The Liberated | Open to Mandos

[Dutch]

Three Weeks after Ordo was conquered...

---

There were few times that Cyar'ika was relieved to have her face hidden. Since taking the mantle of Mandalore, and being titled the 'Reclaimer' she had taken measures to hide her identity. Namely in the form of the finely crafted suit of armor she had created. Today it was slightly different. Where normally a white kama was paired with matching lengths of fabric from her upper shoulders, shone a glittering gold cloth. The color of vengeance: A statement on the new Mandalore's stance for all to see.

What they couldn't see though, were the tears that fell. She had barely held her composure delivering the speech at Malak's funeral. At the foot of a statue of his likeness, the life sized eight foot tall Mandalore the Liberator pointed down at all who passed. Reminding them of their duty. Reminding them of who they were. A lump had caught in her throat upon first seeing it, the all too familiar helm and stance flooding her mind with memories of her mentor. The funeral itself was over, with no body to bury it was quick. Clans from all across the galaxy had arrived at Keldabe to pay their respects. A speech was made before his statue to all of them, a brief history of the Liberator followed by a promise: That the crusade would continue, that they would be liberated to take back what was rightfully theirs.

Now that the formalities had passed, a feast was being set up in the square before the Liberator's statue. Songs of their people could be overhead as tables were set up, pockets of music picking up here and there as the sun began to set. Mandalore still stood before the statue of her precursor. Her lower hands rested at her belt buckle while the upper pair crossed under her chest, helm turned upwards to look back at the Liberator's visor. Much like they had down mere months ago...

[Fromikeable]

As the feast began, the many Mando'ade mingled and chatted and shared memories of the great and mighty Mand'alor the Liberator; he who had called them all together in the simple desire of seeing his people rise again and take what was their right and property. Numerous clans traded stories and tales, some laughing somberly, others standing stone-still as they hid the fact that they were weeping.

Still some, such as the black beskar'garm standing behind the statue of the late Mand'alor, stood resolute simply because it was what they did.

Geronimo Jendri, along with a few of his closest and most reputable clan mates, had arrived to the memorial that day with a heavy heart. They had listened to the new Mand'alor's speech, not judging her for her for the same strain they had felt within themselves. Now it was a time to feast, remember, and pay homage before doing as the statue instructed them to do:

Look forward and do their duty.

Alas, Geronimo simply observed the statue, slowly scanning it up and down. His black beskar'garm glinted slightly in the light, the red stripes helping with the aesthetic, while his own black kama mixed seamlessly into his look; his reasoning was that the Mand'alor's death would not be for naught. Justice would be bought with the cost of his life. That was a promise.

But alas, the black beskar'garm gently held a notebook, actually made of paper and written with a stick of graphite, as it attempted to create its homage to the Liberator. It only had the first few lines of the ballad down thus far...

... And so it was that in the murky night, stars dim with fright, a Mando'ade called to arms.

... And so the people, te droten, arose, their own fright froze, as they brought forth their arms...

Sighing gently, the clanleader crumpled up the paper, shaking his head slightly. That wouldn't do at all; not for one such as he.

[sparrow]

As some played music, and others set up the feast, a figure wove her way through the crowd. Clad in green armor, which covered her from head to toe, save for the dark gray metal of a prosthetic right arm, she approached the statue, regarding the figure of the late Mandalore silently.

It wasn't exactly common knowledge among the Mandalorians, but Zarene Yin was not one of the Mando'ade. However, as the Sith liaison to the Mandalorians, she had spent the past weeks living, eating, training, and fighting with them. She remembered her first time meeting the late Mandalore. He had regarded her with some suspicion initially, which was understandable. But at his last major battle, at Ordo, he had trusted her enough to allow her to fight in the vanguard.

Slowly she removed her helmet, as her eyes rose up to meet the Mandalore's visor. Death in battle was natural. She had seen hundreds of soldiers die before. Thousands. Some who had fought with her, and other against. But it always felt strange when someone so highly ranked, such a major player, bit the dust. Someone who had such grand and far-reaching plans, now passed down to his subordinates.

I didn't know you for very long, she thought, But you certainly earned my respect in that time. I wonder if I was able to earn yours...

[Meira]

Ari observed those who mingled around their fallen Mandalore's statue. He knew none of them, save for their new Madalore. Well, he didn't know her, but he knew who she was. Each individual, their armor as different as they were, looked up to the statue and Ari could tell they had known the man. He hadn't had much chance to get to know the Liberator. But he knew the armor well. That armor was the whole reason Ari had been called away from Concord Dawn. The sculptor who had carved it did well on the armor's appearance, but Ari was sure that no one was as familiar with the nuances of it as he was. For a brief moment in time, it was the sole focus of his existence. And now, like the man who wore it, it was gone.

A Mandalorian's armor told you just about all you needed to know about the person who wore it. Mandalore the Liberator's armor told of a life not easily lived, yet still pushed to the very brink of endurance and strength. It told of bravery and an unashamed pride in his people, and a desire to see them restored. Ari was sure that it would continue to be his greatest honor to one day say to his grandchildren that he had laid hands on such armor, and in doing so, known the man that bore it.

One of the three who stood around the statue removed her helmet. The movement caught his attention and that attention soon shifted to her armor. Like their new Mandalore, this woman's armor was intriguingly unique. The adaptation for the prosthetic was well done, yet he could see a way or two it might be tweaked to improve the range of motion for the prosthetic. He stepped closer, not fully conscious of the way he was staring. He had such a tendency to get lost in thought when it came to his craft. Even if the time and place was not quite appropriate. It appeared that little had been done to adapt the armor aside from removing what would cover the arm. He wondered if that created a weakness around the shoulder area. Then again, perhaps it all worked seamlessly and he was just being odd.

"Do you have trouble reaching back with your prosthetic when wearing your armor?" The question was asked before he realized he was speaking. Ari bit his cheek, realizing it was not likely something he should be asking this woman, at least not at a time like this. He removed his red helmet and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry, ma'am. I should leave you in peace."

[Dutch]

Malak... you taught me so much. Took me in as family. As a sister more than a niece... Yet you've left such large boots to fill... Cyar'ika laughed to herself as she peered down at the statue's massive feet. The Liberator was every bit what was expected of a Mandalore. Large, mighty, intimidating. The mere sight of him had inspired her brothers and sisters, and terrified the Republic. Barely over five feet tall herself, the new Mandalore couldn't help but feel overshadowed by her mentor. With a pair of almost timid steps, she approached the statue and reached out. Her hand ran over the stone arm that didn't point, fingers barely covering half the statue's gauntlet.

"Re'turcye mhi, Alor'ad..."

Her head tilted as she looked away from the Liberator, unable to look at him any longer. Slowly she let her arm fall from touching the stone and as she went to turn away, she spotted a familiar armor. Familiar to her at least. One did not take the position of Mandalore and not know how every clan leader would appear. Black and red. Notepad of real paper at hand. A tall and muscular frame. It was as good of an opportunity as any to approach. Lower hands still at her belt buckle with elbows tucked in, The Reclaimer stepped around the statue to approach the black and red armor. When close enough, her upper right hand reached out to gently take the notebook from the man that now stood before her.

"A man stands before the statue of the revered Liberator. Clad in black, accented in red. His armor has the hallmarks of being forged by Clan Jendri..." Her other upper hand reached out to take the man's into it, holding up the Mythosaur skull mark towards her to see. "... The Poet Jendri."

Mandalore's words weren't a question. They were a statement. She knew exactly who she was talking to. Cyar released Geronimo's hand to begin to flip through his notebook, a soft smile hidden as she read his words.

"I've read many of your works. Concord Dawn Awaken is a personal favorite. A non-traditional sonnet, yes, but your imagery and diction was quite stirring."

[Fromikeable]

All the black armor could do for the next few moments was stare at that grand statue, digging into it's shape, it's being, it's placement, it's pose, it's very composition all in the name of discovering inspiration. Everything had that one quality from which could sprout the greatest epics or the saddest tragedies...

... Geronimo sighed gently. Sadly that quality was eluding him at the moment. Perhaps he would discover it later, when he wasn't trying so hard to find it.

Alas, he gazed at the statue for a minute longer before two of the suits of armor assembled about it began to move. One of them started to take off its helmet. That was enough to catch his interest, but it was quickly swiped away as his notepad was plucked from his hand. Gazing to his side, he was graced with the sight of the mighty beskar'garm of the new Mand'alor. He was silent, letting his visor stare at her blankly as she seemed to try her hand at beginning a tale herself. That earned her a flash of a discreet grin underneath the black helmet. As she began to flip through his numerous failed attempts at the Ballad of the Reclaimer, he slowly reclaimed his hand, settling it on his belt lightly.

"And all forevermore referred to her as Mand'alor be te gehat'iks." That gave rise to another small grin. "I preferred Tom'rak Vevut's Grains of Flames personally." With that, he stowed the pencil in a small pouch on his belt hidden beneath his kama, crossing his arms and gazing up at the statue once more, returning them to silence for a moment. Perhaps there were simply too many qualities to choose from. His courage... his daring... his sheer might... Truly, it was difficult to find one that overcame the others.

"... and yet how do I put words to te verd be te verds?"

[Mara]

(((Sorry if I've messed up the posting order, but this is an open thread, and I did say I was joining...)))


[…from Survival Instinct]

Mandalore. The word was heavy with many meanings. It carried the name of a people, a people called after a planet of the same title where their origins were laid. A planet that the dark-skinned woman clad in amber-colored armor had been about to set foot upon again after a hiatus of more than a decade. Coming to this place, it was hard for her not to think back to her final moments before leaving, back to the family she had uncharacteristically left behind. And so she paused just inside the ship, trying to gather her composure for what was sure to be an emotionally charged day.

Swallowing hard, she had finally stepped off the transport’s ramp and followed the almost rainbow-colored stream of armored beings of various shapes and sizes through the spaceport and out. Slowly and mechanically she had walked among the others, unbidden thoughts swirling back to her past. Flickers of memories broke down the walls she had bricked up in her mind. A tousle of blond hair, bright blue eyes, smile from ear to ear creasing a tanned but smooth face. Laughter and joy, happiness. Blasterfire, flames, scattered familiar bodies… death, loss.

The woman reflexively had moved to wipe the dripping tears from her face but then had remembered her helmeted head and that she was not here for personal objectives, both a fortunate and unfortunate reality. To gain a grip on herself again, she had taken a few deep breaths, fighting to return to the present and her current duty. First they came shallow and rattling, but gradually they were strong and easy, and she had resolutely forced the pain back to its hidden compartments inside her mind. Ambria then had refocused on the memorial and feast ahead as she had moved up to merge into the prismatic crowd on their way to the nearby square for the proceedings.

She was here instead for an entirely different but no less saddening reason, perhaps the most important definition of the word Mandalore. Lieutenant Ambria Arcane was in the heart of Mandalorian space to celebrate the life of yet another fallen leader and pay her final respects. This last Mand’alor had been known to her first as Major Kra'nelen and then simply Malak before he had become the Liberator, and she had served beside him in the army special ops in various missions over the last year-plus. As well as Bane before him and Solus’ad before him.

It was a somewhat odd realization that came to the young Mandalorian woman. Since her transfer to the special ops division, she had fought alongside the last three leaders of her people. Though she had never developed a personal relationship with any of them, nor did she think she should have, Ambria had respected all of them greatly and had been sure that the feeling had been mutual in that unspoken way that was common to her people, especially the males. She knew she should count herself lucky for the richness of those experiences in the past year or so, and she did. But it was still a hard pill to take, the knowledge that they still had lost three great Mandalores in such a short time. And she wondered if the cycle would continue as war raged on.

Eventually the group she was with had arrived at the square and dispersed, looking for friends and acquaintances. Ambria stood by herself on the perimeter, sunlight glinting off patches of her battered but clean amber armor. Her emotions were still a little ragged from the trip to Mandalore and her thoughts of the various deaths that had surrounded her. She looked across the milling beings and towards the life-sized statue of the armor-clad Malak. From this distance, it appeared small, helpless, but it was only a misleading illusion, she knew. The giant of an Apithiri had been a fierce warrior, something she had experienced in person.

Back on Coruscant when they had embarked on a mission to reclaim one of their besalisks, he had almost died. Then months later he had reappeared just in time to take the mantle of Mandalore in Bane’s stead, looking strong as ever, even indestructible. All was looking up for the Mandalorian people with the large man at their helm. Almost immediately Malak had struck to reclaim Ordo, and the battle had been an overall success. However, their Liberator had fallen. Ambria hadn’t wanted to believe the news at first, knowing he had survived so much so far. But even Malak, their Mandalore, was not safe from death.

Ambria had stupidly thought that if she had only been there that her added presence could have changed things, tipped the scale just slightly more in the Apithiri’s favor. That if she had been there with her rifle and pistols, her combat training… even her medic skills, Malak would stil be alive. But they were empty wishes, and she knew it. Even if she had been able to rejoin the battle at Ordo in time after her crash landing sidetrack, it wouldn’t have mattered. Having just lost 30 of her own men to the Triad’s destruction, the blood-lust blinding her probably would have gotten herself wounded or killed. What was done was done, and she couldn’t do anything about it except move on the best she could.

Shaking out of her reverie, she listened as the new Mandalore, Mandalore the Reclaimer, a female Codru-Ji, called them to attention and began the funeral service. Her speech was short: a eulogy on the behalf of Malak and then a mission statement for her own term in the office. As she spoke, Ambria couldn’t help wondering whether this woman was ready for her new role. She was obviously a warrior like the rest of them, but the dark-skinned woman also knew she was young, from the reports that had come in soon after she had taken the title. But she was a loyal soldier and had to keep her concerns and misgivings to herself. Just because she hadn’t known and served with this Mandalore was no reason for her to distrust this Reclaimer; those experiences had been great but rare for most.

Afterwards, when the gathered Mandalorians scattered to prepare for the feast or talk amongst themselves, Ambria found her feet moving her towards the bronze sculpture of Malak, Mandalore the Liberator, for a closer look. The woman’s steps were careful as she picked her way around small gatherings of armored Mandos. Though she had repaired her prosthetic leg after it had been damaged in the crash on the unknown planet, she wanted to be sure it was working properly before putting any stress on the joint.

Reaching the monument to her fallen leader, she noticed a couple pairs of Mandalorians talking. One was Mandalore herself speaking with a black-armored man from his stance; a woman in green armor who had removed her helmet was conversing with another male if Ambria deduced correctly. These others were not familiar to her. Not wanting to disturb them or eavesdrop, and wanting to be alone still, she skirted the four and moved closer to the statue. Turning her helmet up to peer into Malak’s masked face, she sighed, and this time the tear that fell was not for her past loss but for a new one. An overwhelming of what the ever-altering future held for her people and for herself.

[sparrow]

Her thoughts were interrupted by a male voice. The question surprised her. How... odd to be asking about armor during Mandalore's funeral. She turned around to get a look at who it was.

He was a tall man, dressed in red in black armor. He removed his helmet, revealing a clean-shaven square-jawed face with black hair. Not someone she recognized. She was sure she would have remembered the face if it was someone she had met before.

"Uh... no, not really," she answered, "The plates on my arm match up pretty well with what would've been on the armor." All armor was a trade-off. A bit more protection here, for a little less flexibility there, in addition to the weight. The suit she had had a few scuffs on it, but for the most part it did its job well.

The place where her suit ended and her mechanical arm began was however a bit of a weak spot. While it might have provided more protection if she had used a sleeker, less armored arm prosthetic so that she wouldn't have had to remove the right arm from the suit, doing so would have prevented the use of any forearm weapon systems, and those external gauntlet-mounted ones tended to be so bulky...

She tilted her head slightly as she looked at the fellow. "Why do you ask?"

[Meira]

He was about to walk away and leave the woman alone, but she turned and regarded him for a moment. He hoped he hadn't offended her, but she didn't seem like she was going to punch him or anything. Mandalorian women were hard to judge in that regard, however. But it seemed Ari was safe. She answered his question simply and he nodded his head. Of course she wasn't having trouble. Not everyone needed their belongings tinkered with.

"Why do you ask?"

The slightest hint of red colored the otherwise pale flesh of his ears. "Dumb curiosity, ma'am." he replied. "Forgive me if I offended you. I think I spend more time working on armor than talkin' to the people that wear it."

Ari glanced back up at the statue, what he'd said was certainly true in the old Mandalore's case. His eyes moved back down to the woman as he allowed an apologetic smile and extended his hand. "Ari Weyland, arms and armor smith. I had been working on that armor," he gestured toward the statue, "but it seems I'm out of a job." Ari chuckled, but it sounded like a terrible joke now he'd said it. He cleared his throat. "Did you know him well?"

[Dutch]

"I preferred Tom'rak Vevut's Grains of Flames personally."

Cyar'ika did her best not to react at her clan's name being dropped. It wouldn't be surprising for the Poet to know the man who was arguably the best bard to grace Clan Vevut. However she still needed to do her best to remain Mandalore, not Cyar'ika Vevut now. She did not follow Geronimo's gaze as he looked back to the statue of the Liberator. Instead she studied the clan leader before her.

"... and yet how do I put words to te verd be te verds?"

This coaxed a sad smile from the woman. How indeed? How could any of them show recognition to the man who had given so, so much to their people. To their culture. To their future. Slowly she closed the notebook. Cyar was no poet, no artist that could piece together a work honoring the man. Her art was killing. And unfortunately for the Republic, Mandalore planned quite the orchestra for them to experience. An orchestra she was still writing, one that required the full symphony that surrounded her.

The din of the feast's beginning was only getting louder. A familiar, empowering melody rose from a group nearby. Clad in various colored armor, their markings noted them as members of Clan Fett. It was good to see so many clans had arrived, and that all intermingled as kin. Multiple races, yet all family, all united. All united, under her. The thought still made the woman's head spin. So much rode on her shoulders now. Everything rode on her shoulders now. But only through the works of the people around her, would they succeed. She realized she had been silent for a moment. It was as good as a time as any to test if Geronimo was loyal, if he listened.

"Remove your helm, ori'vod. I would see the man under the armor."

[Fromikeable]

Were his helmet already off, Cyar'ika might have seen Geronimo lift an eyebrow. For any Mando'ad, the removal of their helmet was a large sign of respect, trust, and honor; a sort of showing of one's heart via their face. In a culture that exemplified armor and strength, it made sense; war was impersonal most times, and it was only when you had seen a person's face that you could truly begin to form a connection. If a man with a mask died, such as the Liberator, then his subjects wept but sally forth, never having seen the face and lacking that true burn, that true sting of having known the man as more than just an exemplary Mando'alor.

But for Geronimo, showing his face meant that much more.

It wasn't that he had no face to show. In all honesty, his was a rather fair Zabrak's face, escaping the scars that littered the rest of his body. No, his face was fine, and even with the cultural reservations he would have dared to show it to some people were it not simply for his character. In being so quiet, Geronimo had made plenty of allies and friends, but few to none that he had ever taken his helm off for. As of that day, he had only removed his helm in three instances; when with his parents, when with his adopted father, and when alone.

So it said a lot when, after a good moment of gazing off at the statue, considering both it, its eventual ballad, and the quandary set before him, did Geronimo Jendri move his hands to his helm and slide it off the top of his head, holding it gingerly under his arm. His gaze never once left the statue, his black hair unfurling itself a bit as it was freed, his brown eyes intense and focused, like they were waiting for something.

They gave their Mand'alor one glance, but then returned slowly to the statue, starting at the base and all those around it before returning to the helm at the top, accompanied by the moving of the jaw below them. "A pond of Mando'ad huddled beneath their cloud, faces borne..."

[Mara]

Her helmeted head now bowed in respectful mourning, she inhaled deeply, and then she slowly blew out that breath, pushing away her sorrow. Ambria had been recounting her memories of the fallen Mandalore, good and bad. But now was the time to move on and think of the present and the future. She knew that Malak, of all beings, would not stand for a bunch of weeping soldiers standing at his memorial. Even a small showing of grief would bring annoyance to his face. And so after her brief personal and silent eulogy, her tears, the now dry-eyed and composed woman snapped a salute to the statue of her leader and then spun on her heels, marching away without another look, her back straight.

Ambria passed by the two conversing pairs of soldiers with hardly a second glance. Though her period of mourning was over, she had yet to find the urge for companionship. Raw emotions still lingered in the back of her mind and hidden within her heart. Having not eaten anything since the day before on the transport, nerves of returning to her home planet keeping her from retaining sustenance, she headed for the side of the square where the feast was set up. She hoped that a bit of food would further restore her back to normalcy. Perhaps afterwards she would feel up to some light chatter with her fellows.

A line was already forming along the tables, and she fell in behind a soldier with blue armor fashioned to safeguard the lethorns of the male Chagrian. Picking up a plate, she sampled from the various dishes on offer. At first, Ambria only took a bite here, a pinch there, but soon, as the aromas surrounded her, she heaped piles onto her plate. Her stomach now growling, insisting on being fed at utmost speed, she snagged a cup of ale and moved away from the large buffet, making note to return for a second helping. She had almost a full day’s worth of eating to catch up on, now that she again was up to the task.

She wove around small groupings of sitting and standing Mandalorians, looking for an empty patch to settle down in and dig into her meal. Knowing she might be a bit unladylike at first with regards to her plate, she found a suitable spot that was a few meters from any other revelers. As well as not being in the mood to speak to another being until she had gotten her fill. Ambria bent down to the ground, putting her plate and cup to the side as she eased into a cross-legged position. Having moved her prosthetic into its appropriate position, she pulled off her helmet and set it next to her hip. Then, finally, her preparations finished, she slid her plate to her lap and got busy, so hungry she was almost shoveling the food in.

[sparrow]

She stood there for a moment before realizing that he was holding out his hand, and was expecting a handshake. Handshakes to her always felt a bit awkward. She usually preferred shaking with her left hand, due to actually having a real hand there, although that seemed to cause problems sometimes as almost everyone else seemed to prefer their right. But right now she had her helmet tucked under her left shoulder, so it wouldn't have been convenient to... why was she thinking so hard about this?

She extended her right hand, and if he felt any discomfort from the grasp of her metal prosthetic fingers, he did not seem to show it.

Well, that was... awkward.

"Yin," she replied. He had offered his name, so it was only fair. "And no, I didn't. Only a few weeks before Ordo." And even then, she hadn't interacted with him all that often. He always harbored some suspicion due to her allegiance to the Sith, and though it had decreased over time, it had never disappeared.

[Meira]

Her hesitancy at shaking his hand gave Ari pause. It was only as she clasped his hand with her prosthetic one that he realized why she had not been so quick to do it. He really was no good at these things. Ari found himself both wanting to apologize and feeling as though he should not bring it up. It would likely make their already strange encounter even more odd.

"A pleasure, miss Yin." is what he offered instead.

There was that silence again after his words. For the most part, Ari was comfortable with silence. But over the years, he'd learned that many were not. They found pauses in conversation as a source of uneasiness. He had no way of knowing which sort of person Yin here was. Though, she was not one for many words to begin with, if they conversation was any indication.

Either way, Ari decided to break the silence with an invitation. "Well, miss Yin, I don't know if you are waiting for some friends to join or not, but I haven't run into anyone I know yet. I was about to make my way to the food. Would you care to join me? I think I can smell uj cake." He smiled and maneuvered himself, his stance an offer for her to walk with him if she chose.

[sparrow]

Her stomach growled loudly, a low rumbling sound that could be heard even through her armor. She looked away towards the distance as she shifted her weight uncomfortably, pretending as if nothing had happened. It was altogether not very convincing.

There was already a large clump formed around one of the tables. A dark-skinned female sat by herself on the ground some distance away, scarfing down food like a hungry bear. One of the burlier mandalorians had apparently tired of waiting around the food and had decided to go straight for the drinks instead, had removed his helmet to reveal a wide, bearded face as he launched into a bawdy song that also seemed to be about bears.

That seemed to break the tension rather well.

She nodded. "Yeah, food sounds good. Didn't take you for a dessert-first kind of person." Glancing at the large clump that still surrounded the main table, she decided that that was actually a pretty good idea. "Lead the way, Mr. Weyland."

[Mara]

About fifteen minutes later, Ambria was almost finished with her heap of food from the buffet. Mopping up some of the remaining juices on her plate with a piece of crusty bread, she pushed the bite into her mouth and swallowed. She licked off her fingers and set her empty dish next to her. Grasping her cup of ale, she tilted it back, emptying it in a couple gulps. Then that, too, was placed to the side. Besides satisfying her ardent hunger, everything also had been delicious, a welcome enjoyment compared to mess hall food back in headquarters on Concord Dawn. 

Deciding to let her stomach acclimate to the change of being starkly empty one moment and filled to the brim the next, the dark-skinned woman unfolded her legs and stretched them out in front of her. She stilted her arms behind her to support her weight as she leaned back and lifted her face to the sky. Ambria closed her eyes, shutting out the din of the other reveling Mandalorians around her in the square, and forced her muscles to unclench and relax. Pushed away her worries for the future and ragged emotions from the past. Allowing herself to just live in the moment for the time being.