My Soul to Earn.

[Darth Metus]

He thought it was over.

Years ago, Isley had turned his back on the old ways. He was young, admittedly stupid, and driven by hubris. How could he, the infamous apprentice of [member="Rave Merrill"], be subjected to the whims of a "god". How could he, Father of the Dreadguard, be reduced to a divine's plaything? Isley distressed over the reality of his own power: that there were simply beings that couldn't be overcome with alchemy. He could make an anti-Shorn bodyglove and an anti-Ket beskar'gam...but what possible creation could deny a god? The man of the present would have simply accepted the finite nature of his power...but not so the man of the past. That man decided to dive deeper into the Darkness.

And in doing so, he spat in the eye of the Clans.

In those days, there was a stigma about the Dark Side. Time and time again, the United Clans were assaulted by the Sith. Brothers-in-arms were lost at every battle. Some of the bravest of Manda'yaim were slain. Yet Isley chose that path, the very same that had claimed the lives of his people, all so that he could deny a fallen god. Ah, what folly it was. While it was true that walking down this path ascended his might, it never came close to that of Akala. What a waste it was. With age came the wisdom to stop trying. With age came wisdom enough to accept that his goal was a fool's errand.

With age came acceptance. He was Dar'manda.

In recent history, however, that acceptance was turned belly-up. The opportunity to stand alongside a great man, [member="Ember Rekali"], opened his eyes to the truth. Isley missed it. The weight of beskar upon his shoulders. Knowing that he was never alone in his battles. The comforts of a Clan. He missed what it meant to be a Mandalorian...and so he sought redemption. Before the A'lore Council did he bear his heart and soul; and it was pure fortune that saw a positive response. He owed it to Ember, [member="Darth Vulkan"], and [member="Anija Betna"] for throwing him a bone. By their suggestion was he given a chance to redeem himself. This wasn't to be a simple "walk in a Dar'manda, walk out an Aliit'Buir" ordeal. No. He had to prove his worth.

And thus did the edict of the Council rule. He was to be placed under the charge of a notable beskarsmith, [member="Ijaat Akun"]. There he would undergo Labors. There he would earn back his soul.

The hour was early. Mid-morning to be precise. Yet despite the overall cool expected of the time, there was naught save sweltering heat. The man known as Ijaat took up residence in one of Mandalore's harshest locations. It was a place well fitting his craft: a shop erected within a volcano. Being a man of the forge himself, the Dar'manda respected this choice. However, it took an elementary application of Tapas to keep himself comfortable on approach. Upon arriving at the Forge, Isley was greeted with a familiar din. It was a symphony: rhythmic beats of metal upon metal. The Beskarsmith was at work, plying his trade, and the Dar'manda politely interrupted him. No doubt Ijaat knew of the Council's decision...and no doubt the man had something in mind for starting.

"Su'cuy."

[member="Ijaat Akun"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

It had been, as some of his younger friends might say, a quiet minute since he had been to his home. When he had returned, there were employees to put right, and dust and rust to knock off the homestead, so to speak. One of the first things on his list had been getting the beskar'yaim forge and retreat rebuilt. As soon as the fires could be stoked, the beskar smith had been among them, toiling and working. Truth be told, you wouldn't have known he was something different from any other smith. Until you began to study his stance and movements, and his eyes. Whilst the men and women here were all seasoned Mandalorians, and that meant veterans of war were common, something differed in his bearing.

Hardness was etched in every line and movement, a life born of care and worry and toil had forged him as surely as the bar of precious beskar he beat on. While not muscle bound like some expected to be as a smith, there was hardly any fat on his frame, and stripped bare to the waist scars beyond count covered the ori'ramikades torso like a pattern of the northern valleys of Manda'yaim itself. Perhaps oddly enough, bared skin as he was, exposed a torso also almost completely covered in tattoos of all the cultures he had studied and learned from. Atrisian motifs, Adumarian, Corellian, Teras Kasi, Matukai, and even an Echani piece, riotous colors and greyscale blending in a unique tapestry that, to the observant man, would tell you a story of someone who had a few to tell, if one took the meaning.

There wasn't much to hide Isley's approach towards him, and he smiled a bit with his head down. On a wall behind him rested his things, a battered hat, a plain and soot streaked and scorched shirt, a bandoleer with a pair of DE-10 and his haymaker, a baldric with his sword. To the casual eye, he was utterly unarmed. But anyone who took the former Forge Father of the Dreadguard as such was, plain and simple, an idiot. Most people wouldn't be able to stop him before he still drew the gun. And if one thought the heavy hammer he wielded on the anvil was only for shaping metal, they would be wrong. It could, and had before, just as easily crushed a mans skull. Pure hjarna stone and beskar, it was quite the work, and [member="Aerin Akun"] had commissioned it for him on their wedding as a gift. He had a whole set of tools similar.

Finally, after ignoring the new arrival for a moment, he turned, hefting what appeared to be the beginnings of a beskad and set it aside, letting it cool slowly. The lines and shape were typical of the beskad, but like so many things of 'tradition' for the mando'ade, his Clan, Clan Akun, made their own variant at it. Longer, slightly thinner, and typically best in two hands, it was a more elegant weapon that he had begun to favor, and train any students of his in the use of. Someday he needed to find one of those whelps [member="Olivia Dem'adas"] trained and see just how their techniques matched up.

Shaking his head to clear musings, he straightened and looked Isley in the eyes. Old, pained orbs of amber pierced into his with a look not quite expected unless Isley knew he had briefly been the Forge Lord for the Dreadguard, or knew of Ijaat's own past, which he was certain only [member="Ember Rekali"] and [member="Anija Betna"], and a few of the Protectors, knew of. That look was pity, which would rankle any man with a shred of pride. Pity, and a shared pain and remorse. There was a reason they had sent the dar'manda to Ijaat, and he smiled ruefully at the irony. He himself had been in the same shoes. Kill close to a hundred of your own people just to find the direction a Sith Lord went off planet, and people took notice.

"Cin vhetin"

He only said the two words in mando'a before he pointed to a strikers hammer near by, a clear indicator that Isley should pick it up. The man was, by all accounts, a skilled craftsman himself. If not a beskarsmith, Ijaat would make him one by the time it was done. Regardless, he should know the use of a striker hammer. Literally, next to running the bellows, it was the most demeaning work for a smith, unless one were to make another sweep the floor. It indicated you weren't an idiot, but you weren't quite to be trusted with real work. And the words? They meany roughly the other was being given a clean slate. Ijaat didn't care about what Isley had done between his leaving and coming back. The Alor'e council had sent him to Ijaat, and so Ijaat would show him what it meant. It would honestly be surprising if Ijaat ever mentioned what had exiled Isley. Just wasn't the way with him. There was work to be done, and part of the healing process here would be setting down the pride that had lured Isley from the clans. First step to doing that was to let go of the regret from it. And that meant letting go. The order to pick up the strikers hammer was a test, even if Isley didn't know it yet.

 

[Darth Metus]

The first thing that "stuck out" to the Dar'manda was the ink.

A myriad of symbols were emblazoned upon the flesh of the Forge Father. Each hailed from a different world: a different walk of life and culture. At a glance, Isley did not understood (nor attempt to discern) their meanings...but one of the symbols stirred something. It was the sort of feeling one got when standing before two paintings created by a single man. The first was a familiar piece, a famous one. And the second, whilst unknown, aroused a feeling of familiarity simply due to who had created it.

For Isley, the symbol's meaning was unknown. Foreign. Yet he was close enough to Ahani Najwa to have seen Echani artwork before. It was familiar, and due to that, a slight feeling of comfort rested upon his shoulders. However, that sensation would only last for a moment. In the seconds following the Dar'manda's greeting, a two-word response was given. There was no direction, orders, or otherwise included in his words. However, he motioned to the strike hammer that seemingly awaited Isley's grasp.

His first response was internal.

Whilst his expression did not move, his pride reared its ugly head. He was literally one of the most skilled alchemists in the Galaxy. He was the apprentice of the famed [member="Rave Merrill"]. He was a conqueror! He was a millionaire! Yet this man wanted him to beat metal into submission? This man wanted him to do the job of grunts? Part of Isley wanted to simply ignore the man...yet the majority relented. Despite how much it bruised him...despite how much internal grinding of teeth it took...Isley bent over and took the hammer into his grasp.

He didn't like it, not one bit, but the Path to Redemption wasn't something likeable.

Nor was it easy.

[member="Ijaat Akun"]