Ask Mandalore Regin Smidur

[Dalair Solus]

The Citadel, Mandalore​

Ever since a moot where a certain member of the Orar'da'yadr had gone through their usual cycle of backing down from a challenge and making generally poor decisions, The Citadel had become an asset of clan Solus. Today, Dalair had landed the Ca'tra Guroa to work on refurbishing and maintaining the old fortress' forges for the use of his clan. Wearing his Guroa'gam he hefted crates, equipment, and materials around, and repaired old damage while droids swept and cleaned the area. Metal scraps and shavings laying all over the floor annoyed him, and there was a solid layer of the stuff over and behind near everything.

Music played from a speaker he'd plugged his smartpad into, the sound echoing off all the metal stone in the forges. Right this moment he was busy making sure the primary Beskar forge was working, properly. He was crouched down near the floor, tweaking a few bits inside to calibrate how high and powerful the bright blue flames flew. Too low and the metal was subpar. Too high, and one could ruin it entirely. It had to be just so.

Another member of the clan was due to stop by as well to give Dalair other work to do. With how chaotic the galaxy was these days and the frequent position of Mandalorians are bounty hunters and mercenaries, there was always more to be done. Not that Dalair ever complained. Even if bes'kar was rare, he was more than capable of working with other materials, weapons, cybernetics, or even tattoos. Armorers from Clan Solus had much they were expected to handle and Dalair embraced this life and its expectations with both hands.

So it was little surprise when he heard the telltale boot-falls of a man weighed down by armour coming down the otherwise-abandoned hall, the sound mixing in with the swish of brooms on stone and click-clack of droid feet shuffling about within the old forge. Dalair didn't look up from the work he was doing, but his helmet did turn slightly in the door's direction.

@Orbit

 

[Nox Solus]

Nox strode down the hall with his usual long stride as he made his way to the forge. Pieces of his armor gave a soft jingle but that was it as he carried few weapons while in the Citadel, making no attempt to be discrete. With Kotii having decided to abandon Mandalore, the majority of Solus who stayed loyal seized the building under their control. While their "Alor" took most of their assets and fleet, it was the one thing he had to leave behind.

The invasion of Lothal proceeded well enough to give him an opportunity to return back to Mandalore. While the Solus would have preferred to remain on the planet in order to help the rest, there was a pressing reason for his return back to his clan's forges. Through the recent battles he had partaken in, the metal arm that had replaced his right one had begun to fritz out, the condition apparent as Nox's limb would be stiff as a board, the only movement being that of his hand periodically opening and closing with strain.

As he navigated through the hallways, it wouldn't be difficult to find his destination as music blared from it and echoed where he walked. Nox had heard of an armorer that planned to restart the fire of the forges and he assumed the Mandalorian was already beginning to make himself at home. This would be the first time the two have properly met and he hoped his predicament fell within the armorer's skills.

Nox eventually entered through the open-door way of the forge, his gaze first settling on the droids that were tidying the room. He doubted they were the culprits of the music and his T-visor eventually landed on the armorer himself, a glance barely offered to him as he continued to work on the Beskar forge. Noting that, the Solus took the few steps down after a moment to join the same level as Dalair before he knelt down on both his knees, resting each hand on their respective one.

The Solus would sit there until either the music was turned down enough to speak calmly or Dalair turned to face him. When either was achieved, Nox spoke in Mand'oa to him after a curt nod of respect was given, Greetings, I see you've just settled but I ask for your assistance armorer. The introduction was formal, Nox understood the importance of an armorer to a clan and held the position in high regard. In most aspects, they were what kept the crusading war machine fueled, their repairs and craftsmanship required and demanded routinely.

His right arm would be lifted then, the way it was unnaturally locked obvious compared to the other. With a press of a button on his vambrace, the pieces connected to his wrist and glove would disconnect to allow him to place each one on the floor in front of him with care after. Once they were removed, Nox removed his glove and sleeve to reveal his prosthetic arm in the light, the metal dented and worn, almost cracked in a few places from use. There was more underneath but it was all that was needed to be seen. With his gaze directed back to Dalair,

Are you able to help me?

 

[Dalair Solus]

The Armorer awknowledged other's presence with a curt nod and turned back to the work he'd been finishing up. His left hand held something still while a tool in his right ever-so-carefully turned to adjust a valve. Once the blue flame above was set to his liking he retracted his tool and placed it neatly in his apron, reaching up to switch the forge off and closing a panel.

Only then did he turn around to face Nox, a hand holding down a button on his belt-clipped smartpad to turn the music down to conversation levels. He walked toward the ther Mandalorian as he spoke and seated himself down in front of him, legs crossed with his each hand resting against a thigh. Nox certainly hadn't been ignored. However, Dalair took his work very seriously and was always more taciturn while engaged in it, usually refusing to pause his current task for the sake of speaking. Whole conversations could pass alongside the sounds of hammering steel.

Now, though, Nox had his attention. "Welcome. What would you ask of this armorer's hands?" he replied with formally worded Mando'a, the voice behind it smooth, sonorous, and slightly throaty, each word calmly spoken. His visor dipped to watch Nox disarm, observing the condition of each piece of equipment as it was placed delicately on the freshly swept floor. Beneath lay a metal arm, scarred through battle on the front lines without immediate access to an armorer. Well, perhaps scarred was putting it lightly.

Metal fatigue was obvious in several places, nearing the point where it'd crack and break. Cuts, dents, and carbon scoring all painted the silvery surface the hues of war. He didn't need to check the internals to know they'd been damaged by heat and repeated impact. Dalair's hands both raised from his legs and he leaned slightly forward to take the limb in grasp, manipulating it asses what sort of repairs might be needed.

He turned the wrist and elbow, bent them, curled the fingers in and back out again, rotated the shoulder. Despite Dalair's firm but gentle administration the cybernetic made ominous creaking sounds at several points.

"I can," he affirmed after the inspection, turning Nox's arm to face palm-up. Notably, the wrist would not fully turn as if locked in place. "Your arm needs significant repair." Dalair suspected the "skeleton" of the arm was fine, and outer plates could be reforged or replaced easily enough. It was damaged circuitry and servomotors for the fingers that were more trouble. "There are some pieces I don't have on hand."

Dalair let the arm back down and his visor rose to look into the other Mandalorian's. "I'll have to retrieve them." As if that was the most obvious solution to the problem. "I can get back it to functioning, meanwhile. It will be substandard until then," the armorer informed him bluntly, standing from the floor. "Will need doing on my ship." Mostly because that's also where Dalair kept his spare parts and specialty tools until the Citadel's forge was fully up and running. He rattled off instructions to the droids and, assuming Nox was perfectly willing, would head to the landing pad.

The Ca'tra Guroa awaited.

@Orbit

 

[Nox Solus]

At first, when Nox revealed his metallic arm, he didn't gaze upon it himself. It was the first time he had shown the limb to anyone outside of the doctor, Ilana, who attached it to him in the first place. The Mandalorian always had difficulty accepting it, unable to wrap his mind around the idea that he had let a pirate cause such a grievous injury to him. What he lost was his own flesh and blood, a piece of himself that was replaced by cold metal.

When Dalair reached for his limb, the Solus' T-visor would finally be brought down to inspect his own arm. The neglect of it was apparent, the cuts, dents, and the way it practically operated without his accord. While the excuse that he didn't have a smith around him was viable, the condition of his prosthetic was also mostly from his own neglect. Nox cleaned it here and there but never made any major repairs and pushed it far from his mind as he hid the machinery underneath his armor.

As Dalair's touch neared his arm, Nox at first attempted to pull his hand back as he was hesitant, a wave of unease passing over him with at first revealing it and then allowing it to be touched. But the arm only made it a few inches back before halting, unable to complete the motion. His fingers drew back too but slowly as if they were pulled through molasses, Nox's head shaking slightly as a bead of sweat formed, even with just the small effort. Even though he asked for help, it was out of pure necessity as he still couldn't accept the arm and show his loss.

This tug of war lasted for a couple of seconds before he had to give in and the arm returned to its original position. Nox didn't resist as the armorer completed his inspection, examining various parts of the construction. When his hand would be twisted or lifted at an angle, the Solus would seethe as the pain blossomed in his shoulder, the connection between his flesh and metal. Either way, he remained perfectly still until the task was complete.

Upon hearing that his arm could be repaired, relief flooded through Nox and he gave the armorer a nod, I'll take anything over what is happening right now. If substandard meant he could at least move it normally, Nox would be perfectly happy. Standing up after being told of the ship, another brief nod, I'll wait for you there. With a turn, the Crusader left from the forge.

When Dalair would enter his ship, he would find Nox sitting near a table in the main belly of the craft. His left hand would be holding the chin of his helmet as he stared at the ground, his right arm placed upon the table and underneath a light. The Solus would glance up upon hearing the smith, Whatever it takes.

 

[Dalair Solus]

Dalair had given Nox a look as he tried- and failed- to retract the arm. His face wasn't visible but it certainly carried stern energy reflected in how solid the armorer's grip was on the limb. Those gloved fingers held in them an iron strength reinforced by years of hammering steel, relaxing again when Nox gave up trying to move the badly damaged arm.

The inspection also revealed general neglect. It wasn't just physical marks, but aging and carbon-caked oil in the joints and no signs of being polished or properly maintained. Some of the marks had other substances layered over them that definitely didn't look new. It would be an effort to fix, but he was no stranger to that. The real issue was why it was in such poor shape to begin with.

Stepping aboard his ship, Dalair made directly for his tools and supplies. A large section of the interior separating wall had been cut out to make more room for the forge set-up taking up half the cargo bay. Labeled crates of various scrap, parts, and other supplies were neatly stacked in the other half. A small case of more delicate tools was removed from a wall rack. He also picked up a box of spare machine parts from over by a half-disassembled LE repair droid before joining NOx at the workbench, walking around to the opposite side.

Dalair glanced toward Nox. "As you say," he replied simply, opening the tool case to reveal an eclectic collection of precision engineering tools often used for things like droids or datapads. Both heavy leather smith's gloves were removed and placed aside, beneath which was a much thinner leather better suited to his task. The armorer sat and began his work, starting with using a small probe he inserted near the shoulder connection to disable control and sensory feedback. Else prying it open would be, put mildly, uncomfortable.

He was in the middle of working a tool beneath a forearm plate's dented edge for removal when spoke next. "How is your arm maintained?" Dalair asked, scraping a bit of gunk away as the plate's end popped free. There was no hiding how badly it needed just a basic oil bath more often.

@Orbit

 

[Nox Solus]

Dalair gave no objection to his statement and there was no better answer than that. With the lifestyle their people lived, his arm was a major necessity to his performance in combat and he would do anything to return it to a prime state. As the Armorer made his way over to his workbench, his gaze would track along with him before resting on the tools presented. Nox understood the process he had signed himself up for and the work cut out ahead for them.

When the probe was used in order to shut down control of his arm, Nox didn't resist but when the droid neared the sensory feedback, his other arm whipped around lightning-quick and seized it, his hand nearly enveloping the entire droid as he held it in place. No. Leave it on. There was steel to his voice, a resolve that even if Dalair highly suggested for the feedback to be turned off, he still wouldn't allow it.

Nox would hold the droid there for a couple of seconds until he finally let go of it, the little probe floating back to Dalair almost in terror and back to the safety of its master. The last time he had lost complete feeling in his arm was when he was woken up in the hospital, by himself and surrounded by doctors poking and prodding him. Kaisa had dropped him off and didn't fault her for not staying but he remembered the utter panic he went through, the restraints keeping him pinned. Nox feared that sensation of feeling nothing once again and would rather suffer through the pain instead of facing that once more.

As Dalair began the process of cleaning and repairing the metal, Nox would have his gaze drift toward the ground and focus there purposefully. The smith would be able to hear the Solus seethe and the crinkling of leather from his grip on the chair as he felt each scrape and removal of pieces. Even though all of it, the Mandalorian remained still as he could and let the work be done without interruption.

Answering his question about maintenance, Nox glanced over at Dalair before answering, I clean it here and there. Most of the time, I just work through it. With the cracks and dents, it was clear he had been dealing with constant pain for a long time. We don't exactly see eye to eye. Our first time meeting wasn't exactly under the best circumstances. A flash of the hospital went before his eyes but it was pushed aside with the help of another scrape from the smith.

 

[Dalair Solus]

The armorer's visor lifted as Nox grabbed the little probe assistant. It wasn't precisely the same but the other man was sort of asking for surgery to be done without anesthetic, if less extreme. Luckily, that was a problem for Nox so long as the arm didn't wiggle all over the place. "Fine."

Dalair cycled smoothly through a series of different tools. One of which was little more than a small crowbar for prying stubborn plates. Another was a brush with long, stiff bristles for cleaning out the space between. If he was going to fix the neglected cybernetic he was also going to properly maintain it. He paid no mind to Nox's discomfort in any situation where doing so would negatively impact his work. He'd chosen to keep sensation on.

The probe, meanwhile, mostly just provided supplementary light at different angles. Using magnetic plyers he got the forearm plate off, helm tilting slightly left and right to see the state of its internals. The first thing he did was disconnect main power- electrocution was bad- followed by carefully prying out a small shard of metal from the wrist joint. Dalair held it up to the light.

"Clean what, exactly?" he asked rhetorically. Dal noted Nox wasn't paying any attention to the process, rather focused on the floor. The shard was deposited into a small container of other useless scraps. Notably, Wolf's armour and weapons were in perfectly good shape from what he could see. It was just the arm.

"What happened?" A straightforward question. It's not as if most lost limbs by choice, modders aside, but this level of neglect was worrisome. No Mandalorian would treat their other equipment this way, or perhaps a better analogy, refuse to bath themselves. If Dal knew more he may find a solution of sorts. Before moving to the next section he popped the bottom forearm plate off and turned the cybernetic's wrist to see how well the joint and other internals moved.

As far as he could tell the servomotor module for it was jammed, as expected. So he got to work cleaning it out and delicately pulling out any shorted bits or worn-out wiring for replacement. Dalair would be patient with Nox. Losing something one was used to having all their life was no easy task.

@Orbit

 

[Nox Solus]

Dalair allowed him to proceed without turning off the feedback and Nox was grateful for it. If it had been an issue, it would have been likely that the Solus would have just exited from the ship. It wouldn't have been out of spite but that he couldn't lose the sensation of his touch again.

When one of the plates was pried off, Nox would grunt painfully, his grip on the seat tightening as the leather in his glove crinkled loudly. Beads of sweat began to form and drip down his face while underneath his helmet. At the rhetorical question, Nox opened his mouth to speak anyway but then the shard had been pulled out, releasing a sort of growl-like sound out from him instead as his head immediately twisted the other way, his face grimacing. Understanding the point, a simple 'hmmph' was let out by him afterward. Despite the pain and sounds he was making, his torso remained motionless to allow the smith to complete his work.

Nox didn't focus on the process, not because he didn't care but because he didn't find the arm a piece of him. The question stumped the Solus for a second but before he could even answer, the bottom plate of his forearm was pried off and another painful grunt erupted from him. Instead of moving his body, it went to his head as he would perform a quick shake of it before returning his gaze upon the floor, his breathing slightly heavier. More sweat poured down his face but he remained still for Dalair.

Whether it was the pain making him slightly delirious or the unrecognized need for him to speak and open up about what happened, Nox felt the pull to talk. The arm was already seen by the smith so he had no need to lie. It was with one of our Sisters. We boarded a corvette in order to seize it. The entire thing was manned with pirates. The Solus let out a simple exhale as he recalled what happened, Long story short, one of them got the drop of me. Took my arm off cleanly with my back turned. A simple pirate.

I passed out not too long after and was dropped off at a hospital. When I woke up, I was strapped to a gurney and surrounded by faces I didn't know. I had no idea where I was or in the galaxy. Nox glanced over to Dalair then, Then I was given an arm I didn't know. And that's the end of the story. His visor then dropped down to the dismantled limb, watching as Dalair replaced the wiring. Even though there was sensory feedback and resembled an arm in nature, it had never felt the same to Nox.

 

[Dalair Solus]

Although it may not not seem like it at first glance the armorer was listening well to the Wolf's words. Even as he swapped out tools for others and picked at worn metal, stressed joints, and overloaded micro-circuitry he was listening. Heedless he was of Nox's physical pain, but so of the rest.

It was only when Nox's visor found the half-apart arm laying on the table table that he looked up, just after fusing a new bit of wiring into place. Dalair's visor stared toward the other Mandalorian's for a few silent seconds, still as a statue for just that brief moment in time.

"You're lucky," he said with a sense of calm certainty. "We're all lucky to wake and sleep in our own power, day by day. Each contained in one unique span of time. Lucky to run, and fall, and crack, and crumble. On our first morning, storyless." Strong fingers lifted the arm from the table, bare of plating, like bone stripped of flesh and muscle. A small, curved pair of flyers was used to closely examine the wrist joint under the probe's little light, delicately prying a dented bit of metal from where it lay.

"This limb wields weapons when you need it," he said, abruptly more verbose than he'd been since the wounded Wolf had walked into the Citadel's forge. "It lifts what you ask, touches what you grasp." And yet it was neglected to the point of mass replacement. A small shower of sparks flew as he worked to spot-repair an area that was just starting to crack under metal fatigue.

"If not an arm, what is it you lost?"

@Orbit

 

[Nox Solus]

At first, his story only brought silence, leaving him to wonder for a brief second if it was because of disbelief. Nox had expected some type of answer but not the one he got at all after. As Dalair spoke, his head would just slowly turn to stare at him, the pain even ignored in that brief span of time. The words had completely confused Nox. He was lucky and so were everybody else to sleep in their power? Hadn't he just told him that the opposite happened at the hospital? The Mandalorian couldn't figure out what the hell he was talking about and he just gave a slight nod.

Dalair then pointed out necessary functions that could still be completed with the prosthetic. Nox understood the point he was getting at before he was asked what he had lost. An answer didn't immediately come to mind for him, not knowing how to word his difficulties with the metallic limb. After another shower of sparks, he spoke, "A piece of me." The simple statement just uttered out.

Nox had lost the confidence and trust he once held. The limb had once been his own flesh and blood, the limit of the limb known by him extensively. When he once would have done something without hesitation, now questions slip into his mind and slow him down.

Not exactly wanting to discuss more down that subject, he inspected his arm quickly before peering at the smith, "How much longer until we land?"

 

[Dalair Solus]

There was a very long pause when Nox answered the armorer's question. So long, in fact, it could easily be assumed Dalair had no intention of answering. He simply kept working, cleaning one bit or another and replacing small bits of wiring. Perhaps he was thinking, or perhaps he was waiting for something. It was impossible to tell.

After the underlying machinery was in order he started attaching the new covers, continuing to pay no mind to Nox's willing discomfort. Each black plate slid together smoothly, adjusted with little tools to form one cohesive shape that bent and worked together as one. Everything from fingers to shoulder had to be swapped out from gathered damage and neglect.

It was only when he was just about finished that Dalair looked up at Nox again, visor reflected in visor. He picked up the other Mandalorian's metal prosthetic by the forearm while the probe droid reactivated motor control. Dalair squeezed, his inhumanly strong fingers further forged by hard labor putting an uncomfortable, but not damaging, pressure on the limb's plating.

"If it's you it feels for, hurts for, carries for, exists for, it is yours," rumbled his sonorous voice from his helm, raising the arm up in a so far one-sided arm clasp. "If something of yours was lost," he added, "Take it back, or forge anew." After a stretched-out moment, whether or not Nox returned his grip, he'd let go.

"This is our way."

@Orbit

 

[Nox Solus]

Silence built between the two, even after his question but Nox wasn't bothered. The break allowed him to just retreat back into his mind to roll over their conversation. The repairment of the arm still hurt like a bitch but they were nearing the finish line of what they started and he still remained perfectly still. Eventually, he assumed he would be able to accept it but as of right then, it was a difficult pill to swallow.

Upon feeling the pressure of Dalair's fingers as he pushed in the final plate, Nox finally peered toward his arm. The Armorer had down a wonderful job. Each plate was a smooth jet black, straight and hard gold inlays separating the plates amongst his arm. It was beautiful to look at and clearly made with Mandalorian grace. When his motor control was given back to him, he immediately rolled around his wrist and such, testing the flexibility.

With the grasp and shift, Nox's attention would be drawn back to Dalair as a clasp was offered. The words rang against his helm, this time being the one to remain quiet and just listening. At feeling the Armorer's grip tightened, Nox in return gave a nod before giving his own clasp. This is the way, the simple phrase murmured out with acceptance. He still had his own reservations but he would have to press on.

Nox stood up from the table as he gave a roll of his shoulder before reaching the plates of his armor and covering his robotic arm. Thank you, the words offered with appreciation and a deep nod of his head. With that being done, Nox would wait for the ship to land before he would finally depart. He had a feeling the two would see each other quite a bit in the future.

/end