The Iron Father
His bes'runi armor hummed and faintly shone, neatly placed on an armor stand in the corner, a rack holding various bladed weapons from a dozen cultures for the swordsman. On the desk near his hand sat a runi tome'tayl, a soft melody floating on the air that even the keenest ears could scarcely hear. The Quartermaster had come to him and asked of him a momentous task he had almost refused. But as they had conversed, he had begun to see that... If not he to do this task, then who?
A beskar nibbed holo-quill sat in his hand as he wrote across a battered durasteel dataslate. Old books, scrolls, and even data and holocrons were strewn about his personal quarters, as were other dataslates with half-finished entries. By the bags and dark circles around the amber like eyes of the Iron Father, and the caff pot long cold and tin-cup next to it empty but stained from many pours, he had been at it a while. Even his signature cigarra had long burnt out and the cherry gone cold, half-smoked and idle in the ashtray. Food sat to a side table, cold Tiingilar and cassius tea, the spicy soup with a sheen of oil and fat on it almost congealed. It may have been there days, or for certain hours.
He had left orders not to be disturbed without reason to the guards outside his hall, and had set about the task of reviving the past.