The Redeemer
| Location | Hefi, Jenn's Forge| Objective | Talk philosophy.
| Focus |
Jhira Mereel
CLANG
The Forge brought no small amount of peace to Jenn. Each hit of her hammer spoke of absolute control: every strike of her hammer had to be measured in its strength in order to shape the hallowed metal into the desired shape. All of her focus was poured into her craft, this act of creation almost sacrosanct to the smith. The Karjr and the Si'kayha were ever in need of her services, and although she rarely brought fire to the enemies of the Enclave in these times of war, she took pride in her role. She was Kayatr'ade, and through her labor, the Clans would endure to see another dawn.
CLANG
And yet, doubt assailed her heart. She remembered those dark years following the genocide of her people, the sense of being well and truly lost in a vast galaxy. Overnight, the Mandalorian people had been reduced to wanderers, forced from their homes once more and scattered across the stars. The hatred she held for Jedi and Sith alike burned bright in her heart for many, many years, and threatened to consume her once more as the Enclave rose from the ashes and challenged the Galactic Alliance to war - a foe that would, no doubt, be supported by the Jedi. Vengeance guided her, if only for a time... but Jenn had changed. No longer was she driven by a need to prove herself, to show her prowess to everyone. Now, more than ever, she missed the wise counsel of the great founder of the Enclave. With her passing, it seemed that the desire to build a safe haven for Mandalorians had become but a secondary concern.
CLANG
No. All they spoke of now was war, their birthright, the prestige they had lost. They wanted to be feared and respected. Great hunters all, they would remind the galaxy that the Mando'ade were not to be trifled with... but was it truly something she wished to be a part of? More and more, she felt a disconnect between herself and the Clans. The woman she loved... was someone dear to her. But she was not Mando'ade, and there were things she could not share with her - things she was not allowed to explain. And that reality bothered her. The Mandalorian Catechisms offered her a new creed after her abandonment of the Way, but now, more than ever, those tenets were suffocating. Sam was her heartlight, and Sherridan's daughter was a Jedi. Would her allegiance to the Enclave tear them apart?
CLANG
The breastplate before her was complete. A sense of pride washed over her, no matter how weary to her bones she felt about her current situation. In spite of the growing rift between the Clans of the Enclave and herself, nothing brought her more satisfaction than her craft as Kayatr'ade. The finished piece of armor was soon put aside, and the exhausted smith removed her helmet - hooking it under her arm whilst reaching out for a bottle of Crus-ade nearby. The name left a bitter taste in her mouth: once, it had been an in-joke among her people, a way to spoof the fears of a resurgent faction of crusading Mandalorians. Now... well, now, she found herself resenting the good humor surrounding it. Still, the beverage was without compare to keep an Ersansyr like herself properly hydrated: her kind had a certain preference for sugar and sweets, and the electrolytes and protein were a good way to keep her in top shape. Hydration and moisturization had become incredibly important to her ever since her change, after all, and she found the beverage to be ideal in combating her thirst when working the forge. Putting the empty bottle back down, she turned her gaze towards her hammer and tongs, a wistful sigh escaping her lips.
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