Private The Song of the Anvil

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

HOUSE VERD ESTATE, MANDALORE

The volcanoes had once claimed everything.

Stone walls, family banners, heirlooms of a House that had called these grounds home for generations had all been reduced to ash when the fires of Mandalore had torn themselves from the earth. It would have been easy to let it remain that way, to let the ruin stand as a reminder of how fragile legacy could be. Yet under Aether's direction, what was once a humble estate had been reborn. Nay, it had been reforged.

The Estate of House Verd had become a fortress in every sense, its walls standing firm against the winds that carried ash across the plains. Within its West Wing, a private landing bay welcomed vessels both old and new, belonging to guests who had chosen to visit the home of their Mand'alor. It was here, behind these thick walls, that they could find a measure of comfort from the heat that clung to Mandalore's surface.

Only, what their host had planned was not something that would grant a reprieve from the heat.

Those who stepped from their ships would be guided deeper into the fortress, past banners that had been mended and symbols of House Verd that had survived the flames. Downward, a staircase of blackened stone led them into the heart of the estate, where a dry heat pressed against their skin like a second armor. The sound that greeted them was not that of celebration or feast, but rather the rhythmic hammering of metal against metal, a steady pulse that resonated within the bones of all who heard it.

Here, within the depths of the fortress, Aether and his clansmen practiced the sacred craft of forging beskar. Yet it was more than a craft. The air was alive with the presence of the Manda, and with each strike of the hammer, the ancestors seemed to lend their voices to the work. It was as though every note of metal upon metal invited the dead to sing from beyond, each echo adding to an ethereal chorus that filled the forge with life.

When the guests arrived, they would find Aether at the anvil, the glow of the forge reflected in his dark eyes. His helmet rested upon a nearby stand, revealing the lines upon his face and the strength of the gaze that greeted them. His hammer would fall once more before he lifted it from the beskar, letting the ringing of the strike linger in the air.

A smile found its way to his lips as he set the hammer aside, his voice rising above the song of the forge.

“Welcome, welcome! Today, I've something special in mind for you...a lesson in our ancestors' most sacred art.”​

Torva Vikar , Liorra , Kayla Ordo-Shan , Siv Kryze

 

[Torva Vikar]

Torva didn’t really understand just how she had gotten to where she was now: the warrior-people who had taken her in called it Mandalore, and it was a strange and foreign place to the young woman. Not all that long ago, she had been living a peaceful existence with her family on Ketaris.

Now she was a refugee without a home, without a family, without anything to claim except the clothes on her back. And even that had been given to her to replace the damaged clothes she’d been found in. Her burn wounds were still healing too, though for the most part all that remained were scars.

She wished there was something to help the wounds that existed in her heart. Something to take away the pain of loss.

Torva followed along quietly with three others who’d come to the hot, ash choked planet. The ship she’d been on landed at what appeared to be an estate, surely belonging to some powerful family, and she was guided from the landing pad with the others into the cool environment of the great structure…more akin to a fortress than a sprawling house. Banners bearing symbols that were foreign to her, decorated the structure as she was guided to a staircase of black stone that led downwards. The further Torva descended, the hotter the air became - and soon she caught a whiff of a rather familiar scent - hot metal - and not long after that, the tell tale sounds of a hammer falling upon metal.

It reminded her, painfully, of her father and brother’s workshop, where they had worked together to make various items to sell at bazaars and markets to add to the family’s income.

As a little girl, Torva had been entranced by the hot forge in her father’s workshop, enthralled by how he had skillfully bent and reshaped metal to make all sorts of items, even weapons like knives or daggers. She recalled how she had wanted to learn from him, learn how to make things from metal…but he had adamantly refused. It was a job for men, he had told her, not for young ladies.

So she had learned sewing and needlework from her mother - learned how to make clothes and tapestries and beautiful clothes to sell at market too. That had been her job for many years…until it all vanished in flame and smoke.

Torva heaved a deep breath as she tried to brush the memories aside, even as the stairs led to a great forge chamber that sat in the heart of the fortress that surrounded her. Bright blue eyes flickered to the others that were with her - though she was too wary to interact with any of them at the moment - before she turned that wary and guarded gaze upon the one that seemed to be working at an anvil.

Seeming to notice the arrival of his guests, the man paused to set the hammer aside, flashing a welcoming smile at the small group. Torva hung back somewhat, hugging her arms across her midriff, as she scanned her environment. They settled upon the helm that rested on a nearby stand, watching the flickering flames dance off its metallic surface for a moment before the man’s voice reached her ears, welcoming the small group before he told them all that he had something “special” for them all.

Torva returned her attention to him, though a frown settled across her face when he mentioned something about the “ancestors” and their “sacred art”. Whatever he was speaking about was unfamiliar to her, but she remained quiet - willingly to listen and try to understand the ways and customs of the people who had taken her in.

Aether Verd
Liorra // Kayla Ordo-Shan // Siv Kryze ​

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

HOUSE OF VERD ESTATE​

​

Siv Kryze watched from the edge of the forge, silent and still, arms folded across his chestplate. The heat swirled around him, clinging to armor that had been tempered in worse fires. To him, this place was familiar—not just the furnace or the ringing of steel, but the feeling behind it all.

Legacy wasn't spoken here. It was hammered.

He watched Aether work without saying a word. It wasn't necessary. The hammer strikes were the words. The forge was the truth. Let the guests see what real Mandalorians called sacred—not crowns or ceremony, but the weight of molten metal shaped by steady hands and steady hearts.

His visor shifted slightly as the new arrivals entered, eyes behind it scanning each face. Politicians. Soldiers. Strangers. Curious. Apprehensive. Some respected the moment. Others clearly didn't understand it. That was fine. Not everyone had to.

One figure among them stood apart. Small. Guarded. A young woman whose posture betrayed more than her silence did. She lingered near the edge like someone who didn't know if they were allowed to breathe the same air. Siv didn't know her story, but he could recognize certain things without asking.

Burns healed unevenly. The kind that came from fire and loss alike.

She didn't belong here—not yet. But that didn't matter. Neither had any of them, once.

Siv's gaze held on her for a moment longer than the others. She watched Aether, not with skepticism, but with something rawer. Memory. Pain.

He'd seen that look before—on recruits staring at the forge for the first time, on orphans who had nothing left to carry except what they built for themselves.

Siv turned his head back toward the anvil as Aether welcomed them. His voice rang like steel—firm, warm, real.

Let the girl hear that. Let them all.

The forge didn't lie. That was the lesson.

Aether Verd Liorra Kayla Ordo-Shan Torva Vikar

 

[Liorra]

Liorra looked around, her gaze sweeping across the gathered faces. She leaned forward just a touch, cranking her head left, then right, assessing those present. The quiet intensity in the air made her feel even more like an outsider, a foundling in a room full of history. She turned her attention back to the Mand'alor, who stood at the center of it all, the weight of his presence as palpable as the heat from the forge. This place was sacred, that much was clear. But for me? Liorra mused, maybe it's the fact that I've been standing here, listening to the rhythmic hammering of metal that reminds me so much of home.

Monastery. The forge there had always felt like a heartbeat, constant and relentless. She hadn't realized until now just how much she missed the steady pulse of it. The sound brought with it a warmth that threatened to lull her to sleep, a deep comfort that she hadn't realized she'd been craving.

Lio was proud of herself that she hadn't given in to the temptation to close her eyes, though. She was grateful for the helmet concealing her face, no one could see the weariness or the slight tilt of her head as she fought to stay focused. She wasn't here to sleep; she was here to learn, to find something within the Mandalorians that could give her purpose.

The Mand'alor spoke of the forge, where the sacred arts of the Mandalorians were practiced, where anger, defiance, and joy collided, often side by side with the risk of smashing your thumb. Liorra chuckled inwardly at the thought. A risk any and all who worked at the anvil took, she supposed. She could almost imagine the sparks flying, the hot metal pounding under the weight of hard hands.

She shifted slightly, uncomfortable in her own skin as one of the others in the room crossed their arms around their midriff. It seemed like a small, unconscious gesture, but to Liorra, it felt like the kind of gesture someone made when they were trying to make themselves smaller. To hide.

Liorra just hoped she could make it through this without scratching her nose. She couldn't risk breaking the silence, not in this place. Here they were, standing in reverence, surrounded by the heat of the forge and the weight of their ancestors' teachings. This was a place of sacred tradition, of discipline, of forging, not just metal, but the very soul of what it meant to be Mandalorian.

Restraint. Liorra told herself that was what she needed now. She would keep her mouth shut, stay still, absorb whatever came next. When the Mand'alor said "special in mind," when he mentioned having a lesson in their ancestors' most sacred art, Liorra almost couldn't help herself. She wanted to blurt out something, anything, like "sarcasm" or "wit" or even "raiding," but none of those answers felt right. None of those words fit the atmosphere that surrounded her now, the stoic reverence that hummed through the room.

Liorra took a deep breath and shifted her weight, her fingers flexing at her side. This was it. This was why she was here. To learn. To be part of something greater. And maybe, just maybe, to finally find the answers she had been searching for, even if they weren't the answers she expected.

Torva Vikar | Siv Kryze | Aether Verd | Kayla Ordo-Shan ​