Furnaces For A Black Sky | Mandalorian Beskar Development

[Ra Vizsla]

M A N D A L O R E​

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It was Mandalore.​

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It was always Mandalore.​

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Ra had missed this planet so much. His ancestral home. Not where he was born, mind you, but it was his home all the same. Her night's sky shone like a beautiful opaque marble, spinning as the billions of stars shined down. Each one of them, beautiful in their own right, but amplified by the summer's night sky of Mandalore. Her song tonight spoke of fire and ash, of embers and billowing furnaces. Mand'alor Ra Vizsla was in the Foundries northwest of the Capitol, shirtless, naught but an blacksmith's apron to don his massive sculpture of a body. He heaved a metal plate onto the floor. It resounded with a loud crash and a bang, smoke still coming off of it, fresh from the forge.

The Iron Wolf began to hook another large plate up to the volley of chains he had hanging above him that led into the massive forge, and began pulling. Sweat smote his brow like a thick paste. Black scorch marks donned his body. The goliath of Clan Vizsla began pulling, and pulling, and pulling.

Another one in the Forge, another one out. Ra threw the next metal plate onto the ground.

Beskar.

Mandalorian Iron.

There were several other forges nearby. Thousands of pounds of beskar being imported from the local mines on the outskirts of the city.

Several more opportunities for others to join Ra in this night of forging.

Silence.

Nothing but the sound of the forge burning.

[member="Aryn Spar"] [member="Arumi Zy"] [member="Draco Vereen"] [member="Vilaz Munin"]

​

 

[Laira Darkhold]

The sound of hammer upon anvil was sweet to his ears. It was a hobby, not a job, to the Dragon as he hefted the ore piece by piece into the refinery. He inspected each fragment with his hands, with his eyes; felt the weight, flicked excess dirt off the metal. The stone would be burned out in the heat of the forge, and the metal purified by fire.

Draco sighed, smiling at the flames as they rested around the forging area he stood in. He could hear and see Ra toiling away nearby, and he knew the Mand'alor wanted things done quickly, but there was a harmony to doing things by hand and not with so many modern tools. The Mandalorian stoked to coals and pulled on the chain beside the forge, the bellows breathing as he pulled down, and filling themselves with air as he let it go and the chain drew itself back up. And again he pulled the chain, firing the bellows continuously. It took great care and intense heat to properly forge beskar, and when the bellows were worked like this, it was a tiring experience.

Soot and ash covered his leather apron, the tools of his trade stuck in loops and pockets, others hung behind him on a trolley he had brought to see the Mand'alor's project done. Metal plates clanged down from Ra's work place, and Draco glanced over in that direction, noting the blackened metal plates on the ground. Lots of work to make a ten ton droid, lots of armor, lots of gears and pipes, pistons, and frame to be forged and crafted.

He pulled the chain again, hearing the flames roar inside the forge as it heated bit by bit, burning away the impurities, not unlike their crusade burned away the impurities of the galaxy.

[member="Ra Vizsla"] [member="Aryn Spar"] [member="Arumi Zy"] [member="Vilaz Munin"]

 

[Arumi Zy]

[member="Ra Vizsla"]
Aryn Spar Arumi Zy Draco Vereen Vilaz Munin


Gone.... that was who he was.. gone... it wasn't physical and it wasn't really a personal character trait that made sense to anyone... but gone was him. At least he had been for a long while, in and out he really was inconsistent as he searched for the answers to his nightmare. He had ignored the going on in the Mando'ade for a long time, he had sit back why the Prime faded and now the One sith withered and the Republic and their jedi dogs marched. But that was the good thing about gone, gone could always be here. that was what he was now here, he didn't know what he wanted at his point or why he had returned but he could feel it in his bones that something big was coming.

Tchk, Tchk, Tchk, echoed in his mind as he brought a hammer down against the ore he had been mending. The near molten material casting spark and flames with each thunderous crash. Gone and here, lost and found he always felt the call of the Beskar in his soul. Even those thousand years ago when he was a true sith lord of Two he felt the taste of Mandalore.

Tchk, tchk,tchk he worked the metal until he placed it back into the forge to reignite its soul and his. That was what this was, reclaiming his soul and placing the fire of mandalore back into his heart as he crafted his new Beskar'gam. His shirtless form glistened with soot and sweat, unclothed from the waist up only a pair of black lenses goggles to protect him. He could feel every bite of the flame, every nip of spark and every twitch of his forgotten muscles as he swung his hammer. He would allow the force and his soul to guide him as he forge, perhaps it would not be his armor but something new. He never knew really, that was the mystery of being pulled by two great forces.

 

[Ra Vizsla]

M A N D A L O R E​

​

Ra smiled as he looked at the others.

There would be no words tonight, only the sound of the hammer meeting steel and anvil. Only the sound of the cool mist as hot iron met water. Only the sound of the forge, the ever burning forge, continued to roar.

There were no words, for it spoke volumes.

It was a Mandalorian's right. His right to be free, on Mandalore, to strike hot tempered steel. Ra never felt more alive than in this moment, here, more at peace than in this moment, here. There was a special tranquility to be garnered from this moment, as Ra and his brothers continued to strike the metal, to pull the metal plates down, to work on their projects in peace as Mandalore slept. War was on the horizon, a bitter and terrible thing, but the Mandalorian never shied away from it. No, the Mandalorian met such things head on, his visor sweeping away the flames that would strike him down. Where Jedi and Sith worshipped some invisible magic of untold power, the Mandalorian worshipped iron and steel. Tangible things he could hold with his own two hands. It was not as grandiose as being some magic space wizard, but to pull the chain, to see the flames - that was real. And Ra felt real.

The comradery of blasting the forge alongside other Mandalorians was more powerful than the some mystic arts. The love between Mandalorian and iron was immovable, untouchable, invulnerable.

No amount of tragedy, no sorcery, no Empire could change that.

Ra threw another plate on the hook.


[member="Aryn Spar"] [member="Arumi Zy"] [member="Draco Vereen"] [member="Vilaz Munin"]

 

[Bendak Orden]

THE FORGES OF MANDALORE​

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The forges roared, a blazing symphony of intense heat and immense power. The heartfire of Mandalore, these forges were the organ that gave life to every Mandalorian in the galaxy. It was here that their iconic armour was made. It was within this very facility that Mandalorians were born. These forges weren't just on Mandalore, they were Mandalore.

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TCHNK.​

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To be within its walls was to be sanctified.​

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TCHNK.​

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To witness the beskar forges was to be blessed.​

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TCHNK.​

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To be molding the armour itself was to be divine.​

In this moment, as he struck metal with metal, Bendak felt godlike.


[member="Ra Vizsla"] [member="Arumi Zy"] [member="Draco Vereen"]

 

[Ra Vizsla]

M A N D A L O R E​

​

The soul was cleansed with every strike of the anvil.

The mind was provided clarity with every swing of the hammer.

Ra knew this was the way forward, the way back to their people. Not the people that had strove forward, barely clinging to life as they sat in their Council meetings in their chairs. No, this was the way back to their more nomadic way of life. The more barbaric way of life. The more primal way of life. To meet flesh with sweat, to meet hammer with anvil, to meet fire with tempered steel. The strain in his back, his shoulders, the pulsating veins of the Iron Wolf nearly ready to burst as he continued to work on his project. Ra strove forward. Every step he took, every waking minute he spent into the night as Keldabe slept, every ounce of who he was was poured forward.

Always forward.

Upon looking at the man who was rhythmically beating his hammer on the anvil, Ra knew it was time.

Time to make this armor sing.


TCHNK.

TCHNK.

TCHNK.


[member="Aryn Spar"] [member="Arumi Zy"] [member="Draco Vereen"] [member="Vilaz Munin"] [member="Bendak Orden"]

 

[Progflaw99]

Fire.​

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An orange glow emanated from the blistering interior of the forge, dancing flames licking the large metal plates as they entered; The chains rattled as they were pulled.​

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Iron.​

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Cut from the rock, forged into armor, weapons. It was a rite of passage, the forging of Beskar. It was their history, it was in their blood.​

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Sweat.​

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A glistening layer of sweat covered Buruk's body, the light tunic he wore soaked in it. He brushed his rough hands over the surface of a plate as he hefted it, the rough surface igniting a flame within him. This. This was part of who he was.​

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With a rattle of chains, he released the plate, it's weight resting on a crude hook. Smudges of soot adorned his body, the flickering light casting shadows across his etched muscles. His eyes briefly fell on the bear of a man. Awe and wonder filled his eyes, the opportunity to do this... here... with these men of Mandalore, in fact, the Mand'alor. Looking to where Draco Vereen, his memory poked at him. Kashyyk. That's where he had first met the man, one of Mand'alor's war leaders.

Buruk looked back to the chains, grinning. His calloused hands gripped the large chain links tightly, heaving back with his weight as the chains began to move the hanging plates moving forward into the forge. As he did so, plates began to move out of the forge in turn. He turned, moving to where a large set of gauntlets lay atop a giant anvil. He slipped his hands into them, moving to where the still glowing plates of beskar had emerged. He lifted it, guiding it from the hook and letting the large plate clatter to the floor. The sound echoed in the air, the sounds of the forge and those around him the only sounds audible. No voices, just iron.

Heaving the plate over to the giant anvil, Buruk reached down to where a large mallet lay, leaned up against its base. Steadying the plate with one gloved hand, he raised the heavy mallet above his head. Breathing in, the smell of coal, fire, sweat... all present... he brought the mallet down.

CLANKK

A resounding shower of sparks flew as the metal contacted metal.

CLANKK

Another shower of sparks. A heavy breath, a strain of muscles as Buruk hammered the beskar.

CLANKK

The sound of the hammer. The steady rhythmic hammering of the metal. It was like a drum beat, the sound of war drums echoing in his ears, spurring him on like an ethereal heartbeat. With every beat of the hammer, another fallen foe. With every heartbeat, a return to his roots, an ode to his people. There was something about it... the savagery, the stripped down bareness of the act, both literally and figuratively. He continued, the sound becoming as a song... everything around him fading as he lost himself in the music of the forge.

[member="Ra Vizsla"] | [member="Bendak Orden"] | [member="Arumi Zy"] | [member="Draco Vereen"]​

 

[Laira Darkhold]

The sounds of hammer falls rang through the area as blackened metal was struck time and time again by a number of smiths. Many had come to the forges of Mandalore, seeking to aid in her first Protector's quest, and garner some rewards of their own from the scraps. For a project this large, there would be scraps enough to make several sets of Beskar'gam, there always would be.

Draco smiled to himself, pulling the cauldron from the white hot furnace, knock soot off his gloves as he hefted the pot with supernatural ease. Within, the liquid, red hot metal sloshed about until he poured it into the molds, enough for five sheets of two and a half centimeter thick beskar plates steamed into the mold, smoke and steam billowing from it as the metal was dumped inside, flames surged about them as the Master Smith returned the cauldron to its spot so he could refill it.

Piece by piece, chuck by chunk, he inspected it and rejected parts by tossing them in a crate, and accepted others by depositing them within the burning hot cauldron. It was good, enjoyable for the smith actually. Not everyone was skilled in the art, but then again, not everyone had as good a teacher as he, nor had they spent as much time working the metal, learning its properties and nature, feeling it and how it was different from others. Draco returned the cauldron to the heat and began working the bellows again, spending his time working on the next set plates while the first set cooled and waited to be reheated and rolled, and then drawn out into the perfect shape for heat treating and tempering.

 

[Arumi Zy]

[member="Ra Vizsla"]
Aryn Spar Draco Vereen Vilaz Munin

Tne ancient mandalorian stood silent for a moment as he noticed that he was not alone in the forging room. his life had been prolognued by the dark side and his thousand year life span had been more like a prison. He had seen Mand'alores rise and fall, good and bad, selfish and selfless. He had served those who cared only about themselves and he had served beside those who truly bled for the Manda'yim. He did not know nor care who the new Mand'alor was, he did not care what he was or if he was even capable of being followed.

Tchk, Tchk, Tchk

The his facial expressions never changed as the sparks and molten metal continued to lick his exposed flesh. Pain was an illusion and it wasn't worth paying heed to, no not when your soul was exposed. The diminutive Mando'ade a mere five foot and five inches was small but he carried himself as a giant and his new armor would be worthy of the status of a giant. He continued to smash the plate before plunging it into a pit of oil to begin the final annealing process, an important process that would decide if it could take a hit or fifty hits. He brought it back out and heated it again before plunging it again, this final time he lifted it to his eye to check the quality. He smiled as he sat it beside him on a neatly prepared station, one of many who would make one complete. Like the Mandalorians, a single entity made of millions who shared culture and soul.

 

[Funky Balor]

The ponderous slack of the Goran moved in steady rhtyhm with a rather odd-looking hammer. Single blows. He'd been here for two days now, simply hammering a series of sheets into....a collar. And some gloves. And then a series of plates. His armor was, like most of his creations, a design that reflected his own alien sensibilities as well as his proud tradition. Even the Eukar suits that had been made for him had limits on how well they worked. He smiled at the appearance of it, remembering his Buir (parent), the lessons Taisen had taught him. To embrace Shereshoy. To Embrace the hunt. To embrace life, because one knew death was on the horizon.



Each hammer swung in rhythm. He could hear others in the room, but in all honestly, he simply saw them, and was happy to be in the company of fellow smiths, but too focused on his own work to mind theirs. Another piece, riveting the chest plates together. Again, far from tradition, but a man like Funky could not wear greaves. His legs did not move well in boots. So then, his armor would need to flow, like a robe. Like molten metal, or cold water. Each plate hammered lightly, with steady, simple rhythm. Although Funky was known for being loud and boistrous, when he crafted, he'd often go to this quiet region in his mind. A place where design and plans feel together, where the boasting of a drunken champion gave way to a mind based in pure, quiet cunning. He smirked again, holding up the plate with a glove hand. How would he alter the arms, though.....

 

[Ra Vizsla]

M A N D A L O R E​

​

Several men and women were showing up with repulsorlift transports, carrying various parts that would soon look like the skeletal remains of a Krayt Dragon.

They were showing up to Ra's furnace, offloading the various parts that had already been forged together. Ra helped them hook it up to one of the chains and a elevator platform on the left side of his monumental forge, helping hoist it up high above the floor level so that it could be stretched out. The foundation of his project, the beginning of the Black Sky. Ra took a second from his work with the forge to admire it. Like a sculptor, he was forming the image of what he wanted first in his mind before applying it in real form.

The men and women left, and the Iron Wolf grabbed a plate from his pile and began to walk to and from the skeleton, applying them where needed. They would only hang hoisted by chains for now, the need to divot and punch these plates into place would soon come - but not yet.

There was much more to be done, and Ra took a breather from the foundry to pour over his schematics as the hammers and anvils of the others banged and resounded throughout the building in the background.


[member="Aryn Spar"] [member="Arumi Zy"] [member="Draco Vereen"] [member="Vilaz Munin"] [member="Bendak Orden"] [member="Funky Balor"] [member="Buruk Surhaai"]

 

[Laira Darkhold]

Draco pulled the first of the sheets of beskar from the mold, pulling the steaming hot plates and pushing them into the furnace to heat so that he could roll them out into billets. The forge was cooler than when he was smelting the material into liquid, the second cauldron full of metal sitting in the heat ready to be poured.

The rush of steam and smoke filled his nostrils again, burning throughout his area as the metal poured into the mold. Draco enjoyed this feeling in the forges, he liked getting to work with his hands, be alone and think to himself. For some the silence was deafening, to others, all they heard was a cacophony of noise. But to someone like him, he heard an orchestra being preformed perfectly.

The smith pulled the first metal plate from the forge and began rolling into a bar, using his hammer. Up, and down. He rained heavy blows upon the metal until he was satisfied with the shape of the billet before returning it to the fire, taking up the next plate, slowly but surely making his way through the task he had been given. There was still many more heavy beskar plates to make, and hundreds of pieces of mandalorian steel to shape, file, and fine tune for the Mand'alor's mount.

Draco smiled, remembering his own basilisk droid. His had been very cat-like and graceful, designed to hunt Sith Spawn and deal with larger beasts he was ill-equipped for. Some of its wreckage was still on Wayland, but most of it sat in a garage in his home on Aldera, where he stared at it, constantly wondering if rebuilding it would be worth the effort.

[member="Ra Vizsla"] [member="Funky Balor"] [member="Arumi Zy"] [member="Buruk Surhaai"] [member="Bendak Orden"]

 

[Ra Vizsla]

M A N D A L O R E​

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​

His eyes poured over the schematics for what seemed like an eternity. In his mind, fatigue began to overrun him. The Iron Wolf had been awake for more than a day, sitting in the Forge and tirelessly working on his projects. But he knew that this toil he was committed to, this work he was committed to, would only be completed correctly if he presented to Mandalore the proper respect and love that such an opportunity required of him. It was love, more than anything, that would finish this project for him. Love of his country. Love of his family. Love of his culture, his heritage. Love of his people. But to endow this love into an object, to demonstrate the mastery of these arts bestowed upon him in the form of an emotion, that was the hardest part. To provide in a real, tangible form an emotion was always difficult. Whether it be a ring for a bride to be or a massive war machine capable of laying waste to cities and ending thousands of lives in the blink of an eye, love would always remain the strongest motivator of any such project.

Love.

Love of - damn. Where did he place Plate A34? These damned schematics were showing that he needed three .34 screws for part A34, and he had the karking screws, but he didn't have the plate. Ra had tossed like twenty plates on the karking ground and he was losing his karking mind trying to look for plate A34.

This was an absolute tragedy and he was about to lose his mind if he couldn't find it.

Ra slammed his fist down on the table.

Karking schematics from Mandokea. You could never trust them. Ra grabbed plate B35 and just winged it.


[member="Aryn Spar"] [member="Arumi Zy"] [member="Draco Vereen"] [member="Vilaz Munin"] [member="Bendak Orden"] [member="Funky Balor"] [member="Buruk Surhaai"]

 

[Arumi Zy]

Aryn Spar Arumi Zy Draco Vereen Vilaz Munin Bendak Orden Funky Balor Buruk Surhaai [member="Ra Vizsla"]

Arumi looked up from his work and spat to the side, so many young bloods, so many he had never seen before. He had watched many young in his day be molded like the hammer to the anvil, shaped into something sharper and greater. In the end though their fates were the same to break and be broken in the endless tides of time. They would dull soon enough and in one fell stroke they will end, that was the legacy of mortality. Hell, he didn't know if he could die himself though he felt his body being consumed by the very darkness that sustained his body.

Tchk, Tchk, Tchk.

His hammer began to work the next piece of the armor he would construct for himself. He started with light strikes to begin to stretch the metal out before using his tongs to twist it onto the ball of the anvil and strike it. This would bend the metal into the shape that he wanted though it would take many dozens of strikes as he worked. As he bent metal with strength and will his thoughts began to drift through the past, from his time as a sith of two, to his betrayel and the curse of the dark side crystals infusing his flesh. He remembered his legacy in the galaxy over those long years and of mandalorians long past gone and forgotten. He would die he decided, but he would only die when the Manda'yim were beyond approach of any mortal.

 

[Rekali the Hutt]

Rekali the Hutt had spent time processing Beskar. Filtering out it's impurities. Taking the wheat from the chaff as it were. His armor was being constructed, but his weapon would be his own. It required less skill, and yet it was still such an interesting creation. A heated Beskar Plate came to him, placed carefully underneath his anvil. A Beskar hammer of considerable size found itself in his hand, and hammer the Hutt did, putting a bit of himself into his ax with every coming strike. The blade would come first, then the hilt, then all of the components to bind them together. That all seemed so far away from now, Rekali the Hutt had fought in combat, but this repetitive striking.This accursed heat, the heat of the metal he beat and the forge he worked in, it was unlike any environment he'd been in before. But if he could not stand the heat of the forge he didn't deserve the honor of the blade.

As a Hutt Rekali had an upward battle to gain respect, not only for himself but also for the wisdom of his clan leaders in allowing him to join. He would show them his mettle, in the Forge, in combat, and in all aspects. His weapon would be ready when the time to conquer the Republic came, and he would not tolerate having to wait any longer. It was time to prove to himself, to everyone around him that he belonged. They would judge, because it was nature of all sentients to judge, but they could not find him wanting.

They would not find wanting. He would sure of it.

 

[Ra Vizsla]

M A N D A L O R E​

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​

Ra was seen carrying an entire stack of schematics in his hands towards the forge, looking enraged.

He threw them in, watching them burn in frustration, standing before the flames with his hands on his hips. He disappeared off to the side of the Forge again, carrying yet another stack of blue schematics. He tossed them in the flames as well. It was quite apparent that Ra was having some incredible difficulty in understanding them and didn't wish to follow the schematics. Or maybe he was just tired, losing his grip on the ideas he had and was purifying his mind through flame. The forging of beskar wasn't all song and dance, after all - it required much mental calibration. And for Ra, this calibration was currently recalculating. For Ra, he was starting anew in the middle of building his project.

But, he didn't need any schematics anyways.

It was all up there in the ol' noggin.

Or so Ra hoped.

Let's just wing it.


[member="Aryn Spar"] [member="Arumi Zy"] [member="Draco Vereen"] [member="Vilaz Munin"] [member="Bendak Orden"] [member="Funky Balor"] [member="Buruk Surhaai"]

 

[Funky Balor]

[member="Ra Vizsla"] [member="Rekali the Hutt"] [member="Arumi Zy"] [member="Draco Vereen"] [member="Buruk Surhaai"] [member="Bendak Orden"]



Thwok.


A curved plate hung on a large peg, 'staring' at Funky as he hit it with hammer and chisel, occasionally stopping either to drink, or to hit the plate with a torch. Contouring the helmet to his head's shaped required time and precision, building an inner frame, bending piece after piece into a proper system, looking at the metal, glaring at it as if to stare it down. He hammered it against the peg, gloved hands guiding the metal as the heavy sledge and heated metal shaped to his will, molding it like clay. He smirked. Even by standards of other gorans, he had always had a knack for the delicate parts. It looked bizarre, watching a Mandalorian with thick, stumpy fingers of the oddball of Balor hold everything so gingerly, so delicately. While strength surged through his hammer arm, the other hand held and bet pieces like they were paper. He smiled heartily, grabbing the torch yet again, scorching the metal in a thinned out portion, the familiar "T shape" of the visor forming. He grinned. Like the thin, mighty skull of a mythosaur, the steel seemed to bend and flake along the creases, as he walked over to the bench, grabbing different tools. To cut in the visor, he'd need the torch, and definitely that bit with the Y shape to incise and fold the visor edges in on themselves. He smirked. Cutting along a seam already hammered in. Sometimes the answers were simpler than others.



Still, his mind wandered. So many people here. Even the Manda'lor himself was working on something. Something big, by the looks of it. Still, his work was not some grand piece. Not today. No, today, he simply did what he'd been putting off for for a long time. Today, the Bes'Numa would be formed. A robe gilt in Mandalorian iron, so that the Warsinger could begin to dance across a field of iron. War was coming. And what was the point of seeking glory if not to make a bit of a spectacle? Oh yes, soon, all gathered here, young and old, would have the chance to earn their glory. He lifted a lade of some strange, sour-smelling juice to his lips. Caffeinated Moloberry juice, boiled from spare heat form the smelter. He needed very little, but it kept him form drying out form the heat. He could always get a proper feast after he was done.

 

[Progflaw99]

His hammer made the metal sing, the ringing sound of metal on metal creating a chorus of the likes he'd never heard before. He was by no means a master smith, but he'd grown up not far from a forge on Concord Dawn. Those forges were eclipsed by the size of the forge here on Mandalore. It was as if the planet itself poured its energy into the fires stoked here, the sound of forging and chains rattling an orchestra, playing the song of the Mandalorian people. Again and again the hammer hit the beskar, his muscles straining with each strike as he folded the metal over on itself, thickening the plates and then thinning them again. As a hunter, his armor had been light, and weak. He'd learned as much during his hunt on Felucia, the images of the giant rancor flashing before his eyes as sparks danced off of the metal.

It was that day he'd been convicted. Falling away from the Resol'nare. Since then he'd returned to it, embracing it even closer than he had as a child. This was part of that journey, his return to the Resol'nare and the way of his people. Education had been the first step on his journey, embracing the knowledge of the elders of his clan. Learning their history as a people, not only in the clan but as a Mandalorian people. Sagas and stories of the legendary deeds of the first Mand'alor and his successors. There were dark times in their history, certainly, but it had all been for a reason. Now, the second part of his journey had begun. Armor. Embracing his call, embracing the tenets, he'd begun designing his armor. It would take him longer than most, the idea solely in his mind. Each piece he had completed hammering cooling off to the side, the slightly curved plates beginning to lose their glow. Now, he was forming another piece, the metal sizzling as he beat it relentlessly and beads of sweat evaporated on the surface of the plate.

He had completed most of the rough plates, but he would let them cool to test them and re-heat them one by one if necessary till they were perfect. As sweat dripped from his brow, he raised his arm, wiping his forehead with his forearm. Soot now covered his body and his tunic, streaked lines of grit traveling across his flesh as he perspired. It would be on to phase two of his forging soon. Another shower of sparks danced as his hammer pressed the plate between hammer and anvil. The methodical sounds of his hammer continuing in their relentless drumming.

[member="Funky Balor"] | [member="Ra Vizsla"] | [member="Rekali the Hutt"] | [member="Arumi Zy"] | [member="Draco Vereen"]​

 

[Rekali the Hutt]

He did not know the exact sensory capabilities of the other species around him, but Rekali the Hutt did not envy those round him. While Rekali the Hutt continued beating his hammer into the heated beskar he felt the full effects of the heat of the Beskar, and the Forge in which he resided. He was positive he was outputting an awful musk. A slimy mucus was leaking from his pours, as was the way of the Hutts. He was having some difficulty staying in place, as the slimy substance made him slippery. A survival mechanism, to prevent Hutts from being grabbed. What in the ancient times attempted to grapple Hutts was beyond his knowledge, but he assumed that Hutts evolved that way for a reason. It was inconvenient now, but he would push through it. He would forge a great ax that would be feared by his enemies, as he would rend them limb from limb.

If only Radok and Kijo could see him now, engulfed in sweat and soot as he beat a hammer on plate after plate. He suspected they wouldn't believe he made the ax later. It mattered little however. His position as a crime lord was because of capability for command, not cruelty. A single weapon, however deadly, would not induce more respect from his lieutenants. From the pawns of his operations perhaps, but most of them didn't know his name anyways.

Rekali the Hutt took the tongs and moved the beaten plate into water, quenching the metal for a moment before releasing it. The plates of his creation done he began cutting into a metal table, built to handle molten beskar. The cylinder of his creation would be made with a mold, and it was about to get very, very hot.

[member="Funky Balor"] [member="Ra Vizsla"] [member="Buruk Surhaai"] [member="Arumi Zy"] [member="Draco Vereen"]

 

[Arumi Zy]

[member="Ra Vizsla"] [member="Rekali the Hutt"] [member="Buruk Surhaai"] [member="Funky Balor"] [member="Draco Vereen"] [member="Bendak Orden"]



His hammer sung a deep melody as he began to shape his next piece of plating, his armor was unlike the armor wore by most it was elegant and it was lithe. It was designed specifically with a light saber in mind and not a prolonged fire fight. It offered have the coverage of others but it allowed the maximum of his force abilities and hard earned combat abilities to shine through. He twisted the plate around on the ball of the anvil landing light blow after successive light blow as the plate began to bend and extend into the form that would become a fore arm guard.

Tchk, Tchk, Tchk

Like the drop of water that wittled away the mountain he contained at a constant pace never fast and never slow always at a successive pace and always in the same rhythm. He had forged many suits of armor over the years and each one had served its purposes before it had been shelved or gifted to those who have earned his respect. Sparks flickered from the hellish metal and the mando'ade sith, the dark lord of an age gone by barely noticed the many dark burns in his flesh for they like his armor forged something greater.