Heavy is the Crown

[Laira Darkhold]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FoYSwGNGksQ​

Beskar'yaim, the Iron Home

The Volvanic island, former home to the greatest living Beskarsmith, Ijaat Mereel rang with the sound of hammer against anvil one last time. There were those there, from the Clan of Vereen, waiting for the arrival of the others.

A quartet of Shamans stood, dressed in beskar'gam, adorned with furs, antlers, carrying staves of veshok, waited out of their master's way. Some of them helped with the bellows of the Forge, or muttered incantations beneath their breath causing the lava to roil and surge around the forge, directing its inferno into the smelter. They were quiet, their mutterings unintelligible over the sounds of the hammer's ring, the bellow's roar, and the rage of the mountain.

The other being in the background, a large wookiee in Mandalorian Armor sitting comfortably in a chair. These beings served many purposes in service to their master, friends, allies, bodyguards, assistants, apprentices. The Shamans were there to provide the Alor of Clan Vereen with any help and power he might need through the Force. Gorran, the wookiee, he was just the pilot today in the back sipping on a nice bourbon. There were no enemies to be found on the island.

Heat rolled off the lava around the forge, called up from the earth for this occasion alone. Two beings stood before an anvil of beskar, waiting for the smith and the king. One, a shorter being with a long beard that reached to his belt. His hair was graying, and the heavy metal clasps in his beard holding the braids in place. The being wore beskar'gam with a thick leather apron, tools and utensils stuffed in pockets, a large hammer across his shoulders. He was an Anefilt, one most ancient and revered for his proficiency with crafting. One of the oldest living members of the species, the Anefilt could provide insight only a being like him could. There was no other that naturally understood the workings of metal, none like him.

Draco, the Dragon of Mandalore, stood beside him, dressed similarly. Beskar'kandar wore underneath a heavy leather blacksmiths apron, adorned with tools. In his hands he carried a simple veshok handled Hjarna stone hammer, engraved with his Clan's symbol. Around his neck, an amulet engraved with ancient writing and runes hung, kept only for these very rare occasions. His hair was pulled back into a tail, kept out of his face, the ash and soot of this place already building upon his brow, mingling with his sweat.

The pair sat working red hot metal bars, straightening them and preparing them to be manipulated and forged upon the blackened anvil. Each bar was carefully inspected by the Anefilt, and struck on the anvil until he was satisfied with every detail, and then returned to the intense heat of the Forge.

"Do not worry Ulgrom. They will come. We will have much to discuss."

[member="Ijaat Mereel"] [member="Ra Vizsla"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Home....

It was a foreign word for the wanderer reborn... He had made his exit from the affairs of his people in a rather dramatic fashion, destroying the Mask of Mandalore with the Force itself, flooding the shatterpoints with his power. In the end he wasn't sure anyone could fix it to it's former glory and form, and part of him almost regretted it. But, in the end any regrets had to be left behind with his old life. What had been done was needed, and he hoped that some of the Council had been stirred and understood that which he had done to the mask. Comprehended the symbolism of the act and what it was meant to do for those assembled. It was his only way he could see to spur them on, to shake them from the melancholy and stagnation.

Now though? Now what might be one of his final links to the Mandalorian people. His final link to who he was, what he was, and where he had come from. That link had called him home, to his Island in the sea off of Keldabe. When he had left Mandalore after his death and rebirth, he had left the Island to Draco, and most of the best beskar smiths of his house had stayed behind on the Island as part of the company he had left to the man as well. He had been studying the Codex when the call came, and when he had confirmed what had been said. Once he had known it, mild irritation had been the first reaction. Then trepidation. But in the end, he had came.

There was no armor for him, having left the armor to the Clans when he had left them himself, and instead he came dressed in plain work clothes. A heavy, coarse white linen tunic and brown breeches, with beskar capped and shod workboots that clanged on the gantries as he walked. A broad oil-skin work apron of heavy leather, the only device being worked on it that of the True Mandalorians of his ancestors making. For a hammer all he carried was a massive strikers maul over his shoulders, arms draped around it like a carry-all for buckets of water in the old days. Hanging from the belt of the apron was various other hammers, and other devices in the forge, tucked with a large pair of murder-tooth skinned gloves for the forge, cut from the very beast that almost killed him.

Stepping up, Ijaats' eyes lit upon the Anefilt, and then widened in recognition at what he felt. Walking up to the man he regarded as a brother, he actually swung the hammer down and facing the venerable other, he bowed his head low in respect and awe. These people, amongst smiths and crafters, were legendary. Mythical really. Most doubted they had even existed, and that their ruins and artifacts were merely more Celestial muckery and meddling. But Ijaat knew, and though he had a million questions of the ancient, he held them back for the moment, straightening his neck to nod again at the other before he looked to Draco.

"Your message..... Were you telling the truth?"

[member="Draco Vereen"] | [member="Ra Vizsla"]

 

[Laira Darkhold]

"Aye. It is. There is a Mand'alor full of intent. He has been given a chance by the council and is making moves. But that isn't why I've called you, brother. He has asked the people of Mandalore to craft weapons against our kind. Those able to wield the Force." Draco's expression was somber, less sad or disappointed, just as though he were stating a simple fact that neither bothered nor surprised him. "Not those within the Clans, or the Witches of Dathomir, but those like us. Those Aruetiise and Jetti who have grown to rely on it like any other sense. His mindset is that if that sense can be taken away, it will level, if not break the playing field in the favor of the Hounds of Mandalore."

The Anefilt tossed another red hot metal bar into the forge and shrugged his shoulders, dropping his hammer and bowing in response to the new arrival. His voice was gruff and the being grunted, wiping his brow with a heavy leather clad fist. "Aye, and the Smithies burn bright with Dragon's fire tonight. It is time we show this new lad why our profession is revered. That the Hounds of Mandalore stand because the Goran hold them up." The short, stocky humanoid, placed his large hammer down against the beskar anvil and breathed out a long slow sigh.

"Ulgrom is the best craftsmen of his species I could find. I sought them for their rare traits, and when I found them, they directed me to him. One suit's worth of Beskar and access to a few of my trinkets later, he was willing to help." Draco smiled and patted the stocky smith's shoulder. There was more to it than that. The Anefilt of Ulgrom's house were being relocated along with Clan Vereen, joining them, separate of structure and leadership, but joined and together. They would help each other in the years to come, that both Clan and Family would flourish side by side. And perhaps in the next generations, the Anefilt would take on the tenants of the Resol'nare, but for now the two had a mutual understanding and come to very beneficial terms for both sides easily enough.

"And I like getting the opportunity to work Beskar. It does not come often, and when it does I jump for it. Ye friend is not the first Beskarsmith seeking my hammer for such a project." The old anafilt pulled a stool up and leaned against it, visibly tired. It had been a long day already, and the pair had smelted and refined beskar and euk'gar for most of the past night, the venerable smith tossing much of it into the lava that flowed behind them. Anything he didn't regard as the highest of quality was thrown out or further refined until he was pleased.

"We've had an idea that follows the Mand'alor's wishes. And I'd be damn grateful for your help vod." It was an interesting concept, two odd takes on a long standing idea that would make the whole thing a very different entity. "I've asked the Mand'alor to come. To see what it is we do for the clans."

[member="Ijaat Mereel"] | [member="Ra Vizsla"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Stretching a bit, the once aged Alor of House Mereel grinned and nodded to Draco and the Anefilt, and stepped past the two to the selected bars in the Forge. Swiftly he closed his eyes and then opened them, his body seeming to grow taller by losing the perpetual slink or rolling slouch of a warrior of the sword. Stretching out a hand to the Forge as if scrabbling for purchase or vainly reaching for something, he called the Force to himself. Beseeched it, really, to come to his aid and empower his senses. And it did, for in this capacity Ijaat was a mighty one. Research with the holocrons from Myrkr, research on his own, and he had begun quite the knowledge of the technique of Shatterpoint. Within his very spirit power roared, the volcano rumbling a bit as its' former lords power roiled out.

The bars glowed, but not white hot, rather the uneven heat of a traditional forge seemed to dissipate and collect. It seemed as if someone had level a blower of unerring precision and power right at the coals, and so made the bars a perfect cherry red, the fingers splayed towards it licking with slight ethereal flame. This may not have been what the Manda'lor had chosen, but this process would ensure that the base metal they started with was as pure as possible. In the end process it would matter very little for power, or for suitability, but it was a mark of pride for the Smith and his makings.

Nothing that came out of this Forge tonight would have a single weakspot, and as the tempering temperature flicked and flamed to even across all the euk'gar and beskar, he reached out with his other hand. Muscles bunched, cording on his neck as he strained. A titanic effort, as if he were pushing a great weight into the Forge. The Force swirled around him, pulsing, building to a crescendo, and now another light grew within him as he worked. Wordlessly he had begun this, but Draco would know what it was. He had begun the methodology on Russaan, in the Valley of the Jedi. Now he would use the techniques he himself had pioneered, removing shatterpoints, refining molecular methodologies in such a way as to make the metal as near to perfect as possible without imbuing it with the Force.

Metal like this took the knowledge of a Force User to make, but in the end was not permanently marred by it. A fitting symbol of the way the new Manda'lor seemed to be. It took metal of the highest quality to make it possible. Knowledge of Art of the Small helped feel and alter the molecular structure, not to make immune, but to help facilitate the changes. Shatterpoint used in a unique way that, instead of flooding the cracks with power to explode them, one uses the inverse of the process to heal and close them over, making a metal that was highly resistant to all manner of damage and attack, and virtually immune to normal wear, tear, and dulling. A blade that would be storied amongst it's wielders, or plate and helm to be prized amongst the Clans.

And so far, the only one who could do so was Ijaat, and with the effort done, he stepped back, wiping his brow, and bowed to the Anefilt and Draco as if in thanks.

[member="Draco Vereen"] | [member="Ra Vizsla"]

 

[Laira Darkhold]

The Anefilt stood from his stool and took back up his hammer, the large thing must have weighed a tremendous amount, so much so that a normal man would have difficulty using it, but not Ulgrom. The stocky being hefted it easily and took it up, his senses running throughout the metal, the Force lingering where Ijaat had begun the process. "Yes, yes. This is good." The venerable Anefilt could tell what was happening, even if he himself could not actually cause such changes. Such changes in a thing were different, they had been theorized, but never had the skills been combined in this way before. Such craftsmanship pleased the venerable smith to no end. "Draco, get the claws."

The Mandalorian warrior smiled and hefted a large talon, dark colored and razor-sharp, from a crate. The Shamans began to chant louder, lending their strength to the trio, providing them with the essence of the Force as it flowed through them, Draco, Ijaat, Ulgrom were reservoirs of power and skill, able to turn the power of the shamans for themselves with much more control and refinement than they would have otherwise been able to. In the chanting, the sound of deafening roars could be heard in the distance, as though the beast whose claws had been claimed was calling out from beyond at the beckoning of the shamans. The ash of the volcano swirled around the forge, careful to stay away from the craftsmen as they cantor continued to build.

The talon was shoved into the heat, as though it were any other material to be tempered and Draco placed his hand on Ijaat, siphoning his owner power into the master Smith. "Feel the call of the beast, ori'vod. Let it take you. Do that again to the talon." The Talon was already as hard as beskar, known for slashing through armorweave and puncturing all but the heaviest plate-mail. Now it was in the supernatural fires, fueled by the quintet of Force Wielders, and it held firm, soot and heat rippling around it, as though afraid to harm the object.

Draco had never seen or felt the Force used in such away, it was something only Ijaat had done, and was the reason he would always be one of the best. The Force Smith, Gar'buir, Iron Father had been working metal since he was a boy, and lived one life to old age already. To live a life anew, retaining his old skills and abilities, supplemented through the use of the Force. This would have to be a skill Draco would learn, albeit at a much slower pace. <A proper blade must be an extension of the wielder.> One of the first lessons Ijaat had ever taught him. Before Draco had ever lifted a hammer, ever mined raw ore with little more than a pick and satchel deep in the mines, before he had ever fired the bellows on the Forge, Ijaat had taught him what it meant to be a smith. Had he lived up to that teaching?

For the Dragon, it was not like the Force, which he learned to use and didn't even have a paltry understanding of until now. Beskarsmithing had been the lone individual skill Draco had understood the purpose, meaning, importance, and place of long before he touched the first piece of ore with his own hands. Black steel was pulled from the fire and brought to the anvil. Ulgrom was the first to bring hammer down upon it, followed by Draco, and the rhythm of hammers began slowly at first, gaining pace with each rotation. The two worked while Ijaat focused. This would take time.

[member="Ijaat Mereel"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Stepping forward again, Ijaat eyed the claw and pictured the Catra'diamtr, and his grin turned feral as senses creeped out over the talon. This again would require restraint, and control, more than power. Power would imbue and empower the weapon with the Force and supernatural abilities. If what Draco's words said were true, this new Manda'lor did not seek strength in such a way. Much as Ijaat had never sought it or things imbued by it. Never by choice, his Force sensitivity was all happenstance and accident. And so he reached out a hand again, seeking the inner balance between power and chaos, and control and calm. Without struggle, nothing could be made, and he struggled mightily, wearying already but bolstered by his long-time friend and one-time apprentice.

Though he'd never tell Vereen, for fear of swelling the mans' ego, he was as near an equal as Ijaat would regard anyone. More than learning the technical aspects of forge and smith craft, the younger had begun to understand the spirit and legacy of it. Once in the far ancient past Smiths had arguably been the first 'magicians', making weapons from dirt and rocks. Gleaming steel from mud and water in some views. And that was now the spirit he called upon, struggling with the will imbued still in the blade, to make it more than what it was. Eyes narrowed as sweat dripped from his brow and he splayed forth clawed fingers, Force-fire flickering around them and snaking around his arms and shoulders.

The fire grasped and the mountain around them rumbled, echoing faintly with the rumbles, a bass reverb pleasurable to Ijaats' ears. It was his home, this little island, and the volcano was his more than any. Given away though it might be on paper, in truth his presence had left a mark on it, and it was as if the mountain recognized a lord and master of it within it. He would take Draco to the lava forges soon, he had wiped them from records and hidden the entry ways. There had only been a scant handful, not wanting to spoil the apprentices with easy work, but the Dragon deserved a fitting private forge, and Ijaat yearned to see his old haunt.

Visions of wings and echoes of roars seemed to flash in his mind from the talon, and a fierce will strove against his. The light of the Force-fire surrounding him built up as soon as the ingots were gone completely, and his glare narrowed, angered gaze focusing on the gleaming talon. Bits of dust fell from the high vaulted ceilings at the tremors spreading, his jaw clenched tight and with a jumping tendon in it, veins pulsing in his forehead. The fire of his own making dimmed a moment, his eyes seeming to glow with inner light as sight beyond what was his by nature pierced the metal, seeking, searching. Even the tiniest flaw would be found under this gaze, and turned into strength and not weakness.

Nothing less would do than his utter best.

[member="Draco Vereen"]

 

[Laira Darkhold]

Hammer rang upon metal. Once. Twice. Thrice. And on and on the metal bent and twisted in the image of the smiths' minds as they struck blackened steel over and over. The ringing of hammers joined the bestial chanting of the shamans, summoning the power of the elements to them, twisting and turning them and channeling that great power into the trio of blacksmiths.

Ulgrom, was quiet, gruff. Calculating and meticulous with the metal. Any imperfection had to be burnt and struck out from the bar before he would continue having already spent the better part of a day throwing out those ores and bars of material that displeased his fine-tuned ferrosense. Everywhere the Aether turned and flowed, the Smith followed, tearing down weakness in the metal, hammering it strong and fine. As he worked he shifted each bar until they were flat beneath the strikes of their hammers. Yes, there was such thing as power hammers to make the process easier. There were many things that made the process easier. But there was nothing that made it better than a group of the greatest living smiths all in a room, working with the best materials they could scrounge together, all working in concert.

[member="Ijaat Mereel"]

 

[Laira Darkhold]

As the flat bars were laid together Draco and Ulgrom began making the first billet of Euk'gar, chosen for its light weight, its imperfections gone through the long process of smithing and refining. The scale was not present due to Ijaat's manipulation through the Force. Yes, only a Force Wielder could make something this pure, this perfect from a metallurgical sense, but it was far from fighting fire with fire. The new Mand'alor wanted the Clans to band together and make something to combat the Force Users that might call the clans enemy, it would not do to make him an army of Force Users. No, this was different, the touch of the Force was not present thanks to Ijaat. No one besides these three would know for certain that the Force had even been used to craft this material.

The cantor of chants grew louder, drowning out the noise of the furnace, instead joined by the roars of a creature, long dead. Draco had seen it, killed by a new alpha and picked clean of meat by the beasts. It had felt so wrong to leave it to rot and be forgotten, the former alor'catra'diamtr, Demon King of the Night Skies. He had been powerful and honorable. A sense of kinship had been felt by the Alor and the beast, though he had only observed it from afar. He deserved far better to be forgotten like a common buzzard. His talons would taste blood again, they would be the first, a symbol of a new dawn for the Mandalorians.

 

[Laira Darkhold]

We are here.

Hammer fell again. The Billet was slowly forge welded together and turned constantly, hammering it, drawing the metal out. The venerated Anefilt kept control over the piece of metal with his gauntleted hand, no tongs, just beskar covered fingers. The Smith was no stranger to forging beskar, though not a Mandalorian. Throughout his life he had been contacted by several to forge it for them, and he had always seen it as an honor, so much so that he had refused many a Sith when they were the enemies of the Mandalorian people. He would not share their most sacred secrets to their enemies, even if only forging it for their enemies. Now, he was helping the Mandalorians themselves step into the next era, and pride swelled in the ancient being. The billet was drawn into the full length they desired and the excess was cut and tossed into the smelter, the metal set aside.

Slowly, the shamans withdrew from the immediate vicinity and the large wookiee finally stood and made his presence known. "Don't worry. What you feel is supposed to do that." Draco said quietly. The wookiee brought forth a crate that he carried with ease, and set it before the trio of smiths. The Force abandoned them as soon as the crate entered their presence, disappearing to outside the crate's vicinity. The Wookiee tore open the crate and retreated to leave the master smiths to their work.

Ulgrom grinned and happily pulled the stone, the meteor from the crate and placed it into the smelter. "Heat is, refine it, billet it, half and half with the Eukgar and Beskar." He said quietly, shaking his head and wiping soot from his brow. Minutes passed and the stone was red hot but barely melting. The shamans, unable to affect the stone directly began chanting at the top of their lungs, bellowing out commands for the earth, and the heat rolled into the caldera in waves. The air around the smiths vibrated with heat and the furnace became white hot, heated by the magma of Mandalore and the fires of the smith's. The Bellows grinded, turning the inside of the forge into an inferno while shamans praised the planet for its work.

The stone began to crumble, pieces of it melting into a red hot liquid, pieces remaining hardened stone. The rock was ferrous in nature, but difficult to smelt and refine into a metal due to the many impurities found within the meteorite they had claimed. As the stone turned to liquid slowly but surely, the three smiths began working to burn out and remove its impurities, Ulgrom taking the perfected Eukgar in his hands and slipping it little by little into the cauldron so that it could melt and mix with the stone. He continued, adding just enough so that the ratio was about even each time.

Hammers began falling in the following hours. Without the use of the Force, the Smiths combined were still three of the greatest living metallurgists, certainly the greatest available to the Mand'alor at this time. Fires and heat could not die, as the metal had to be reheated constantly, the scale and anti-oxidants added between every few swings of the hammer. Ijaat, Ulgrom, and Draco continued the long work of forging out the material into a long billet from a molten mass. Once the billet was made, the eukgar-void stone combination was shaped carefully, made to fit the talon the trio had altered and infused with their presence.

Hammerfall after hammerfall resounded through the Iron Home, the chants of Shamans struggling to barely keep up their presence mixing with the sound of three hammers upon beskar anvil. Rivets placed. Blades sharpened. Weapon heat treated and tempered in high-grade oils. Nothing but the best the trio could afford and manage. The talon appeared bone colored after his treatments with the Force and fire, the iron darker, blackened with bright veins streaking through it. Much of the metal was left, and several of the talons.

We are coming.