Private At The Hearth

[Caeos Prahl]

Prahl // SoM // The Forge

The Quartermaster Obran

“It just proves how many times I have been lucky, I know what I am good at and that’s what I will do. I feel like a coward though and I can’t look them in the eye because of it.” ​

The descent into the atmosphere was shaky, the ship jolted and Caeos grimaced from behind her helmet. The controls jerked and she tightened her grip on the steering, leather creaking. Caeos could hear Ketra shifting nervously in the seat beside her, her flight record wasn’t shining but she reasoned it was the fatigue of travel. The twinge in her shoulder said otherwise and Caeos let her left arm slump in her lap as the view port was engulfed by blue before her. The spanse oceans of the planet Roon greeted them, the ship made a shrill noise as they descended from the rain heavy clouds emerging from the storm. A heavy exhale escaped her, the relief fleeting as other worried preyed in the corners of her mind. She was glad to return to Daba'r at least, the landmass steadily grew closer on the horizon. She expected to run to a cruiser, guns drawn and she hummed as the radio link crackled to life.

<<”Ke'mot! Clearance codes, you are entering a con-”>>

<<”Su cuy'gar, sending them now.”>> Caeos greeted almost forcefully, atleast her pronunciation had improved. One gauntlet flying to the switches to activate the beacon. She turned her head to the younger girl, jerking her helm, <”Ketra go tell the others to be ready, and send a message directly to the Quartermaster.”>

<”Will we be staying a while again?”> the girl mirrored her, she had nothing more than the girl’s tone to gauge. Staring into a dark screen no different then her own, how much time had passed since they both had come crawling to the refuge. Caeos couldn’t help but frown.

<”We will speak of it later, go on. I don’t want to arrive unannounced, it’s rude.”> Caeo offered, turning her attention back to the communications as her sister disappeared in the ship cabin, the door hissing shut behind her. There was a series of heavy clicks as she flicked through the links as the thrusters roared. A mute excitement filled her, the forges of the Quartermaster had been her favorite to work in and she had enjoyed her time learning there. The souring politics however made her wonder if they could afford to stay at all. The oceans gave way to the beaches, the shadow of the ship flickering over the land which had been staked in the name of Mandalore. Veering the ship, the rain streaked down the glass-a chill had filled the cabin. Caeos settled back in to the seat finally at ease despite the weather, the radar steadily beeped as the distance dwindled to the Enclave.

<”I want you all to be respectful, Ketra you of all. Do not pick any fights with that verd, Siv. Or anyone for that matter,”> Caeos said, the ramp’s hydraulics whined as it hit the hangar floor. From the corner of her eye she caught Dyain knocking Laeds helmet gently and she turned, the pair of trouble makers froze as she silently gestured to their own bags.

Caeos slung her bag of tools up, the metal clinking as she adjusted the weight. She didn’t even have any stories to bring to the Hall, the Akul’s attack..Caeos shook her head, it was irrelevant. There was much better news to share and she reached down for her pack only for small hands to steal it out. Ketra looked at her, scoffed plainly as she hauled it up in her arms for her. The younger girl hustled forward as the boys followed her down the ramp.

<”I’m swon now, I can do what I want. I mean how am I supposed to get better if I don’t?”>

<”Not with that kind of attitude, I don’t want a Clan war on our hands,”> Caeos said, sighing as she followed them down almost dragging her feet. The kids were racing across the hangar and she eyed the people working, maybe she had picked up the Kurze’s bad habit after all. Thoughts swirled in her mind before Caeo’s head jerked up quickly shouting after the gaggle of younglings <”Go to the Hall! I am going to find the Forgemaster.”>

Her last words were heeded by a careless hand from the younger girl, Caeo shook her helm as she turned hesitantly toward the hangar doors choosing another path. The time she had spent working here felt like an age ago and she nodded to those on guard as she passed the threshold, blast doors peeling open. Caeos couldn’t decide then, if she wanted to stay for another work rotation but maybe that’d change when she got her hammer in hand. Shrugging the bag of tools, her boots lead her the maze of halls she had forced herself to memorize until she came upon the Forges, it was her first assumption to check there. Noises rang out and the glow of the fires radiated across the durasteel walls. Caeos followed the light until she turned the corner.

<”Hello?”> Caeos poked her helm around the corner, speaking up for she knew the hammer often drowned the voice.

 

[Obran]

There were not many sons or daughters of Mandalore that knew true peace. A kind of soulful calm that stilled a turbulent spirit, or cooled a burning rage. A sort of temperance to the bitterly hard chip on the shoulder many scions of the Clans bore to the world. Obran was no exception to this nursing hatred. Long memory, short fuse... That was the saying. But in the Forge, these concerns died under the ringing song of creation and the staccato blows of his hammmer.

Standing there, he probably looked like something from a saga. Honed muscle slick with hours of sweat, smeared in soot. His armor, from the waist up, sat to the side, as did his helmet. His hair was loose braided back, and he wore a heavy apron full of various tools of the trade - punches, tongs, gravers and more.

In one hand, a set of tongs turned a bar of beskar, as the other raised and let drop a hammer, slowly shaping the glowing metal. Forging gave time and way for the goran to think on the recent changes and departure. He could no longer remain in the shadows in entirety. Too much did the bladesong call, as his adoptive father called it. The siren verse of hammer on anvil and forge, the feel of hot metal giving way to his will. And there was too little to accomplish living as he had.

So he had approached The Quartermaster and the Enclave here when found, and had begun a proper tutelage. Already moderately skilled and educated, now he hoped his abilities to become legend. And that required proof of skill, which was what his mind was wholly bent to the workings of, to the exclusion of Caeos Prahl or any other arrivals.

 

[The Quartermaster]

F O R G E M A S T E R

Tag: Caeos Prahl | Obran
Word Count: 1,112

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

The sounds of tools ringing against metal echoed through the halls and chambers of the Forge. The Metalsmiths of the Enclave were hard at work; they had been ever since the Enclave had been founded. Warriors, Hunters, and Mercenaries from every clan and corner of the galaxy had poured into the safe haven -- looking for work, looking for a place to rest, looking for a place to start again. Such a large host required a considerably large armory to supply them, and thus the few smiths that there were worked night and day to meet the demand.

The secret to forging Beskar was one that was jealously guarded by the smiths of the Mandalorians, and no more so than the Order of the Forgemasters. It was the Mando'ade's signature metal, almost as defined in their culture as their language or armor. For guarding and utilizing this secret, the Forgemasters and Smiths were highly revered and respected in Mandalorian society. But, they never had been in any sort of leadership position; that had been left for the warriors, the brutes, and tacticians of the Mando'ade.

But now with the Enclave? The Quartermaster had been forced to step into the role that she was the most reluctant to take, but she had accepted it nevertheless. The Clans needed her, and more importantly, they needed the Enclave. And the Quartermaster would not step down from that responsibility so long as it existed, for it was her duty to her people to do so.

But that didn't mean she wasn't at work in the Forge as well. For all she knew, she was the last living Forgemaster. Thus it was equally her duty to pass on the Code of the ancient order lest it is lost to history forever.

She stood over a miniature holoprojector to the side of the massive furnace that stood in the center of her own Forge. Projected in the dim light was an image of a full Beskar cuirass, one that the Quartermaster had been editing and changing for over thirty minutes. Each set of Beskar she made was unique, and while they all drew from similar traditional Mandalorian elements of design, each piece of Beskar'gam was individually curated to the maker.

Rearranging a few polygons with the tip of a gloved hand, she stepped back and deemed it a satisfactory work. She then turned to the furnace, watching as blue jets of flame began to emerge a concentric ring around the furnace, superheating the massive stone construct. She lifted a palet of Beskar ingots with massive iron forks, setting them inside the furnace. The beskar had been from a recent shipment that had arrived; it had been processed in a Sith mine and recovered during the retaking of Mandalore. The flames of the Forge danced on the Quartermaster's helmet as she watched the ingots began to melt into a malleable liquid, becoming a molten metal.

A peculiar phenomenon began that would look alien to most, but was familiar to those who worked regularly with beskar. The ingots melting into each other, the heat of the furnace began to levitate the flattening mass of Beskar. The superheated metal now was beginning to cool in the airstream as it levitated, softening it somewhat to the point that it could be shaped and crafted. Cooling jets positioned around the furnace sped up this process, that unaided would take almost an entire day, just to complete.

Satisfied that the temperature had cooled enough for the metal to be malleable, the Quartermaster lifted an arm to the top of the forge and pulled the top down, which was actually a massive press-like contraption that she used to slam down on the levitating metal, shaping it into roughly the size of a breastplate while hammering in the indentations that she'd designed on the holoprojector. Inside the press were hundreds of individual components that were able to rearrange themselves according to her inputs on the holoprojection. It was much more crude and jury-rigged than what would have been available on Mandalore before the Sundering, but it was enough to work with.

She slammed the press down once, twice, a massive ringing echoing each time she did so. As she lifted it up the third time, the rough shape of a braestplate had been made, the indentations all etched out into the beskar plate.

Grabbing a pair of smaller tongs, she gingerly pulled the half-molten Beskar plate with the sure hands of an experienced smith, setting it on an adjacent stone table by which the holoprojection was visible. She pulled out a mid-sized hammer from her belt and began using it to expertly shape the armor, beating it on its sides and flattening hammering out the inconsistencies and forming a smooth plate all around.

Next, to harden the Mandalorian Iron, she took the tongs and stuck the plate back into the furnace. There was a temperature gauge there for novices and smiths, but the Quartermaster was intimate with the art of craftsmanship enough to know when the beskar would be properly heated. Once it was red-hot, she took the half-molten plate out of the furnace and plunged the metal plate into a vat of a coolant mix. The mixture bubbled and steam rose from it, signaling that the metal had cooled. The Quartermaster then repeated the process; putting it in the furnace at relatively lower and lower temperatures then rapidly cooling it, tempering the beskar and making it less brittle.

At last, she dunked the metal with the tongs into a sandy, mineral-rich mixture, letting it harden in a dirt-like shell around the plate, smoothing it out and removing any lasting impurities. After the plate had cooled, she took a hammer to the encased plate and cracked it open, revealing the gleaming beskar underneath.

"Hello?" A young voice interrupted her thoughts, and the Quartermaster raised her helmet-encased head to see one of her favorite apprentices; the young woman, Caeos Prahl. She had taken to the art of metalsmithing with true passion and drive, and in her the Quartermaster saw much potential that could be shaped and molded like the beskar plate that the Quartermaster had just forged.

"Caeos. Su cuy'gar, ner Vod." Her tone was austere, but there was some affection behind it. Her two gloved hands clasped Caeo's shoulders in a matronly way, before sliding down her arms as if to size her up. "My, you've grown," she commented. "Is Kestra with you?" The foundling had a lot of spunk that the Quartermaster admired, although it had gotten her into a couple more scrapes with older warriors than was probably healthy for a thirteen-year-old-girl.
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