Jedi Artisan 028

After showing off, Zayne had become the focus of attention, and had been held in high regard as a bold and cunning warrior. However, he was an Artisan at heart, and told the emotionally unstable Duke Kryze that he was actually here on a gift giving mission, and that Qui-Gon was the one placed in charge of defending his daughter. 

Seeing himself out-much to the stunned looks of everyone besides Qui-Gon-Zayne saw himself out with a jaunty whistle, and spring in his step. As if all the court drama from earlier didn't truly matter. 

Wanting to explore the city, he was curious to learn more about their culture. Most Star Wars nerds had been drawn in by the cool silent nature of Boba or Jango, and loved the armor. Zayne was no exception to the rule, and following the Thrawn doctrine, decided to focus his studies on Mandalorian art. 

And what better place to start than a smithie? Afterall, these beskar obsessed freaks considered a good set of armor, or fine blade to be the peak of aesthetics. 

Walking down several nondescript alleyways, his iconic robes drew a few sideglances, but he didn't pay them any mind. Following the song of the Force, he let the invisible strings of fate guide his steps. 

After about an hour of leisurely walking away from the palace, he had come to his destination. 

The building before him stood beneath an overhanging stone arch, its entrance marked by an iron sign bearing the sigil of a horned animal. Heat rolled from the open doorway, slightly lifting up the hem of his robe. Inside, an elderly Mandalorian sat before a broad workbench, surrounded by hammers, polishing cloths, engraving tools, and carefully arranged pieces of dark green armor.

“You lost?” The old man asked. 

“You're a smith, right?” Zayne asked, looking around. 

“Tch. More of a glorified maintenance worker. Mining Beskar's tough, forging it tougher still. A master craftsman might complete ten full body sets in his lifetime. These days, I just cobble together what our ancestors left us.” The old man spat to the side, continuing to polish some gear. 

Zayne stepped closer, and observed. The armor felt like it had survived generations. Its surface was pitted by old impacts, and long scratches crossed the metal where blades had failed to pierce it. Along the inner rim, names had been engraved in a tightly packed column.

“Yours?” Zayne asked.

“My family’s.”

The smith ran an oiled cloth over the breastplate. He did not polish away the scars. Instead, he cleaned around them with almost a ritual-like care.

“My mother wore it during the raids along the northern frontier. Her father wore it against Clan Rook. His mother carried it during the defense of Sundari.”

Zayne leaned closer to the engraved names. “How old is it?”

“The oldest plate? Four hundred years. The rest has been replaced as needed.”

“Then it is not really the same armor.” Zayne pointed out. 

The smith stopped his movements, and glared at him. “It bears the same oath, Jedi. A new Mandalorian may wear the armor generation to generation, but we keep our word.”

Unlike you. 

Zayne nodded slowly. “So the metal may change, but the promise does not.”

The smith studied him for a moment, then resumed his work.

“Close enough.” The old man grunted. 

Zayne watched as he removed a damaged clasp and shaped a replacement by hand. Modern tools hung along the wall, including a compact fusion cutter that could have completed the work in seconds, yet the smith ignored it. He heated the metal, hammered it flat, folded it, and hammered it again, following a method inherited from his ancestors. 

“Ever seen one of these?” Zayne asked, slapping a dagger down on the workbench. 

The old man gave it a once over, clearly not impressed. But then he suddenly stopped his movements, and picked the blade up. Eyes going wide, he sniffed the edge, then gently ran it along a plate of beskar. 

“Tio'unti!” The smith swore. “How did you come of this?! Some stash or private collection?!” 

“A creation of my own.” 

“Mandalorian steel wielded by an outsider? I ought to-” 

A white blade sprang into action, and Zane peacefully stared the old man down. 

“Ten sets across the lifespan of a master craftsman? Tell your clan leader that Jedi Knight Zayne can craft ten sets in five days. If you want them, I will be accepting duels in the town square on the morrow.” He confidently stated, and then-leaving the weapon behind as proof of his capabilities-turned around without saying another word. 

Message delivered, he went on to his next ‘gallery.’ Having spoken to the old, it was time to look towards the new. Entering a primary school, a guard tried to stop him, but was put to sleep with a wave of his hand. Here, instead of recess, the children had a fighting pit. And in their classroom, they learnt the schematics of blasters, and trained how to ride speeders or work a jetpack in a simulator. 

Watching them compete with one another was like watching a group of clone troopers training under Jango Fett. 

Observing a class with 7 year olds, he saw some expression of art lining a wall. It was a group of drawings. War & conquest was not outlandish, but so too were scenes of exploration, flight, jetpacks, and loving families. Mandalorian armor was a central theme, and clan symbols were common as weeds on a mountainside. A strong sense of pride, community, belonging, and yearning for freedom came from this place. 

One small boy out on a bathroom break caught Zayne examining his picture of a red speeder bike.

“It can go nine hundred megalight's an hour!” The child announced with pride, like someone showing off a toy. 

“Oh? And what else can it do?” Zayne asked good naturedly, humoring the child. 

The boy frowned at him, then pulled a crayon out of a pocket, and added another cannon to the speeder.

Zayne nodded approvingly. “A sensible improvement.”

He then walked into the classroom. The teacher, a no-nonsense military type took one glance at his Jedi robe, and it was like he was having Vietnam flashbacks. Acting on instinct, the middle-aged educator ran at him tossing out a straight punch, feinting into a leg sweep. 

Sensing his intentions ahead of time, Zayne stomped down on the incoming shin, then when his opponent was in pain, grabbed him by the back of the head, and kneed his forehead. Lifting the teacher onto the desk at the head of the room, breathing and unconscious, he turned towards the stunned & shocked students. 

Some of them tried to be ‘little warriors’ and tried to shout at him, preparing to gather courage and charge, when Zayne sent them all back into their seats with a wave of his hand. 

“Siiiiilence.” He roared, mimicking a certain famous wizard from Earth. “Tomorrow at sunset, I, Jedi Knight Zayne will be offering up a set of Mandalorian armor to any who can best me in a duel. Tell your friends, inform your families, notify your clan. Any warrior brave enough can meet my blade.” 

Then clapping his hands, he let out a bright flash, temporarily blinding them before departing. 

Meandering several other places, Zayne confronted various other peoples from all walks of life. Acting like an overbearing, uncouth guest, he made sure that the word was spread. 

By late afternoon, he had reached the main square.

White stone stretched beneath the lowering sun. The area was crowded with merchants, soldiers, mechanics, pilgrims, and clan retainers. Statues surrounded the square. Some were carved from pale marble, others cast in dark metal polished by centuries of rain.

Zayne bought a cup of spiced tea and seated himself on the edge of a fountain.

From there, he studied the triumphs of Mandalore. 

One statue depicted a huntress standing over a vast horned beast, her spear broken but her head held high. Across from her, an armored warrior shielded three children from a towering alien invader. Another monument depicted Mandalorians clashing with Sith, blades and axes raised against crimson lightsabers.

There were Jedi as well.

One statue showed a fallen Jedi beneath the boot of a Mandalorian conqueror, though the carving possessed none of the mockery Zayne might have expected. Both figures had been shaped with dignity. The warrior stood victorious, but the Jedi died facing him, one hand still wrapped around the hilt of his weapon. Other monuments celebrated sieges, cities liberated, monsters slain, and the end of a great journey. 

What interested Zayne most was what he did not see. There were few statues of Mandalorians defeating other Mandalorians.

Their history was filled with clan feuds, vendettas, succession wars, and blood debts. Yet those conflicts had rarely been preserved in a heroic light. They were recorded elsewhere, perhaps, in family halls and the scars carried upon ancestral armor. Here, in the heart of the city, Mandalore preferred to remember the moments when its people had stood together.

United was when Mandalore was strongest. 

Zayne sipped his tea and watched the shadows lengthen across the square.

These people, they yearned for freedom. They clung to their ancestors with a devotion bordering upon worship, and their armor was part inheritance, and part scripture. A clan with millions may only have a few hundred sets, showing just how rare and coveted it was. Every child dreamed of flying in the sky amongst their fellow elite. 

And yet it was this same scarcity that ignited so many blood feuds. When armor was more coveted than credits, more valuable than honor, was when the earth ran red with the blood of warriors. 

Perhaps that was the great contradiction of Mandalore. Without an external enemy, they turned their strength upon one another. Give them something beyond their borders to oppose, and old grievances suddenly fall apart, and they could threaten top tier powers, like the Sith or the Republic. 

Zayne looked toward the statue of the Mandalorian standing over the fallen Jedi, and knew in his heart of hearts that he had already come to a decision. 

The Great Clan Wars were spreading. In this conflict, victory in battle only served to deepen the feud. Every death demanded another death in payment. At this rate, the old saying of ‘an eye for an eye makes the world blind’ was truly apt. Qui-Gon hoped for peaceful negotiations, and Satine dreamed of reform. But none of that would be realized for another: Ten. Long. Bloody. Years. 

Zayne rested his cup near his lips, and a small, troublesome smile graced his face.

Perhaps none of them could end it from within. Perhaps, like with Revan, Mandalore required an outsider, not necessarily an enemy, but someone the clans could resist together. Someone sufficiently irritating, sufficiently dangerous, and sufficiently impossible to ignore.

“Someone like me.” 

Now, what are the odds I'll be killed before I can steal some of that ore, and craft a full set of beskar armor?