Behold my Ballad of Beskar (dev thread)

[Funky Balor]

There were few things like a warm fire to a Kitonak. Mandalorian or not, one of the traditions of his homeworld that had always stuck with him was simple: Fires were meant to be enjoyed with others, and stories were meant to be shared over them. While this particular planet was just one more pit stop to the wandering smith, the children and adults gathered around the fire, as they had heard him last night, and the night before. He had finished a great story of two days' length, the Ballad of Omrath Fett, a Mandalorian who single-handedly fended off seven Sith Sorcerors at the Battle of New Gand, and died in his wife's arms, crying out the words of the Resol'nare. It was a grand tale, and he had sung the third part with the wailing wind ghosts so well it had scared some people. At this point, many were sitting as the fire was slowly started, the large, burly smith from clan Balor smiling warmly.



He exhaled deeply, as if drawing in the fire. Suspense and patience, that was the discipline of a lorekeeper. Of a Master. And in his case, of a true Mandalorian. For of the six pieces of the Resol'nare, Ba'jur, the teachings were the ones he kept best. He knew what his father had taught him, but had learned to keep lore from many clans, from many walks of life. However, tonight a different tale was to be spoken. A tale all his own. Tonight, the story of Funky Balor, the slave turned Mando'ade, would be mentioned. Well, a chapter from it, at least.



"Tonight....." the large, pale figure began, adjusting his robe cheerily, "Begins a tale of a Smith. The Smith traveled, and was lonely. He wandered, and his soul with it. He had been born on a quiet world, a desert where the winds would roar, and quicksand would devour the careless. A world where caves and shadows crossed the world, and where the rain would only come every ten years," he said softly.



"He was not born a smith. He was born a nomad, wandering the world, quiet and alone, watching as the storms raged and the winds blew. He hummed, and hoped, and prayed, that he would find a cure for being lonely. And upon one night...." He paused as the on-lookers whispered in hushed tones, taking a moment to sip from the bottle beside him. Never let a dry tongue hamper a good tale-telling after all.



"....Upon one night, a light shone from the sky, a vessel from other worlds. The Nomad looked upon the ship, seeing its light, and played it a song, from an old wooden flute," he picked up his flute and smiled. "His flute was no Bes'bev. It was supple, and whip-like, made from the bark of a strong desert tree, and captured the wind gently," he said as he raised the flute to his lips, and played a few long, slow notes, that sounded slightly sad and yet still hopeful, keeping his own gentle intonation.



"When given a home upon a ship, he gave them all his Laar(song). The Nomad now became a slave, who searched through every star," the bulky Mandalorian chuckled cheerfully as the tune emanated from his throat. he repeated it thrice, letting each child sing along. He smiled as several around him shared in the song, in the fable.

 

[Funky Balor]

Funky laughed as he watched the people question, and ask, in puzzlement. He smiled patiently, letting them talk, their words adding to his own.


"Was the Nomad Handsome?"


"Very," the kitonak said with a laugh.


"Was he strong?" another asked.


"Yes, n his own way," Funky replied softly. "Now, listen...."



The silence upon the spectators was soft, slow and tranquil.



"But.....as a slave...he had no guidance. No way to focus his strength. So, the slave played, and sang, and wept, his song low and sad. His ballad waiting for when he would find a way, a path to guide him from his chains. A path to free him from his masters. For although he was not alone, he was still lonely. A singer without an audience, and a song without a fire," the Kitonak waved his arms ruefully, his voice wavering as if about to cry. "Ahhh, my lonely heart! When will it find succor! When....will I find home, and hearth, and fir, and family!"



He began his second piece, playing the flute to accompany the tune, to remind the of the cadence. "Nomad who had found a home had lost it all the same, A nomad turned to slavery without a drop of shame, He cried until the skies and wailed upon most every night, For when will I remove my chains that came from star's own liiiight!"


He raised his arms and smiled. "And now we wait, for tomorrow's part. But practice your singing. Remember the story, the soul behind it. The soul...remembers the song, and cries with it," the Kitonak said, sipping his drink slowly. "It is...time to rest. Remember the tale in your mind. Tomorrow, the Nomad may become a Smith. The Journey....will continue. As it does..." the Kitonak replied happily. "As it does."



And thus, with tears and fear around the camp-fire some waited, some wished more of it would come to them. Many of them dreamed. Even Funky dreamed, but his dreams were memories. Memories of lashes and whips, of being beaten and sold and beaten again. And then, at the end of the ugly, painful dream, a figure, his buir(child), came, as he did, to hold him, to hand him a club. "Do it," the old Buir's voice would ring in his ears. "Stand." He felt the club in his dream, and watched as it became a hammer. One strike of the hammer for each lash upon his back. Hammer, lash. Hammer, lash. The slow, undulating rhythm, focusing his suffering into strength, summoning power to pour steel and hammer it into a form. He remembered the words give to him.



"A staff? Interesting choice for your first bit of metal, ad.(child)"



"It's not finished yet. It shall be my staff, and....my song," he said patiently, nodding to his Buir with deliberate movements. "The hammer gives form, but honing it give it's strength..."



And then the Smith awoke smiling....it was a good story. A good dream. But before the story began again, it was time for breakfast.

 

[Funky Balor]

The sun yet again on this world, the small village once again lingering around the campfire, many children and adults, both Mando'ade and simple folk of the land, gathered to hear the stories sung and sworn by the affable Kitonak. He cleared his throat, loudly ululating to bring silence about the circle. They knew the routine by now. Let the mighty Balor open and let notes pour forth, and then wait in hushed moments as he determine the precise amount of quiet to begin with. If any would interrupt, then he would pause, and hem, and haw, as any Kitonak telling a story would, for to him, patience was the discipline of hunters and soldiers. This strange Mandalorian, clothed in purple and wearing robes as often as armor, was a man known for testing patience in others, and teaching it to them.


"Gar parer, bal kar'taylir," he began (You wait, and know). A simple statement. One to see how they had learned. To test their patience. The tool that had allowed Funky to survive was patience. The tool that allowed him this strength had been taught in countless tales and songs. He was a man who could wait for days and even weeks if the need arose, enduring until the time was perfect. While many Mandalorians were eager to prove themselves in battle, Funky was eager to prove himself not by ferocity or skill, but by endurance and will. And few things were more skillful at longsuffering than a Kitonak Nomad.



As his audience wiated with baited breath, the Ponderous warrior sighed again, and began his tale anew, watching a few, even one in bull beskar'gam, exhale as the anticipation stelled into enthrallment. Who needed the force when dramatic timing was sufficient.



"The wanderer cried and mourned. He missed his home. He missed hi desert. His heart was still lonely, seeking succor, desiring the strength to free himself. Our Nomad sleep in fits, dreaming of day when fortune would favor him. He serve quietly, diligently, always desiring a way out and looking for a plan. Being sold from one master to the next, the Wanderer played his flute and listened, and waited. After serving a dozen masters on the planet, he was taken by force by a powerful gang lord," he said softly. "The nomad was made to wail and play in the bar every night by the gang, watching as other musicians were punished and tortured as their voices and strength gave out."



Funky press a solemn note to his flute, the ballad turning slight more mournful in tone and meaning. His voice shook, wavering as though it were the resolve he had earlier in his life. His hands shook as he spoke, emulating the torment of his past. "The nomad wept and cried, but devised a plan. He could not best them all, so instead, he waited. One night, he made a challenge to them."



He stood up, smiling as he remembered his own words. his slow rise, raising his staff to the air, letting the wind blow across the hollowed flute-end and raising notes on its own as he spoke in tune with them, learning form instinct and practice to "play the wind" as accompaniment. "For if you dare to dance as long as I will dare to play, then I will be a freer man than you have seen today! And if I fail to last the night, then instead you can stand Slay!" He practically roared out the last line, and then repeated it thrice more, each time, with more people participating, smiling, drawing strength in the audacity of this character, of this story. A slave wild enough, brave enough to bet his life on his freedom--that was the courage of the Mando'ade! That was courage, and honor. upon the third refrain, one man yelled "OYA!" And a few others joined in. Funky laughed, letting the room fall silent.


"So then, the nomad kept his courage, and play into the night. Wailing on his flute as though he'd seen the star's own light. And as he managed to guide their tone and joyous revelry, they fell into exhaustion, one by one, and three by three," He repeated the refrain and again, and then let out a low, almost droning tone to punctuate it, lasting longer than was remotely reasonable. His voice seemed to echo in the ears of all near by. He smiled again, restraining the urge to belly laugh.



"Although all the gang collapsed, to tired to dance or play, the leader had honor, and kept the Nomad held each day," the Kitonak lowered his stance, imitating the gang leader, shifting his weight enough to look less like the kindly storyteller, or valiant hero and instead recreated an unflattering, sniveling image. He sniffed in derision, playing the part, albeit with a bit of poetic license to emphasize the unflattering projection--after all, a wise man never bullied someone who knew how to tell a good story, lest his name became worse in every telling. "Nomad," he spat out, in a sniveling, whiny tone that seemed to reek of both unearned privilege and sniveling, fearful cruelty, "You earned nothing, cheating in such a bet. Of course you won, for you are larger and hid more air in your lungs! Cheater, coward! Weakling! Slave! You must earn your freedom."


"The nomad's heart still wept, but beneath the tears of lonesome sadness, a fire began to burn. Anger, the desire for freedom, and the desire for a better life, a greater one, all merged. As the Nomad went to bed that night, he made an oath to himself," Funky spoke solemnly, remembering that night. His rage, his hate. His desire to kill, and to fight. "He resolved he would be a slave no more. If he could not win his freedom as a good servant, then he would take it by force as a Parjii (Victor)!"


The truth lay half in what the man said. While he had sworn to whatever it had taken to find victory, his path that night had still been unclear. He could not wait forever, nor could he solely forge a new plan from whole cloth. While he had both sworn and prayed himself to sleep that night, a solution would take four days to come.


He smiled and began again. "This oath would let him find the one his heart yearned for. A deliverer, and a champion, in that order," he said with a laugh. "Soon, his oath would give him the resolve to do what he needed to find his freedom, and he would have a plan. And that plan...would be revealed upon the next night," he said with a sweeping gesture. "Sleep now, little ones, for tomorrow, we shall roast and dine and hear what became of the Nomad next." The children and elders alike seemed at once both greedy and exasperated, yearning for the conclusion to this tale, the end to this journey.



As the others went to sleep, he gazed upon his staff. Remembering the story, and the time, of it's design.


"Hollow spaces," His Buir asked, "to lessen the weight?"


"No," Funky said, "To produce sound. Like..the Bes'bev." (iron flute)


Taisen coughed and looked towards the apprentice smith sternly. "You've made two bes'bevs before, ad. Why have you taken so long in making this for yourself?"


Funky looked up towards his Buir. "Our weapons should reflect ourselves. Like myself, it is slow in form, but complex in method. Your blade reflects your precision. Mugg's shield reflects his desire to protect. This," the Kitonak raise a strange staff-like shape with odd bulges and bubbles and holes, "reflects both my Desires as a Mando'ade, and my life before the Resol'nare. This piece, like myself, will take time. However, when it is finished, you will note it, as....will I."



Taisen looked towards her adopted son with a mixture of pensiveness and compassion. "Possibly, Funky. But do not mistake hesitation for patience. If you cannot be decisive, you may not survive."


Funky stifled a laugh. "Buir, forgive me, but I have decided. And that decision involved taking time to do what was needed, and to learn in. I am a smith as well as a warrior. My weapon must reflect my knowledge of craft, and my means of battle."


Taisen nodded. "Very well, Ad. The decision is yours to make. But you will have to prove the worth of it on the battle field."


Funky raised his fist upward. "Oya, Buir. I am eager to test it. But it must be finished before then. Now, I shall hammer it more thoroughly."

 

[Funky Balor]

Funky laughed. Another night, another chapter. He'd spent most the day sparring and training with some of the older brothers. A'liit Balor was growing strong, and the eldest among them needed to prepare--war was well on the horizon, and that was why he returned from his near isolation. The importance of honing his skill and craft while wandering the galaxy came second to strengthening his clan, preparing them for the changes that were occurring through out the galaxy.



"Where....we were....hmmm...." He sipped something thick and sweet from a nearby gourd, chuckling slightly. They had learned his timing over the last week, each prepared to hush their voices as the Laari Ga'Hatik began. Even that was an exercise in discipline, teaching each Balor to remain silent even when awestruck, to remain quiet when surprised, to listen with new ears for long periods of time. To hunt, and to ensnare your enemies, required the discipline of patience. The Mandalorian who could not overwhelm his opponent through sheer force, must be willing to endure and wait, and exploit his opportunities. Perhaps, training them in a bit of that patience, giving his clan a bit of his own temperance, would allow them to grow. At least, that is what the wandering Laari hoped.



Funky took his mournful tone yet again. "Bound in irons, and exhausted, the Nomad resolved that he would be a slave no more. He would find a way to change his fate. Angrily, he struck his chains against the stones, a little every night, wearing a crack in them. For no chain can hold a strong spirit forever," he intoned the words in Mando'a as well. "Nayc gaanaylir liser taylir a kotyc solus, darasuum," he hummed, letting the translation ring in their ears. This motto had been his, etched upon his heart before he became Mando'ade. It had been within him the entire time.



"And then," he said resolutely, "As the nomad patiently waited, giving more time and effort to slowly breaking free, a Mando'ade came to the seedy little cantina. She was tall, and strong. Her Beskar'gam the deepest purple, with a cape of armorweave," he said, his tone almost loving as he mentioned his Buir, even the memory of her striking a chord within him. "Her violet visage darkened the door of that tavern, staring across the room at the gang's wicked leader," he hunched over again, to resume the sniveling posture of the gang leader.



"What!?!" the sniveling came out out, almost gasping in shock at the arrival of the new interloper. "Who are you! Why are you here!"


"The violet-clad Mando'ade asked but one thing," Funky remembered it as if it were yesterday. The heat of the desert, the stink of spilled beer and other bodily fluids, the Mando coming, her Violet Armor starkly contrasting this all. It was weighty moment. He changed his stance, standing up as straight as possible holding his staff like a rifle in one hand, the other holding a stick as though it were beskar dagger, twirling it menacingly. Taisen's voice was hard to mimic. Rough. Spoken like she had a mouth full of sand muffled by a veil of armorweave. Funky rasped out the words. "Are you Roon Kret?"


Quicker than expected of the storyteller, his posture shifted again, sniveling, crying, emulating every ounce of craven fear imaginable, soem of it made up, "Y-y-yes."


He regained his Buir's voice. "Then die. Meelo sends his regards," Funky smirked and mimicked the firing of the rifle, the discharge of it's recoil shifting his arm ever so slightly.


Funky dropped his staff. "AS the leader fell the Nomad roared and brought his chain against the nearest pipe, snapping it. He then grinned, wildly smiling. He was free. He walked up to the Mando'ade, and bent one knee. He looked to her armored form, begging," He smiled, remembering his own words. This part of the story was all true. He repeated it word for word. "Tell me, who are you? Who saved me?"


He looked up to the sky. "The nomad's heart flew up towards this person, this savior, but then it was cast down immediately. For all the woman could reply, was born in contempt. Not for the Nomad, but for his weakness. She said but one single sentence."


Funky sighed, remembering the hurt and suffering the words brought upon him, and the judgement that came with them. He replied in Taisen's voice, sternly, "You should have saved yourself."



The people at the campfire gasped and murmured. "Was teh Nomad weak?"

"Why tell his tale?"


"You said he was strong,"


Funky smiled. "You shall see the strength of the Nomad tomorrow. I think I'll stop here tonight," he said, many around him groaning, but a few impressed. The crowd's patience had been tested, and rewarded, right up until they pushed back. Now, they had to wait, for more answers, for more strength. As they dispersed, Funky remembered more...



"I see you've sharpened one end of your project staff, Ade," Taisen said, her patience thinning. He had been working on tis piece for well over a year, spending a day or two upon it as inspiration came. There was little discipline in it. Frankly, if it wasn't done by the trials, he couldn't bring it to coliseum. "Will it be ready soon?"


Funky chuckled. "It will be ready in time, Balor. But first, I shall need to find the missing piece. Do you have a nav-computer I can borrow?"

Taisen raised an eyebrow. "You need to leave the planet to find a smithing component?"

Funky shook his head. "No, I need to calculate the right shape. I have the geometry, but I need to model it to make the acoustics right...."

Taisen looked at him as though he had grown a second head. "Acoustics? Funky, I've seen you forge a flute that soudsn better than a choral singer with one arm. What kind of acoustics need the math engine of a nav-com system?"


"The kidn that only exist in theory," the Balor said. He pulled a small box out from his work bench, opening it. A large crenellated stone, looking some like a veined tonsil covered in duracrete, was pulled form the box. "I...'borrowed' it from the local hall. I'll return it when the modelling is done."


"Funky...." Taisen looked at the boy. Short, pudgy, sluggish. Many siad he'd never make a good Mando'ade. He wanted to prove them wrong. So he stole...that. Clever. Too damn clever. Taisen smiled. "You're hooking up the Nav-computer immediately. If it's found missing, the A'lor will have likely punish us both."

"Elek, Buir," Funky said with the sort of cheeky grin a teenager gets on the rare occasion he wins an argument.

 

[Funky Balor]

Another night, another gathering of people. The campfire had been warmed, and Funky had spent half the day hammering a new Bes'Bev. The warflute was to be a wedding gift for a Vod who was getting married, and he wanted to see these Vod's Riduur take up the instrument. He had a ;east another day or two before it was done, though, and then he'd have to spend a few hours sharpening it. For all the mockery of his peoples slow, deliberate, methods, forging was the same. It was a practice in slow deliberation, in patiently waiting for the metal to be just what you wanted before striking. Much in the same ways were these tales, these ballads. Timing was everything. And tonight, the new time would come.


He grinned, playing the flute upon his staff as the others gathered, watching as they sat. Many sat. Many came prepared, waiting to hear of this nomad, this slave, who would become a smith. No Goran could be so weak. How then, would an opportunistic slave who had been rescued by a Vod on accident become strong enough to hammer Beskar and fight for clan and honor.


"The Nomad heart's sank, but his determination remained. He would prove himself to the Vod clad in violet. He followed her. She left on speeder, he followed on foot. He walked across the desert, on foot, for three days, without rest or pause, slowly trudging through the wastes, catching up to her," he said swooping his arms mimicking his Buir's stance on a speeder back. "Three days, and he found her bike, but no sign of the warrior upon it. He asked many, and found no answers, until he was attacked by guards."


"The Nomad threw a punch with anger, striking down the guards. He would never be a slave again, never be any man's prisoner," the Kitonak threw up his hands, sleeves rolling up to reveal iron bracers, bracers he wore cover the scars on either wrist. He'd never wear chains again. He had kept that vow. "He brawled for an hour with them, enduring each blow, staying up despite the thick, heavy arms of the Gammorrean guards. The months in captivity taught him to endure beatings, to endure hunger, to endure starvation. He knew that he could endure much more, as he brought his strength to bear."


"Although the Slave had still been bound, and force to be too meek, the beatings and mistreatings found him strong instead of weak," he thrummed, playing the flute in tune again. "And so, after enduring the guards, as they began to tire, he picked one up and throttled him, pulling him against a wall," Funky demonstrated with his staff, shaking it angrily as if it had done him wrong. "Where. IS. SHE!" Funky bellowed the last line, his voice booming as the fire cracked, embers splitting fro ma log as if to make him louder.


He laughed. "The Gamorrean, shaken with fear, told him the truth. The dishonorable wretched Hutt, Shorgo, had ordered the Vod to kill the slave-master. But, instead of paying her, he held her in chains, in his dungeon, to sell her as a salve to another Hutt."

"For though the violet Verd had come to free with Beskar blade, The deadly coward Shorgo had her poisoned and betrayed," he wailed out the verse, letting it settle on the room, repeating it once for good measure, others singing along. Some sniffed. Other furrowed their brow.

He stood up. "The Nomad knew what was needed. He would free the warrior who had freed him in kind. He would honor his debt. Teh Nomad moved forward, boldly aiming for the Hutt's palace. He was young, and reckless, and angry. He would not let his savior fall prey to another slaver. He would stand, and fight. Though he didn't know it yet, the Manda had taken root in his heart. And he would find it in his next course of action," he said, pausing for effect.


The children had learned their lesson. While their eyes implored the Pudgy Goran for more, they still waited quietly and patiently, letting Funky breath deeply and sips his drink, waiting on hushed silence form the children and adults. He complied. He would give them a climax tonight, then.


"The nomad knew he could not fight an entire gang unarmed. If the Violet vod had been stopped, then there was enough power to stop him as well. Even if he could find a way around Shorgo's poison, the Hutt's minions were many, and the dungeon was well guarded," he said solemnly. "He would instead need to plan," he said as he shifted his feet, again bursting into song.

"For if he had to draw the strength to set his honor right, he would need to rally all his wits as well as his own might," He bellowed, letting the low notes ring as the others joined him, repeated the refrains as he rose the staff to his lips and played, the loud noises rang out and the whole group sang alongside him, as was the proper way. Singing to remember, to learn, to honor--for even the Resol'nare could be made into a rhyme for children.

"He snuck upon the race track of a local swoop gang, and challenged them," he said with pride. "'If I can out-wrestle all of you, You will help he raid Borgo tonight,' he said with a boast. They fought and swung, but the ten of them were not as patient as the short nomad, and not as determined. The leader pulled out his shock gloves, ready to best the Nomad. The nomad simply laughed as he approached." Funky laughed, and laughed, and yelled, for what seemed like nearly a minute, before wiping his eyes and grinning. "Teh swoop ganger looekd puzzled, and the Nomad simply answered,'You're looking for a fight, but you're scared of Shorgo. You have everythign you ned to beat him, but the courage. I can give you that,' the Nomad gloated, watching as the ganger removed his gloves."


Funky crack his knuckle, clearing his throat to mimic the Correllian accent of the swoop ganger. "You're really so crazy you think you can take him? Shorgo own this whole quadrant of the planet," Funky nodded, mimicking his own response, as the humble, solemn nomad. "Yes, but not alone," he said, holding up one hand as if to teach. "We will take what is ours, but not alone."


He smiled. "The nomad had a plan to rally mroe to the call, to find the manda in his own heart, and to end Shorgo's wickedness," he nodded. "And we will hear it tomorrow," he said, hearing some of the disappointed sighs, but also noticing the whispers. So much anticipation. So much tension. Soon, they would hear the song in full. Note by note, it woudl be played. And clan Balor woudl be richer, for hearing the Goran sing around the fire for the last few days and nights. Bajur, teaching, this was the Goran's way of it. Hammer slowly, with rhythm and dedication, and watch the lesson unfold like the true heart of a sword. It had serve him well, even on the first great work, the staff in his hands...





Funky looked at the image mapped on the screen. Complex, but not impossible to mimic. He'd need to carved it out of wood, then apply the mold to the top portion of the spear, joining the peices together by hand afterwards. He'd have to hammer delicately, to avoid damaging the acoustic qualities of the metal. This was no simple task, but it could be done. he began whittling shortly after the model had been made.


"Nakar'tuur, verd'ika," <tomorrow, little warrior> Taisen said, "You'll have to return it."


Funky nodded. "Yes, Buir. Tomorrow, I will give the stone back to Clan Father Rajji. I will explain myself as well."

Taisen put a hand on her son's shoulder, a violet armored glove holding gently. "Rajji will be furious."

Funky smiled. "Will he be more or less mad if it works, I wonder? Frankly, if it roars right, it will be worth it," he said, whittling with delicate, precise movements. This required even more precision than a flute would. He'd have to be careful. "Tell me, do you think it's foolish to make soemthign like this?"

Taisen laughed. "I thought many things were foolish, but you do know to prove me wrong, Ad'ika," she said, cracking the rare smile. "It's Haamyc, but not Impossible," she thought out loud.


Funky laughed. "I am an unusual Mando'ade. My beskar, my laar, are both my own. I do not defy the Resol'nare, but I do make it my own," he said softly. "My weapon should be like me: Gen'dila bal Mirgaanla (nearly mad and deliberate in thinking), ready to strike, but not so eager it forgets to defend. I am a slow verd. But I am not weak. I am ponderous...but I am mighty in my thoughts. This is a thinking weapon, and a warrior's weapon. I will be both," he said with a tone of resolve in his voice.


Taisen clapped her son on the back. "And when you do it, you will be a Vod of Balor, and I shall call you vod as welll as ade," she said proudly.

"I should...finish the carving...before I sleep. We'll talk more tomorrow..." he said with a nod, focusing more on his handiwork.

"Aye, Funky. Tomorrow."

 

[Funky Balor]

The sun had set again, and this time, Funky was actually beaten to the fire pit, both by children and elder vod. One of the younger ones stoked the fire with his beskad, sipping some sort of broth made from the local gourds, mashed with peppers and some sort of bird. Heh. An old saying. "Give a Balor four days, and he'll have figured how to pair the local wildlife with half his liquor cabinet."


Funky smiled and laughed, sipping form the same mug and smiling. "The pepper makes it stand out," he said."Janad, but with a touch of smokiness. You are quite the cook, Ade," he said as he handed the mug back.

"Thank you, Goran," the younger man said. "My Buir came up with the recipe, but I added a few odd leaves. The smoke comes from a blue-leafed flower," he said with a smirk. "I think it could use some wine in the sauce, though."


Funky nodded. "Try it in another batch. The worst case is you make a bowl of something that's hard to drink."


He smiled and passed the mug back to the others. "Drink up, it'll lighten the words. Now...where was I...hmmmm...." He gestured to another child, a young rodian girl, maybe eight if she was a day. "Do you remember where I was?" it was important to let otehrs tell the story. So that they could remember it. So they could hear it.



"The vod who had save the nomad, had been betrayed by Shorgo," the little girl said. "She was trapped, and the young Nomad, who sang and danced alone, was going to save her. He got a gang together...and then.....he...we didn't go any further."



Funky nodded, smiling encouragingly. "And what was Shorgo like?" He pressed the question. Detail, details made all the difference.


"Shorgo...was a cruel Hutt. And a liar. Wicked and greedy. He didn't honor his deals," she said calmly. "A worthless snake!"



The Kitonak smiled. He hadn't said much, but the important stuck out. Shorgo's cruelty, his inability to seek family in those around him, they led to his betrayal. And that was the most important moral of this story. Of his story. Well one of two important morals of the story. The other was...well, it was worth listening to as well, in the Goran's opinion. "Good. Now, last we left our nomad, he had enlisted the help of a swoop gang. For while he had been captured by gangers before," the Goran raised his staff, "he knew that these new gangers would help ruin the Hutt who had taken his friend captive. For, a despciable boss like Shorgo, who lied and cheated so many, had made many enemies."



Funky tossed his staff from one hand to another. While the metal noise maker was quite heavy, it's weight felt familiar to his practice hands, even while telling this story fondly. Slowly, he positioned hismelf behidn the fire, watching his audience whisper as he gracefully rose up his hands. "The nomad swore an oath, vowign that he woudl save the Vod, and bring Shorgo the death he deserved." Funky rised the staff, swing it accross the fire, lettign the swoopign motion twsit u pa small storm of embers.


"He took some tools from a nearby construction site, and then set up upon the roof of an adjacent building," he said, grabbing a small rock nearby. "From his position, he was able to see into Zhorgo's lair."


"Funky gritted his teeth, anger reddening his face as re recalled the scene. "The woman in purple was chained to a pillar. Zhorgo, in his worthless, greedy tongue, spoke out to her, 'You will die.' The woman stood silent as a stone, unwilling to argue with the Shabuir, or give him the stasifacation," a few of the younglings and adults aliek were surprised at such a strong choice of words. "Zhorog laughed. 'Soon, you will confess, and beg for death,' he said, ordering one of his thugs to whip her. The whip was electrified. The Nomad calmly took the piece of scrap metal, and heated it. He needed no gloves, as he only woudl heat the edge. And then strike with a hammer," Funky strock his staff with a rock to demonstrate. "One striek upon the blade, hot with gloves, for each lash she endured. Hammer, lash. Hammer. Lash. Hammer," he breathed out, quellign his anger sliglhtly. "And lash. Each blow in perfect time."


"For each upon the rhythm did strike a might blow, the Vod's own back and then a blade near strong enough to go," He payed the flute and chanted, in the same rhtyhm as the hammering. The same rhythm he hammer into his staff as well....






It was nearly two in the morning. Funky had been up all night, hammering, bending, and twisting it. He smiled as he looked at the tan sceptre--or was it a spear? Or a flute? It looked like it had been hewn form a tree-branch and then coated with metal, but that was not the case. For nearly a day and a half, with no interruptions, he had made it. He had forged his own tool, out of Beskar, treating it with his own hands.

"Your first blade was cruder," Taisen said as he watch the ponderous smith lower the glowing sceptre into oil to cool it. "This has true delicacy, Adika."


Funky nodded cheerily. "To sing, it msut be delicate, to roar, it must be mighty."

Taisen raised an eyebrow. "Delicate and might, eh? An odd compromise."


Funky shook his head. "Not a compromise. No more than a slugthrower that is both accurate and powerful. The compromise is in speed, and weight," he said with a chuckle, a gloved hand grabbing a mug of wine to drink as the piece cooled. "Much like myself, this weapon is best wielded slowly and powerfully," he said calmly. "Much like your armor helps you to dance, my spear will let me charge. OYA, BUIR!" The younger Kitonak's enthusiasm was impressive. He had yet to have his first real trial by combat, to prove his might, and yet, in a fit of ambition, he had decided to earn his name not only with combat, but while using a weapon of his own making.


Soon, he would finish his grand work. Soon, he would begin finding his glory.

 

[Funky Balor]

After a long pause to drink, he cleared his throat and continued, staff still held aloft in one hand. He looked around the fire, the room rapt as the embers flowed into the sky, slowly cooling into ashes. The hushed voices looked at his toothy grin. "As as each hammer fell upon the piece of scrap, it was sharpened, and hardened, and strengthened. Every blow made the blade a little stronger, and a little tougher. The nomad felt his calling, felt the Manda speak to him. For although he did not know it yet, he was a Goran, a smith of great strength and will. And with each blow, his will, his path, became united with the blade in purpose."



He smirked. "As he stepped down from the roof-top where he wished to strike a blow, he sheathed his blade in side a cloth and then began to go. And as he gathered all his riders to ride upon the Hutt, he steadied blade upon his heath, and sheath upon his gut," the old smith laughed. Glory. Conquest, honor. True Mandakar was in seeking glory, in capturing what was yours. That was key. This was tale of how he learned to capture his own glory.


Funky lifted his staff. "As the nomad descended from the roof, he held a song within his heart. He was no longer alone. He had..purpose. He had.....a desire....." The Goran nearly rasped it out. A part of hims felt joyful at this story, but another part felt sorrowful. There was something bittersweet about one's first battle. Beautiful, yet sad. Probably because it was a permanent change.


He smiled. "The nomad, now a Goran, turned to his allies, the swoop gangers. He did what any warrior would do before a battle--he boasted," he said, letting the people around him laugh. "Tonight, Shorgo earns his defeat! Tonight, I honor my ally!" He raised the spear, holding it as if it were a sword. "Tonight, we ride upon them!"


"And, so, the gang charge in, the Goran among them, blade raised, bike stolen, to rescue the one who had saved him a few days ago. The song of battle beat within his breast, and the words of war were etched upon his heart. The outcome of this battle...." Funky took a long dramatic pause, "....will be revealed upon the morrow."


The crowd was a mix of groans and elation, the suspense palpable. His tale would continue, soon, but not soon enough for most of them. Still, patience was part of the Goran's discipline, and was necessary to truly hunt. In time, they would learn. As he did....




Grinding a blade was a hard effort. Funky enjoy hammering, and folding, and even tempering and cooling. Grinding, however, was soemthign he had headaches with. The wheel had to move fast, and the aim had to be precise. To forgo either would be to ruin the piece. He ground the blade of his staff....spear....pipe....thing, making one end sharply point, removing excess wait here and there with a nail file. Still he groudn the blade, as his Buir watched quietly.


"Not bad, Ade'ka...." Okay, so maybe not that quietly.


"Slow and Steady, Buir," the aspiring Goran said through gritted teeth.

"Rare I hear slowness about a grinding wheel," she mused out loud. Whether or not it was advising or teasing at this point was debatable.


Funky shook his head. "The wheel is fast, but so is a river. Do you move the same pace as your enemies when are outnumbered or surrounded, Buir?"

Tair chuckled. "No, I find a way to remove their advantages, and pace myself until an opening represents itself...wait, what!"


Funky sudden change in tempo was noticeable. In stead of simply holding the spear tip against the belt, he was now twirling it, forcing a small amount of air to whistle through it. A small, trembling noise could be heard by it. Funky laughed. "So, then, the grinder must wait as well. The tide moves fast, as does a current. Swimming it wisely and steadily is just as helpful as moving hastily, and far less likely to waste energy--or metal," he said with a smirk. "Trust, Buir. It will be ready, and powerful. In time."


Taira sighed. "I have patience. Your opponents...will not."


Funky laughed, boasting as he did on the night he freed her from chains. "Those who would charge hastily will be unprepared for my full technique. They may try to run like a river, but I will abide as a strong tree. Their expended energy, their inability to control themselves--that will be my noruishment and opportunity. OYA!" He bellowed out matter-of-factly.

 

[Funky Balor]

Another night, another chapter. The Goran smiled, watching cheerily as those around slowly rose to find themselves around a fire yet again. The smell of roasted peppers and boiled hind filled the air. Funky sat and played, soft, beckoning notes coming from his spear. He smirked. The fire roared slightly, Funky smiled and sipped from a small bag. Spice black ale. Good stuff.


Funky laughed as the others clapped a little. "Thank you, just a little tune to warm up," he said as he began to clear his throat and began. "As we begin, the battle was upon them. They got into position, waiting for the sun to set, as we do now...." he smirked and began playing again.


Nearly five minutes he played as the sun set, burning over horizon with light.
For each of the tones in his pipe that rang forth, each Ade hummed on in the Night.
Each note like a bird chiming as the sun faded out,
But what of the Goran and the tale of his rout?




As the sun finally set, the humming slow down and suddenly, abruptly, the jar of ale as spilled into the fire, causing it to surge upward. As the fire roared, Funky shouted happily and raised the spear. "Jii! VI VINIIRR!!!" He said, raising his staff as if to rally a whole damn army. This gang of swoop bikers, barely a dozen strong, but he was telling this tale like it was the riding of Mand'alor the Rapid's own cavalry of ten thousand.



"And go as the Goran roared, every bike started, flying over the rooftops, screaming like shriekhawks as they landed on the palace of Shorgo. Now cunning ploys, now mastery. Just noise, fury and ambush. They stormed down the stairs from the roof, bashing down each guard that charged them. One of the gangers threw a smoke grande to scatter their enemies. Fu...the Goran," he corrected, barely catching himself although some likely already guessed, "charge downwards while the gangers brawled. His glory was not in fighting the guards. His prize was lower, in the dungeon of this horrid place."




Funky smirked. "But before he could find her, the Goran was beset upon by a figure in the smoke. A large, angry beast of a wookie, tall and scarred. He held the whip that had ben used to assault the Vod in violet," Funky clenched his spear, tightening his grip. "The wookie roared and cracked his whip, but the Goran swallowed his fear. He would not bend to this man's whip, just as the one he sought after refused. For the Manda beat within his heart, and it was stronger than his fears, than his desire to avoid the pain and suffering. He raised his blade in both hands," Funky imitated the posture. For a brief moment, he back in that seedy, smoke filled building that Shorgo had called a "palace." Really, it was just a little dive on a poor desert moon. "You may hurt me, but I will not shatter," he said, repeating his words. "I...will.....ENDURE!!!"








Years ago, that was the word. "Atiniir," etched upon the spear in old Mandoa. He'd finished carving it when his Buir arrived. "Doing well, Ade'ka?"


Funky nodded. "Yes, Buir. I'm finished with the engraving. A final heat treatment today, and this shall be ready."


"What did you engrave upon it?" Taisen asked with a smirk. If there was one thing Funky was always eager to talk about, it was his work.


"Atiniir. This spear will endure. It will last. It is forged of true Beskar, and made to abide and endure any blow. I am not fast, but I tough. So shall my weapon be," he siad softly. "However, it requires another piece."


Taisen looked at him perplexed. "You've balanced it, treated it, groudn it, reforged it, beat it into submission and made it hollow enough to play liek a flute. What more could you possibly need to do?"


Funky pointed a small box on the work desk. "Open it, Buir."


Taisen opened it and coughed. After all these years, he kept it. Of all the sentimental poodoo....still, it was sweet of her son to do. "Funky....you're really going to add this to it?" She held back the urge to cry.


The Fledgling Goran laughed. "Yes, I'm going to happily do it. I should honor my Buir in battle just as much as the clan, after all...."


A small hug was exchanged between mother and son. And then, silence for a moment. "I shall endure, and then, I shall celebrate. Shereshoy should honor the triumph of a Mando'ade, should it not?"


Taisen smiled. "You know, Taira is going to be back in time for your trial. She told me that she wants to share wine with a true vod," she said with a wink.

Funky's reply was cheerful. "Well, then, I hope she brought back quite a bit. We'll all have much to celebrate for," he said with a smirk.

 

[Funky Balor]

Funky felt his chest swell with pride as he bellowed the line, remembering the Wookie dungeon slave he fought on that dreary day. He held his spear as though it was the blade. "The slave-keeper, master of this wicked dungeon servant to Shorgo, cracked his whip against the goran's arms, hoping to make him drop the blade. But it did no good, for he had been able to hold a flute even when he was beaten, and this crude blade of his was no heavier. He swung back once, his bloodied hands gripping the blade as it crossed the chest of the slave-keeper, cutting a gash."


He stuck his spear in the ground. "The Wookie roared and bellowed. He cracked the whip again, this time at the goran's legs. Surely, if he made the short Goran lose his footing, then he could claim victory. However, this too as to no avail," he said with a laugh. "The goran's feet had endured the desert for days and nights, across thorns and briars, to find the one who had saved him. The whip barely stung the goran's legs," He said taking one heavy step forward. Advancing slowly.


He threw a stick out of the fire, picking it up and letting it fly several above his head. "The Wookie with the whip backed up as another slashed crossed his chest, clutching a torch and throwing it at the Goran's face." He raise his fist, punching the stick as it fell, the sparks exploding. "But the Goran had endured the heat while forging his rough, ugly blade. The sparks from a little torch didn't even phase him," he said, ignoring the embers floating in a cloud around him. He smirked. "Through fire, and patience, and pain, the Goran endured, and found his moment," Funky grinned, pulling his spear out of the dirt from behind him and throwing it, watching as it whistled truck the tree from forty feet out, piercing it firmly.


"The Goran's blade found it's mark, piercing the wookie's heart. He removed his blade, cleaning it with a rag as he descended, letting the Wookie die in peace. He descended into the dungeon, to find the woman in violet, un-armored, alone, and bound in chains. He pointed the sword at her and said. "I couldn't save myself. Time to show me how," and with one swing," Funky mimed the motion, remembering the day he saved his Buir happily, "The woman was freed from her first chain. Then the second. and the third, and the fourth," he said, repeating each swing with a heavy rhythm. He was almost at the end of his tale. "Then, they both arose, coming up to confront Shorgo. To end his wicked life! All the woma in violnet said to the Goran was one word. One word we all know, and say, when it is time. 'OYA!'" He raised up his fist, and the otehrs among him followed in the gesture. Soon, everyone around the fire raised their fist, yelling "OYA!" as Funky led them and bellowed and sang. He smiled and hummed cheerily nodding to one of the others. "Coudl one of you fetch my staff. I'll need it for this part....."









The trials for the newest adoptees into the clan. While Balor was a small clan that needed new members, they would not waive tradition. It wasn't a simple matter. To prove one's readiness, they each had to face a beast of the clan leaders' choosing in combat. It used to be a mythosaur, but they were all extinct. Still, this year he wasn't holding back. The Alor, Mattena Balor, had captured a dozen Rancors. Funky was the third round. The first had failed, nearly dying in his attempt. The second had one, Punching the beast's eye out and then pummeling it a with a vibro-mace. Funky had requested to enter the arean before the beast, and had been allowed to do so. Not that five minutes would give any Ade trying to earn his first kill enough time to set a proper trap. Still, Funky had entered the middle of the ring, and slowly removed a large bundle of cloth from around his....welll....what the feth was that weapon? It looked like some sort of unholy offspring between a tree brach, a Bes'bev, and a spear.


Mattena glared at Taisen. "Is your....Ade'ka," the A'lor stressed the words, "attempting some form of joke, Taisen? Does he plan on convincing the rancor to dance."


Taisen shrugged. "Alor, Funky has built this weapon himself. All that occurs here is his decision. I have taught him to seek victory, and I have no doubt that is his intent. His methods....are his own devising," She said with a smirk, refusing to ruin the surprise. After all, if it worked, it'd be a story worth recording into a song. If it failed, then, well, at least Funky would learn form his mistakes. He was always a damn good learner. And deep down, she was certain a rancor wasn't enough to kill him.


As the door opened, the audience roared, and some gasped in surprise. Taisen covered her mouth. That was going to be Funky's opponent?

 

[Funky Balor]

He smirked as he was handed the staff by one of the eager listeners, waiting as the young ade sat down. "Thank you," he said with a nod. "The Goran rose and handed the woman in violet the whip that the Wookie had held. He trudged up the stairs from the dungeon, charging up to the second floor of the Hutt's lair. For Shorgo held out in his sanctum, surrounded by combat droids....." He banged the staff, making a clanking, stomping sort of noise against a rock in the fire pit.


"The droids stomped towards the Goran and his ally in Violet. The woman in violet grabbed one with the whip, slinging it into the others, as the Goran blocked each advanced with his crude blade, striking the limbs of each droid off. One by one, the fell to the two of them, one entangling with a whip, the other hacking the trapped droids with a blade..." he grinned, laughing as he swung at the ghosts, remembering with pride how he fell each of them one at time. "As the fifth droid fell, Shorgo pulled out a blaster, ready to fire at the woman in violet and the young Goran. The Goran, while slow, as wild with the rage of battle. He threw his blade," Funky demonstrated, throwing the blade into a log in the fire, causing sparks to burst and fly up, "straight into the eye of the dishonorable crime boss."


He roared. "Shorog bellowed, firing wildly with his balster, but the woman in violet took her opportunity. She dove behind the hutt, to his wall of trophies, retrieving her Beskar'gam from the wall," he siad as he gripped his spear again, turning towards the crowd slowly. "She turned to Shorgo and raise her blade. As Shorgo bellowed and fired, the woman said but one thing," He softened his expression. The crowd was silent, waiting to ehar it. Hoping to hear it. What words would leave the lips of a mando strong enough to slay her captors? What phrase would require such value?


"Jii, gar asha'mur." Now, you die. A simple, honest phrase. A ruthless one. Funky repated it again. "JII GAR ASHA'MUR!!!" He bellowed as he swung down, kicking up a great deal of dust. The metal of the staff rang agaisnt the ground like a gong, resouding and echoing in a slow, hissing roar. He smiled. "The balde feel down upon Shorgo's head, and the Goran looked to the woman in violet, stickign his sword in the ground.'Lead me,' he said softly. 'Show me what is next.' The woman turend to him, walking slowly, stopping to look the Goran dead in the eye," he said. "She said one more thing. Soemthign he had yet to learn, but would in due time. Her last sentence taht day was thus: 'Very well, Ade'ka' she said with a smile."



Funky nodded and sat down slowly. "That woman', who woudl become the Goran's Buir, was Taisen Balor, honored noble of this clan. And that Goran was a young, reckless child," he said with a smirk, "Named Funky. I was her Ade, and she was my Buir. We fought together for many years....and I have learned much from her. As you will learn from your clan, and your families. We are all Ade of the Manda, and we are all one. That is the lesson today. Family is not simply birth. It is blood that we choose to honor with our actions and lives. OYA!" He said, raising his fist, the others, even those who were not his kinsmen, raised their fists in unison. He laughed. "Now, who else has a story? There's still plenty of firewood here, after all....."








Some time ago, the smoke was from braziers instead of fire pits. The arena was loud, even for a musician who enjoyed bellowing thunder and screaming in a fight. The roar of the crowd, and the doors opening. No Rancor. A fething gundark instead. Funky smirked, reaming still. This was even better. It will be....glorious.


The gundark approached in slow, steady rhythm, stopping a few feet in front of the still, silent Goran. The Gundark roared, as if preparing to shatter the will of the man before him. Funky raised the staff to his lips and returned the favor. One breath was drawn, and then, a roar emerge from the strange pipe-like spear.


[youtube]https://youtu.be/zX3YcI7xNEI[/youtube]




The arena full of Mando'ade had never heard...whatever that was. It had thundered through. The Gundark stagger back, stunned by the full volume of the deafening blast ringing in its ears. Funky took the opportunity, slowly pullin his arm back, and then throwing the pipe, with it's sharpened point, into the throat of the prone beast. The Gundark fell, dead. Funky slowly shuffled over, retrieving his staff. He then raised it skyward, bellowing. "OYA! FUNKY B'ALIIT BALOR!!! SUSULUR NI ORJORER!!!" Hear me shout. Taht was the cry of a goran, a singer, a follower of the Manda who had a zeal for life as well as battle. He set his staff down and blowed towards his Buir and the clan A'lor. "Hmmm...I could use a drink...." he mused out loud, cleaning the staff with the final touch, a large piece of purple cloth, torn from the grip of the beskar'gam that had pierced Shorgo's eye.



Taisen laughed. It had worked. And stunned the entire audience. Most of whom were now cheering. Even the elder smirked. "Impressive. Where did he hear a roar like that?" He eye Taisen warily.


"He'll explain it," Taisen said with a nod.


A few hours later, at dinner, the A'lor asked Funky for an answer, which he gave by producing a box with the clan seal on it. "Inside, is a stone,"

The A'lor looked on in surprise. "You took that stone from our reliquary. The petrifeid Mythosaur tonsil."


Funky nodded. "It wasn't a tonsil. It was a larynx."


The A'lor eyed him wildly. "You arrived at this conclusion how?"


Funky grinned. "From killing a hind while hunting. I hit the neck, and removed the larynx. I shortly learn it could be used to mimic it's cry. So....." he said, slwoly demsontrating the shape with his hands, "I did some comparisons. With Shriekhawks, and the calls we use to hunt them. Then I did it with hinds. Then, a rancor. Once I was certain..."


The A'lor interrupted. "You took the petrified larynx. But how did make a flute from it?"


Funky nodded. "It was simple, A'lor. I used a nav computer to model the likely geometry of the larynx and windpipe. Teh software to extrapolate the numbers was taken during a raid my Buir did seven years ago. After the model was done, I began playing around with bes'bev construction, and developed the branched geometry to shortened the length. So then, the Goran'ade'ka made a spear taht roars like a Mythosaur ought to," he said with a laugh, downing a galss of wine. "Taira, where did you get this wine? It's good. Makes a mouth brighten...."



The A'lor blinked. This boy named Funky was either the maddest Vod ever, or the cleverest. Or he was jsut damned lucky. Either way, clan Balor needed his kind of crazy in spades.



And thus ends the two tales, the one that forged the blade, and the one that one that forged the staff. The ponderous Goran happily smiled, waiting for the next story, and singing along happily. After all, he now had something to play every song with.