The Iron Father
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.