Private First Thing is First

[Ijaat Mereel]

Ijaat had been spending time on Kestri, with a squad of eager recruits hungry to learn. Metal shaping often began humbly, and many who could not or would not recognize that he had not the patience for. But these two or three were content to meet with him every few days and be attached to builders and construction laborers, helping reinforce and double the redoubt, as the sayings went. No sense in making a settlement of the Mando'ade if it wasn't also in some regard a fortress. At least that was his opinion. With any luck, the aging goran would see the apprentices adopt that self-same attitude and philosophy.

At current however, the ostensibly (at least by looks) middle-aged smith sat in front of a table, starship plans on paper in front of him, a pencil behind one ear. A cup of caff left a stained ring on one corner of the bluprint, and a cigarra wreathed him in blue grey smoke as he chomped on it in the left-hand corner of his mouth, considering things.

Maybe with this fresh start, he should consider taking an apprentice in truth. Despite his luck, he wasn't exactly immortal. Ashin would run out of use for him eventually.

 

[Aves Wren]

Iron was the core of the Mandalorian lifestyle.

Those who understood the beskar lead the way, and those who lived by it were hailed as champions of the way. Through all trials and tribulations that the Mandalorian people had to endure, beskar always remained: Unblemished, untarnished, unbent and unbroken. As long as the traditions of the beskar remained, so did the Mandalorian way. Or so the textbooks and stories told her. Aves had always reached for her people, but was held at a distance because of the chaos of the galaxy. Jedi, Sith, war and famine.

They said it was to protect her.

But it had still come to affect her. The Sith and the Jedi had torn through their lands and her family was caught between them. While Aves never met with the cruel fates of those ruined under the boot of the Sith, she felt like she had never gained that same connection with the iron that the others had.

But there were names she had heard in her stories. Sometimes they were bad, sometimes they were good. She had never thought she would meet them, yet there they were.

So again, Aves reached out.

She reached out and opened the door with a too-loud hiss, and saw the broad back bent over the table. The smell of the cigarra and warm caf, the ooze of old beskar lingering in the air.

"Goran Mereel?"

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

Turning, Ijaat was glad for the distraction as he stood, grabbing the caff in one hand and draining the mug before setting it down with a satisfied smack of his lips and cast eyes on Aves Wren . There was a considering weight to his look and he stood a moment chewing the stump of a cigarra before deftly spitooning the smoking stub into a nearby brass can where bottles of netra'gaal and other cigarra remnants sat. Obviously he had been at this project for hours or days, at the safest estimate quite some time. His glowing bes'manda armor faintly gleamed as he spoke and turned in the light.

"Yes, I am. Who are you and what is your purpose, young one?"