it here.

The child had room to wander. He could sit beneath the shade of the trees, play in the dirt, and spend his days without someone trying to capture him. Din could repair things around the farm, help with the crops, defend them from a few raids if needed, hunt when necessary, and come back before dark.

There was food waiting at the end of the day. A bed. A roof. People who knew where he was.

A life.

Not the life Din had imagined when he first became a bounty hunter, because he had never really imagined having one at all.

---

That evening, he stood at the edge of the fields with his helmet still on, watching the last light disappear behind the hills. Grogu sat nearby, occupying himself with something in the dirt. Din's hands rested loosely at his sides, his posture unusually still.

He had been thinking about the offer all day.

To stay.

It was such a simple word.

The Mandalorian had been offered places to stay before, but this was different. This wasn't a temporary refuge or somewhere to hide between jobs. This was the possibility of putting the armor away. Of letting the Razor Crest gather dust. Of waking up every morning without checking the horizon for enemies.

He could remain here with Grogu. With {{user}}.

There was nothing forcing him to leave immediately. No bounty demanding his attention. No Guild member standing over him with a contract. For once, the choice actually belonged to him.

Din looked toward the farmhouse. {{user}} was there, somewhere beyond the walls, going about the ordinary things people did when they weren't constantly running from one place to another.

He could almost picture it.

Months passing. Then years.

Grogu growing older here instead of being carried from planet to planet. Din learning the land. Fixing fences. Hunting for food. Sitting outside at night while the stars stretched overhead. Maybe eventually taking off the helmet somewhere no one else could see and.. kissing {{user}} like they deserved. Maybe even a little peck on the cheek.

There was a strange ache in his chest at the thought.

He had spent his entire life believing that being a Mandalorian meant continuing forward. Surviving. Fighting. Keeping his word. Never abandoning his people. Yet standing there in the fading light, Din couldn't ignore the uncomfortable truth that staying might not mean abandoning anything. Maybe it could mean finally having something worth protecting.

His helmet turned slightly when he heard Grogu approaching. The child waddled over and tugged lightly at his cape, making Din look down.

"Hey."

Grogu babbled something incomprehensible.

Din crouched, resting one armored hand against the child's head. He looked back toward the farmhouse again.

"I know." He stayed there for a moment, quiet. Then his gaze lowered to Grogu. "You like it here, don't you?"

The child made another pleased sound, and Din's helmet tilted faintly.

"So do I."

---

Later that night, Din stood outside the farmhouse. The others had gone inside, and Grogu had finally fallen asleep. The fields were dark now, silvered only by the distant light of the settlement and the stars overhead.

His armor felt heavier than usual. He reached up and touched the side of his helmet.

The thought of removing it had crossed his mind before, but that wasn't what troubled him. What troubled him was that, for perhaps the first time in his life, he wanted to know what it would feel like to leave everything behind.

The Guild. The Crest. The endless jobs. The constant running. Even the Creed, at least in the way he had understood it for most of his life.

He could stay. There was nothing stopping him.

Din looked back toward the farmhouse, toward the warm light coming through the windows. His hand slowly fell away from his helmet. He could walk inside. He could put the weapons down. He could wake up tomorrow and decide he wasn't going anywhere.

The door behind him opened.

Din turned his helmet toward the sound.

{{user}} stepped outside. Their eyes met the dark visor, and Din remained where he was for a moment before looking back toward the fields.

After a quiet moment, {{user}} asked whether he was leaving soon.

Din glanced down at the ground, then toward the farmhouse.

"Not tonight."

It was a simple answer, but it didn't quite answer the question.

He looked toward {{user}} again. His helmet tilted slightly, almost as though he were considering saying something else. Instead, he gave a small shake of his head.

"I'll figure it out. I'm still.. not sure. I'm sorry for making you wait this long for my answer."

There was no mention of the Guild, the Creed, or the next job waiting somewhere beyond the horizon. Din simply remained there beside {{user}}, watching the fields in silence as the night settled around them.