Private Constant Ringing

[Thyr Kyron]

N A U R ' A L O R
Bloodforges, Tor Valum
​

Tag: Vara Rasha

Night had fallen over Kestri. Yet the Bloodforges did not rest. Diminished though they may be by a large number of metalsmiths who had left Kestri to smith aboard the ships of the Mythos Fleet, the fires of the Bloodforges roared hot as ever. That's where Thyr remained. The forges ran regular supply runs between the fleet and Kestri, exchanging newly-crafted items for materials seized and anything in need of repair that the fleet couldn't handle. That allowed Thyr to only spend cursory time with the Mythos Fleet. She far preferred Kestri's nip of cold, fresh air to the stale recycled oxygen and cramped environment of the fleet's ships. She worked better here.

Thyr had been at the blade for three hours. Beskar demanded patience that lesser metals didn't, and she'd learned long ago not to rush it. A beskad, long and single-edged, the kind of commission that didn't come through often anymore. She moved it from the coals to the anvil, hammer rising and falling in a rhythm older than she could remember learning. Beskar didn't sing the way other metals did. It rang. Clean and low, each strike resonated up through the haft and into her palm like the metal was answering her. She paused, tilting the blade toward the forge light. There was a shadow in the steel, deep near the spine. She exhaled slowly through her nose. Back to the flame jets, then. Her beskar smithing could not have any impurities.

 

[Vara Rasha]

THE FOUNDLING
Kestri | Tor Valum | Sector 06 | Halls of the Forgemasters | The Bloodforges
TAG: Thyr Kyron

The Streets of Tor Valum​

The cold welcomed her.

The Foundling hadn’t realized just how much she had already missed Kestri’s bone-chill upon her gray fur. Each breath drove a thousand icy needles into her lungs. A fresh coat of snow sprinkled upon her long, jet-black mane and locs, billowing with every howl of the wind. The clean air was a welcome change from drawing the same stale and recycled air aboard The Akaanar, or aboard any other ship of The Mythos Fleet for that matter.

But the real prize here was the mountains.

Lily-white draped over the jagged fang-like peaks like a blanket, all the way down to the mountain foot. Yet beneath the pristine mantle remained something wild. If anything, it accentuated it. The morning light caught upon the snowfields and scattered across them in countless shades of silver and gold. Every ridge and cliff remained visible beneath the veils of mist, standing proud and unbowed against the sky. Winds carved fleeting patterns across its slopes, erasing old tracks and burying old scars beneath fresh powder as though the mountains themselves cared little for what came before them.

Together, it painted a beautiful tableau no artist could ever do justice to in their artistic interpretation, no matter their skill.

Vara drew another breath. Her sigh misted before her as she grudgingly forced herself to move. Boots scraped across the stone as a puff rolled loudly between her lips. It was almost painful to tear herself away.

But it wasn’t going to be any more damning than a promise unkept otherwise.

The beautiful skies outside in The Ravine eventually left her throne to be claimed by the wide and spacious corridors carved out of stone, each brick and column under the torch-light a testament to a master craftsman’s work. Corridors and passageways branched into loading bays, warehouses and finally, the forges.

This was where the heart of their war machine beat; thundering beneath the Forgemasters’ hammers with every strike of steel upon anvil. From small private forges to sprawling communal foundries of immense proportions, each Forgemaster – apprentice and master alike – worked tirelessly to meet the Iron Covenant’s unending needs.

Among those private forges stood the one she had come to visit.

A buzz of hammerfalls accompanied her each step, one of which grew more and more distinct through a passageway, cutting through the din with every strike against the bare, heated metal in a rather peculiar rhythm. It answered each beat back with a clean, low lilt.

Vara rounded the final bend and the source of the rhythm revealed itself. As the hammer fell silent, heat welcomed her first, rolling through the threshold in a tangible wave, carrying with it the scents of coal, hot steel and old soot.

The Harpy stepped into the forge, a modest workshop carved into the mountain’s heart but no less lively than the rest. Fresh snow still clung stubbornly to the crimson plates of her armor despite the forge’s heat. Firelight flickered across worn durasteel, catching upon patches of bare metal exposed beneath a tapestry of scars and scratches earned in places far removed from Kestri’s mountains. Her crimson gaze caught the various tools lining the racks on the walls. Orange light danced across the stone walls, cast from a forge burning bright in the corner.

And before the forge stood its master.

Vara’s lips curled to a lopsided grin. Arms crossed, she settled one shoulder against the wall. Most of her weight rested upon one leg. The other rested loosely across it, the toe of her boot planted upon the floor. She watched Thyr who worked with a focus that bordered on reverence, paying little heed to the visitor.


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[Thyr Kyron]

N A U R ' A L O R
Bloodforges, Tor Valum
​

Tag: Vara Rasha

Thyr was not oblivious to someone stepping into her forge, but at this late an hour and engaged in such precise craftsmanship, she could not simply pause to entertain whoever needed her attention. Perhaps a junior smith with a query or a quartermaster bringing by quotas and reports for tomorrow's shipment; few other visitors bothered to pay the trip down to the bloodforges at this late an hour.

Clang. Each strike with the hammer was precise in location, direction, and magnitude of pressure. Even the slightest deviation would result in a less-than-perfect product. Clang. Her arm remained steady, her vision focused, even as her entire hand vibrated as hammer met metal. Clang. She could see the bloodstained beskar'gam of her foundling brothers and sisters. Clang. The screams of the Vong in the dark. Clang. The final stroke. In one smooth, fluid motion, she plunged the blade into liquid glycol polymer, reducing the temperature without cracking the beskar, before removing and plunging it into a vat of liquid nitrogen, where it would remain for a couple of hours to harden. "What?" she said flatly, busily moving onto the next pallet without even glancing at her visitor.

 

[Vara Rasha]

THE FOUNDLING
Kestri | Tor Valum | Sector 06 | Halls of the Forgemasters | The Bloodforges
TAG: Thyr Kyron

The Streets of Tor Valum​

The beskar rang with each strike of the hammer. This was not an empty echo of iron shaping iron. Far from it. Shearing. Planishing. A millennium of tradition bled into the steel with every blow, a melody carrying ancient secrets known only to their Forgemasters, and safeguarded as such.

The Wardog spoke not a word as the ancient mantra filled the forge. It was one thing to gather around their elders and listen to the stories and the legends of old, and another to see the tales shape their people’s hallowed steel, right before her eyes.

A small puff of breath left Vara. Head lowered, she let her thoughts drift. Uncertainty wrapped her heart like thorned vines every time the hammer struck and the steel rang. Beskar. When would she be deemed worthy with such honors? How would she know the time had come? And when it did, would she be ready?

This rite of passage… When the time came, what feat was expected of her to demonstrate? No single deed nor trial was the same between two kin.

What would hers be?

A sharp sizzle threaded into her focus. Steam billowed from the freshly planished blade as it vanished beneath the cauldron’s surface. Forgefire shone in her crimson eyes as the blade vanished beneath liquid nitrogen a moment after.

"What?" she said flatly, busily moving onto the next pallet without even glancing at her visitor.

So her presence had never gone unnoticed.

The Wardog’s lopsided smirk dragged on. ”I came t’honor our deal.” The words left her evenly, stripped of their usual bite. Vara stirred as her words reached a punctuation. Without effort she pushed off the wall and straightened in one smooth motion. A hand drifted to the back of her warbelt in her casual approach.

The canister emerged from the small of her back. Forgefire danced across the unmarked metal surface as she brought it forward. With a heavy clack the container unceremoniously sat on the table between them. Crimsons settled upon the Forgemaster. The Wardog shifted her helmet tighter beneath her arm. ”...’N’ I require your talents once more.”

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[Thyr Kyron]

N A U R ' A L O R
Bloodforges, Tor Valum
​

Tag: Vara Rasha

The Wardog’s lopsided smirk dragged on. ”I came t’honor our deal.” The words left her evenly, stripped of their usual bite. Vara stirred as her words reached a punctuation. Without effort she pushed off the wall and straightened in one smooth motion. A hand drifted to the back of her warbelt in her casual approach.

The canister emerged from the small of her back. Forgefire danced across the unmarked metal surface as she brought it forward. With a heavy clack the container unceremoniously sat on the table between them. Crimsons settled upon the Forgemaster. The Wardog shifted her helmet tighter beneath her arm. ”...’N’ I require your talents once more.”

Thyr looked up. The unusual growl in her visitors voice had caught her off guard. A Shistavanen. She squinted, the expression lost underneath her helmet, as she tried to recall — did she know this Mandalorian? A faint light turned into a thought cascaded into a stream of memory. The Rekav’dral hall, the night of the Mythos Fleet’s departure. Her own words rang in her head.

“Bring back to me an exotic piece of material for Sith space that I might reforge for our vode, and I will consider your debt paid."

Thyr looked down at the canister, then back up at the Shistavanen. “Vara,” she said almost as if she was reminding herself, the name coming to her with the remembrance of their exchange weeks prior. “And this — your debt?” Thyr placed both gloved hand on the canister feeling for a latch. Her fingers found it and the top opened with a mechanical click proceeded by a hiss of steam as the interiors partially acclimated to Kestri’s pressure. Thyr removed the lid gingerly and set it to one side, peering curiously into the container.

Black, impossibly black metal stared back at her. Faint ember-red veins ran through the metal in a rippling web-like irregular patterns. Thyr reached in and retrieved a single ingot, raising it high to study it. It drank the light unnaturally, appearing blacker than black even under direct examination. Could it be? she wondered. She had heard of Sarrassian iron, found in the asteroids of the Aniras belt. It was known to Mandalorian archives as one of the favorite metals of ancient Sith alchemists and was highly coveted for its ability to conduct the Force. It was extremely valuable, and if these ingots were what she suspected they were? Then it was a priceless loss. “Is this what I think it is?” she breathed, still turning the ingot over under the light, her fascination evident in her voice. She couldn’t help suppress the faintest giddy feeling that rose in her, as she held the fabled metal.

 

[Vara Rasha]

THE FOUNDLING
Kestri | Tor Valum | Sector 06 | Halls of the Forgemasters | The Bloodforges
TAG: Thyr Kyron

The Streets of Tor Valum​

“Vara,” she said almost as if she was reminding herself, the name coming to her with the remembrance of their exchange weeks prior.

Vara watched her name return to the Forgemaster, like a distant echo. The Foundling’s crooked grin deepened. A confirmation enough. The Forgemaster’s query drew a fleeting puff of breath. Her snout bowed toward the cylindrical canister with a jerk of her jaw. She watched as the locks disengaged with a brief metallic click. Depressurization followed instantly. A veil of steam spilled from within, before dissolving into the forge’s heat.

Something in her posture broadened as the ember-red veins spidered off the obsidian black of the Forgemaster’s visor. The Wardog allowed the moment to linger on between them, letting Thyr examine the spoils without disturbance.

“Is this what I think it is?” she breathed, still turning the ingot over under the light, her fascination evident in her voice.

So she was capable of emotion after all.

The soft timbre of her voice betrayed the unmoving features of her helmet faceplate. A chuckle escaped the Foundling before she could catch it. Crimsons settled on the dark ingot in her grasp. ”Sarrassian iron,” her head bowed for another nod. The Wardog expelled any suspicion. ”But its potentials are lost on me.” For all the knowledge aboard the Akaan’ar offered, details about the iron were few and far between.

Vara stirred. She set her helmet on the table between them before she began, her arms folded. ”I want to commission a weapon from you,” A beat. ”'N' trinkets.” she let her thoughts drift for a moment, before words pressed at the back of her fangs again. ”A rifle. It’s for my beloved. Yuri Maji “ Whether Thyr recognized the name or the bloodline until that point, she was uncertain. Nevertheless, the Wardog continued. ”... I’m thinkin’ o’ somethin’ robust. Compact. Highly modular. Somethin’ he could use till the end o’ days, ‘n’ leaves none standin’. ” her thoughts poured from her maw.

It had to be perfect.

For nothing short sufficed for him in her heart.

”Tell me ya can.”

​

 

[Thyr Kyron]

N A U R ' A L O R
Bloodforges, Tor Valum
​

Tag: Vara Rasha

The ingot went back into the canister with the same care she gave beskar on the anvil. The lid followed, the latch finding its seat with a soft mechanical click, and Thyr's hands withdrew and settled flat against the workbench on either side of it while she looked at the Shistavanen properly for the first time since she'd walked in. "Yuri Maji." She repeated.

She knew the name from supply channels and faction halls, never with a face attached to it. An engineer. Maji Ironworks was prolific. She had once visited the foundry, loud, productive, and constantly working. Sighing, she pulled her helmet off. Her long black hair was tied back in a bun, ever so slightly mashed from her helmet. Sweat beaded on her face. Setting down the helmet on the bench next to them, she then reached past Vara to grab a holopad from the rack on the wall.

"Compact and modular, I can do. Robust depends on what you mean by it." She didn't look up from the parchment. "Range -- is he clearing rooms or working at a distance? What does he reload like under pressure? Will he burn through a power cell or make it last?" There was a faint tapping as her fingertips clicked away at the holopad. "Dominant hand? Any injuries to the arms or shoulders that affect how he carries weight?"

She paused, her pointer finger hovering over the blue holopad interface.

"Sarrassian iron is a remarkable material, but I want you to understand what it does and doesn't. It's not something to be wasted." She set the stylus down and looked across at Vara, her expression unmasked. She regarded the Shistavanen coolly, with neither warmth nor hostility. A remarkable improvement from their first encounter. "Its abilities to channel the Force are well-documented. Harder to utilize for non-Force Sensitives," a small gesture toward the canister, "it's still remarkable, but you'd be paying in time and difficulty for properties that may never fully manifest in use."

 

[Vara Rasha]

THE FOUNDLING
Kestri | Tor Valum | Sector 06 | Halls of the Forgemasters | The Bloodforges
TAG: Thyr Kyron

The Streets of Tor Valum​

The spoils won her over.

The ingot disappeared back into the canister. The seal hissed shut after the lid settled. With the container set aside, Vara felt the Forgemaster’s undivided attention settle upon her. Crimsons sought for the eyes behind her visor.

"Yuri Maji." She repeated.

The Foundling bowed her head to a nod. That was the one. The only one. Her one and only. The Son of the Traitor, as some amongst their kin would call him. The epithet they gave him, it stung her even now as the words echoed in her mind, sang by a chorus of a thousand voices.

Thyr’s helmet seal broke with a hiss softer than a whisper. But she heard it. Ears flicked to attention, focus sharpening her eyes. Vara remained silent as the Forgemaster set her helmet down on the table separating them. Something so mundane, and yet the Foundling caught on the gesture. It wasn’t without a level of weight, nor the subtle change in her attitude towards her without meaning.

Respect.

Following the Forgemaster’s reach, Vara plucked the holopad from the wall and passed it over.

"Compact and modular, I can do. Robust depends on what you mean by it." She didn't look up from the parchment. "Range -- is he clearing rooms or working at a distance? What does he reload like under pressure? Will he burn through a power cell or make it last?" There was a faint tapping as her fingertips clicked away at the holopad. "Dominant hand? Any injuries to the arms or shoulders that affect how he carries weight?"

The Harpy began answering after Thyr’s questions reached a finality. ”Robust – so, highly resistant to the elements. It's gotta work under any extreme condition,” Vara clarified. ”Extreme heat. Extreme cold. While drenched in all sorts o’ muck ‘n’ mud, chit like that.” she continued. ”I want it to be a good choice for room clearin’. Yeah. But not useless for somethin’ down range, either! Don’t want ‘im to be defenseless if some karker’s shootin’ at 'im from two-hunnid yards out or sumthin’, y’know?” The corners of her maw curled to a smile now. ”He’s ice cold under pressure. Rounds? He’d make it last. Though I wouldn’t put it past ‘im to dump a whole mag, if that's what it took,” The Harpy nodded. Her hands folded on her cuirass. ”'N' he’s a leftie. Coincidentally, he lost his arm on Onderon, but the cybernetic might as well be like his ‘ganic arm. Never seen it hold ‘im back. Nah.” He might as well have been born with it.

"Sarrassian iron is a remarkable material, but I want you to understand what it does and doesn't. It's not something to be wasted." She set the stylus down and looked across at Vara, her expression unmasked. She regarded the Shistavanen coolly, with neither warmth nor hostility. A remarkable improvement from their first encounter. "Its abilities to channel the Force are well-documented. Harder to utilize for non-Force Sensitives," a small gesture toward the canister, "it's still remarkable, but you'd be paying in time and difficulty for properties that may never fully manifest in use."

Her head cocked to the side. A hum left her as she mulled over Thyr’s words for a beat. Waste not. That’s how she was raised. It would be a shame indeed if neither of them could unlock the potential of the trinkets Thyr would fashion for them. But at the same time… She wanted something to keep him safe. ”Yeah nah, neither of us got that-.. that thing.” she flicked her hand in the air as if she held command over the Force. ”But I still want somethin’. Somethin’ that’ll bring ‘im home. Keep ‘im safe if I'm not there. ‘N’ somethin’ to remind ‘im of me - of us. That we brave the Night together, now and forever.”

Her hands unfolded. The Harpy leaned forward, propped on her palms against the table. ”... So what do you propose?”

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