This old thing?

[Julius Sedaire]

Location: Concord Dawn - House Mereel Grounds​

​

For the first time in months, Ijaat sat in a makeshift workshop, holding various tools. They weren't his, that had gone to another, younger man when he had made the fool decision to 'retire'. But that was irrelevant. His knowledge and his ability weren't detracted or destroyed by what tools he had. He had made those tools, and he would make more if need be, to get this task completed. If he were honest, most of what he would need lay in the guts of the drahr'gam on the table next to him, which he had already began to dissect.

Jasters' armor, authenticated by a Kiffar he knew with a talent for such things, was beskar without a doubt in his mind. The alloy with ciridium was familiar too, even if he didn't understand the methodology the smith before him used. But academic curiosity could be done at another time. For now there was a specific purpose and ideal in mind before him. He would need first to gut the internals of the set of armor from [member="Draco Vereen"], and decide what he needed and where it was needed.

Some of it, like the camouflage, just felt wrong and un-needed. Other bits weren't quite enough, and so he had sent off for replacements to enhance or tailor performance to his liking, and the modern standards. So as he grabbed various hand tools, he hummed and whistled. It would be quite easy to do so long as he had the time. As for having the time, he was 'retired' wasn't he? Therefore all his time was his, unless he decided to come back out of things. So he set to beginning to pull the rocket-dart launchers on the knees first. Those were quite easy, thanks to the advent of modular armoring now-a-days. Good thing he knew how to whip up a small shop in a hurry!

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Cursing, he drew back the left hand he had been wrenching a knee dart launcher off of. A missed wrenching had bashed his knuckles across the bit of armor, busting them wide open. The irritation was quite extreme, and he muttered and shook his hand before reaching for a flask next to him. He opened it and poured the bracing contents across the wound, and then took a swig himself before wiping it clean on a rag and resuming the alteration. Each piece needed removed, checked, and evaluated. They were fine, worked perfectly, and now all there was to it was to mount the new launchers in place of the old.

A few moments later with a pry bar and screw-driver, and the old launchers were removed. The only things kept were the beskar housing of the old. He could not replicate the alloy the old smith had used, so he preserved it as much as possible. However, he stillput them aside reverently. He would keep the metal, and melt it down for something else or otherwise utilize it. What or how, he didn't know yet, but sentimentality in that regard was one of his many personality traits. The holes lined up mostly, though some inventive use of beskar shanked screws and a liberal dose of cursing in several languages were needed. Eventually the knees were mounted up, and he checked them thoroughly. Turning them over and over in his hands, he nodded, finally.

Turning now, he went to examine the other knee and started in on the process, doing the same to it, a little more gingerly so as to not bust his knuckles again. Regardless, the process went much smoother, and he nodded in satisfaction. Quite easily, the innards pulled and swapped in and out. This one though, did not seem to quite want to line up with the receiver in the knees, and it finally took a few shims in the housing box to level and even it out. The last thing he wanted to happen was for a dart from this knee to go awry and misfire, or the housing to come off and send the projectile down at his feet. Rather inconvenient, that.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Both knees done, he began the longer task of pulling out wires and sensors in the various armor plates. These particular bits had nothing special to them really, but they were integral. Bits and pieces here and there. The mag-locks and other magnetic sensors in the boots, for instance. They were a royal pain. When trying to pry loose one of the mag-lock units on the left boot, he accidentally touched it and completed a circuit. This actually activate the boot, causing it to slam down to the metal work bench. Which wouldn't be such a big deal had he not been grasping it so firmly. In the end, the resultant catastrophe resulted in another round of cursing, and further swigs from the flask at his side.

As he rolled his shoulder and prepared to work on the other one, he winced and considered that he might have dislocated or tweaked something in his shoulder. No matter. A standing motion, and he reached behind the bench to grab an oscenely large pry-bar, and rather than work the boots off, he merely wrenched on in under the boot. From there, he turned and quite literally jumped on the pry-bar, and with a muttered curse sat back as the half-disconnected mag-lock gave way, and reactivated with the boots now stuck firmly on the light fixture above him.

With an irritated glance, he went to get a broom.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

After almost an hour, the boot was pried down from the ceiling. Almost a flask later, and the mag-locks were re-wired to fit better to the new power source, and reattached to new boots of a fine grey spacers leather. Nothing fancy, but durable and comfy as the Nine Hells of Corellia. Plus, if the boots were original, then Jaster was a size or two smaller in footwear than himself. Which had a ton of possible jokes, but none of them he felt in particular comfortable in making at the expense of the memory of such a great man. However, there was still a lot of work to do. More than enough to keep his mind occupied as the tihaar fuzzed and muddied it.

Turning the the gauntlet, he eyed the shells and considered the array of weaponry he had. He quite liked the traditional 'bounty hunter setup'... A grappling hook, a higher powered dart launcher, flamethrower, and a rocket launcher of blaster or some other projectile weapon on the wrist. He had ordered the requisite parts from various company's and the like. Particularly from [member="Siobhan Kerrigan"] and ARGH. The Echani Graphite grappling hook and wrist flamer were, quite simply, the best to be found anywhere, so he relented on re-inventing the wheel and making his own systems for them. He sincerely doubted if he could do better on his own anyhow.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Into the gauntlet he began to feed the grappling hook. For a moment, he allowed himself to marvel at the simplicity and ingenuity of Echani Graphite, the creation of a droid supposedly, of all things. The aging alor was down to detail work. Precision spanners and screws, every little detail just right as he began to wind the cord and solder connections. It was no sense to rush in crafting such things, especially when working on a relic of this size and complexity. Utmost care could, should, and would be taken with respect to this armor. It was to be made anew, but not remade. Few besides a master craftsman would understand that meaning, but he did, and would not compromise.

Rolling, he let the connections he had solder cool for a moment, the graphite and wrist flamer ready. For the flamer, the first bit of fuel was just your typical solution. He'd toy later with baffor pollen injected stuff and other sources of the fuel. For now, he had what he wanted, which was hopefully functionality. But the rest of it? How would it work ... What features would he chose to add to it, for bringing it into this era? War was the Galaxies only constant it seemed, but it was ever shifting and changing, and of that there was no denying the fact. So he began to sketch idly, drawing ideas for a mandalorian steel bodysuit and a cape from AEI of their Warden Cloak, but in the same brilliant red as the first wearers.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

The cape was relatively easy, and he sent the material for the bodysuit off to a specialized weaver just down in the little camp followers town springing up around the grounds. It was easy enough to measure himself, even with a slightly more limited than usual shop. A message was sent to the sales department of AEI requesting another warden cloak, in red. And as he waited, he worked on fashioning a slight departure from the traditional armor. More obvious cape clasps, made of pure beskar, heavy and bronze in color. He folded the metal like a damascus steel, in a wood-grain pattern, and lovingly carved a mythosaur skull into each one, sliding a small but powerful mag clamp to the back of the clasp, and an even more substantial receptor, to help keep it in place.

On a whim, he went back into the box of parts that Draco had sent him. And the confused note of why the master was asking the student about parts and advice. Truth was, Draco had a mind and way of thinking different from his. That was a boon in crafting, something he could rely on. Boy did he intend to rely on that man in the weeks and months to come. Gotal'Veman could not put out enough weaponry to arm a whole House like Mereel from top to bottom. So Armatech would be the go to, or so he hoped. He remembered the drahr'kandar he and the lad had made, and decided to essentially copy the armor for this restoration. After all, no need to mess with what he viewed as perfection, apart from a few stylistic choices, like the groin and neck-guard, and in memory of Jango's death, a beskar plated collar in red as well.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

The symbol on the pauldron was worn, almost dead, and so as he fitted various systems from the helmet box Draco had sent, essentially copying the helmet of the boys suit into the ancient buc'ye of Jaster, he took time and hand brushes to re-apply the logo of the True Mandalorians. Each brush-stroke was loving, slow, and painted with care, as if taking in the weight of the meaning of the symbol. Not to hide behind politics and negotation, as this Alor'e council did... Nor to be blood thirsty and vengeful, as his student [member="Isley Verd"] seemed to constantly fight with. Wage war as a mercenary or personally... Make alliances when needed, even if with odd bed fellows at time. But above all, a sense and code of honor. A way of dignity and respect.

Finally, he sets aside the pauldrons, smiling only a little as the helmet was lifted up. His ancestor had worn this armor and shaped his people for millenia to come whilst in in. Now, not only did he recover it, but he had it to be his. On the inside of the buc'ye, near the back, he painted hasty mando'a runes reading: Beskar cuy cuun tal.. Iron is our blood... Personal motto, of sorts, and his own contribution to the armor, like the clasps for the cape. But now turned to adding the rocket dart launchers on the shoulders really, which were a nice touch of Draco's on the other suit. Not as powerful as an MM-9, which he favored, but really with everything else he could forego that mode of explosive.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

As he looked, he realized most things were slowly falling together and in place. The biggest bit yet left was what he turned to next. Ca'tra Jair propulsion system. Some though him insane for using it. But the agility and advantages over a regular jetpack it yielded were incalculable in his mind really. Not as fast, in some models of pack, as a fueled jetpack, it also wasn't prone to be shot, exploding, and then lighting you on fire as you died a screaming death. Plus, a minor repulsor blast or burn to the face could be a good stalling tactic in an enclosed space encounter. Ijaat always had and always would be a fan of having more than one ace in the hole. Never knew when you'd need another really.

With the system, the main bug honestly was fitting the hoses and wireless receivers and relays just right, with euk'gar laced rubber hosings for connecting ports to run in under the bodysuit to try and keep it all nice and concise and tight. When done with one, he would set it aside, smiling. Almost as an after thought to the boots, he added grav boot components he spied from Draco in the box, and Magno-Grip soles. The soles, especially, were insanely useful when firing heavy caliber guns with high rates of fire like he loved. Even inertial dampeners and gyratic stabilizers were no match for fully containing some things he employed, like his beloved A-10.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Finally, with the last repulsor pack for the ca'tra jair in place, he stood and looked. And decided that, even without the cape, it was time for a test fit. The repulsors would need to be dialed in, he told himself. Really that's all it was. Taking up a black armorweave bodysuit he kept as a spare, he slid into it, and began for what felt like the first time in a long time, armoring up. Each piece, weapon or plate of beskar was treated with reverence and care as he slid the over his form. Some adjustments would need to be made, here and there, and could be once he got the better fitting euk'gar boydglove. Until that point, there was little to no reason to begin to modify the fit of the plates. Who knew how the exact sizing and curvature might be influenced.

A moment of silence and reverence, staring at the black visor of the helmet before he spun it in his hands like a bolo-ball and slid it over his face. The systems sealed with a welcomed and well known hiss of the vacuum being activated, before he began to breath stale air and nod. Integrity was good, and he began to speak as if to Geoff, before realizing the AI was now a downloaded program in his old ship, sent somewhere into the unknown for both their sakes really. HUD began to flash and flicker, and finally beam with light as it analyzed and scanned his retina, and then accepted his pineal commands, bringing up checklists and system green lights all around...

Stepping to the porch, he threw open the villa like window and rested a hand on the rail before he took off, admiring the growth of his house...

 

[Julius Sedaire]

With the green-light in place, he snapped his arms down and to his side. The propulsion system whined, the first start up taking a second, and suddenly he was rocketing up into the air, surrounded by the setting sun of the plain-deserts of Concord Dawn. People below might have looked. Might have even pointed. But for the moment, the Elder Smith merely reveled in the loss of duty and oath, and the singular joy of flight that pilots must experience in their craft. Impossible turns and banks had defense emplacements tracking him. Until his internal IFF pinged up as the alor of the House, and they quickly turned away after a radio check to confirm.

Where the security might have harshed others mood, it served only to boost him. Men and women he had personally trained pressed even him to his own standards, and he could not be more proud. Angling a swooping curve around a tower, he stalled the foot boosters, jerked himself around with a flick of his arms at full burn, and then kick-started his feet back to full, making a hair-pinn turn as he rose higher and higher, releasing a burst of flame in celebration, and then killing the systems, stopping himself just in time with a pinpoint use of the graphite grappling gun, and lowering slowly onto the balcony again, breathing hard, but exalted in his heart and soul.

He was back...