Ask Mandalore A Rosehead Nail

[Dalair Solus]

Whether in the shimmering heat of day or breezy cool of night, Dalair lately had found himself working to bring the Citadel's forges up to his specifications. Neglect had been clear all over the building and the armorer's workshop was no exception. Floors were swept of sand and metal shavings, machines were maintained, polished, and oiled, and new supplies. It was good and honest work, not to mention important for keeping Solus equipment in good shape.

That said, it wasn't the only work he was doing. With the crusade begun in earnest, as well as events during and surrounding the first invasion, Dalair had other ideas beyond just updating an ancient forge. Their new Mand'alor seemed to agree with that sentiment, which was why the Ca'tra Guroa was parked outside Keldabe. He couldn't help thinking about just how many times the city had been bombed, in total.

Many. It was many times. Of course, Mandalorians being who they were, just kept rebuilding it in some new form. These days it was very much an industrial area more than the great capital it used to be, but that was fine. And why they were coming here in the first place. From a bit of shade beneath his ship Dal sipped some water through a straw and hurried up waiting. It was somewhat uncomfortable to have nothing to actually... Do, while he waited.

His foot tapped in place.

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Fenyang]

Mandalore hobbled. Both the planet and the man. Mandalore the planet, reduced to ash after millennia of genocide imposed upon them by various iterations of Sith. Now, the Sith were their erstwhile allies. Strange times bore ill tidings. But he had cast his die, and hitched the fate of Mandalore to his skill as a ruler. His ability to navigate the line between treachery and honesty, with both his fellow Mandalorians and the Sith.

Mandalore the man was crippled following his assault on Lothal. The wicked acts of the sorcerers there had ruptured his leg - forcing him into a painful, iron splint that the hobbled on towards the forge of Solus. It was humiliating, in some ways, to be among the most injured of the war campaign. But he wore the wound with his own brand of dignity - a small sense of pride at having sustained an injury in his first campaign. More would surely come.

This hobbling naturally slowed him down, causing him to arrive far later than intended to meet with the armorer, Dalair Solus. Solus was now a house divided; the Alor having run off with all of his house's resources. Undeterred, the clan had selected a new Alor almost immediately, and pledged themselves fully to the campaign. He knew the rumors about their distaste towards him, though. He knew that the only reason the others didn't run wasn't because they respected Fenyang, but because they respected Mandalore.

It was enough, though. Enough for now. Putting aside their hatreds towards a united Mandalore was a beautiful thing. Fenyang wouldn't waste it by trying to force the clans to like him or admire him - he could only continue the work of redeeming Mandalore. He saw the forges of the Citadel alight yet again. Perhaps there were good omens.

<Honored Armorer.> Fenyang did not ascribe to all the old ways, but this one he appreciated. Outside of their Kad-given talent in the forge, the armorers were the spiritual foundation of the Mandalorian peoples. They were the sole guides of Mandalore through the dark storms of its abandonment and genoise. While he was now Mand'Alor, he would never ignore or forget the wisdom that armorers could provide. <I am humbled to join you here. How goes the forge?>

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Dalair Solus]

Dalair's foot stopped bouncing as Fenyang approached the Flying Forge, his visor raisin to take in the man's injured appearance and the state of his armour. The purple and gold were untraditional and starkly distinctive which, which the armorer supposed was in the new Mand'alor's favour. Impossible to mistake him for something else and didn't make him seem heavily in Ordo's favour.

"Mand'alor," he greeted in return, nodding his helmet and standing from the seat he'd taken. Dalair spoke neithly humbly nor arrogantly, moreso matter-of-fact and even-toned, voice smooth and sonorous. "Both flying and grounded are keeping well apace for a crusade." The citadel's was much larger and much more out of date than the Flying Forge of course, but needing to salvage and scrap had never stopped Dalair's efforts before. Given the right bits and pieces, he'd get it finished.

"Healing well?" It was, to him, a practical question more than a nicety. From what he'd heard it'd been a nasty trick of sorcery that did it. Who knows what nonsensical injuries they could inflict? If Mand'alor needed a new leg, best to work on it sooner than later. Obviously.

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Fenyang]

"The leg will heal. The sorcerers' pride were not. A minor wound, compared to such a commanding victory." The victory of Mandalore. With Lothal now under Mandalore's heel, Fenyang felt rootless. Their army would have to consolidate, recover after their victory. The armorers still needed to be brought in line. Mandalore still lay unhealed, wounded by generations of constant bombardment. But such things could change, in time. The Mand'Alor needed greater patience to lead his people to their destiny.

His voice strained with pain, in spite of his assurances. He wore the wound with pride, though, alongside the blade that sat at his waist. While his companions at the battle had scavenged the lightsabers of the Jedi, pilfering dead mens' belongings like jackals, Fenyang preferred the gentle craftsmanship of his own peoples. He withdrew the blade with a flourish, to present before the Armorer.

"Your clan has rallied quickly since the defection of your Alor." It was an observation, rather than a praise or careful analysis. "Yet, I still sense an uneasiness from your house." From all the houses. Dalair's analysis was close - no clan would receive his favoritism because they all viewed him with suspicion and distrust. From his ascent, to his pact with the Sith, to his execution of the young mother on holovision. He tried to block that last moment, almost able to convince himself that it was a necessary exercise to show the consequences of the slightest resistance.

Such assurances never made the killing easier, but his heart had grown cold nonetheless. Mandalore's destiny was the only thing that had warmed it.

"Some who follow the old ways says that our precious Beskar should not be forged into weapons. Still, I prefer the prefer the practicality of our own craftsmanship." There was a question laden in the observation, obvious only to one who was familiar with Mandalorian metaphor. Fenyang wanted to know the armorer's opinion on matters of tradition and honor. Few were as flexible as Fenyang on those matters, but still. Innovation would lead Mandalore to the future. While history clearly had a role, sticking to a past that had deprived them of power would not.

He handed the blade to the Armorer for inspection. "If you find it unworthy, contribute its Beskar to the clan forge, that the younglings may get new helms."

@Mr. Teatime