Jedi Artisan 029

AN: I heard some of ya'll want more crafting. So. Here you go. 

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After Zane had spread the word that he would be holding an event the next day, he had to actually craft the promised reward. Ordinarily, the production of beskar was a closely guarded secret, one kept for several millenia. 

However, secrets known by dozens of people weren't necessarily secrets, and there was no larger hoarder of knowledge in the galaxy than the Jedi Order. As the heir presumptive to the leader of the Council of First Knowledge, Zane had pretty much been given carte blanche to research whatever his heart desired. As an ordinary Star Wars nerd, and craftsman, one of the earliest things he learned how to make was beskar items. 

As for why he didn't go around everywhere in beskar armor? Because for one, he wasn't a soldier, and for two, no one ever talks about how tight a fit armor is! That section of metal that goes between the legs was hella uncomfortable, and severely limited his movements. As an enlightened Jedi Artisan, he appreciated the design of armor, but wasn't some videogame NPC or lunatic Mandalorian who could wear armor 24/7. 

Anyway, after appropriating the Duke's private stock of ore, he had commandeered a forge under the depths of the palace. Large furnaces, smelting refineries, and molten heat presses alongside a large number of tools surrounded him. 

Heat rolled through the cavernous hall in visible waves, and an echo in the Force marked this as a holy place where hundreds of ancestral pieces of gear had been created. 

Zane floated half a foot off the ground,  shirtless and surrounded by fire.

Sweat ran in streams down his chest and back. The ends of his hair had become damp, and soot coated his arms up to the elbows. Against the raging furnaces, he appeared less like a Jedi and more some ancient god of creation, like the Greek God Hephaestus reborn in a galaxy far far away. 

Around him floated thirty-six portions of beskar. Ingots revolved in the air above twelve open crucibles as they started to take shape under his will. 

A dozen Mandalorian armorers watched from a distance, [Mind Tricked] in place, so that they could not interfere with his ‘sacrilege.’

Zane raised a hand, and the furnaces answered. Flames elongated as though caught by an invisible wind, and white hot fire coiled around the hovering crucibles. The ore glowed from dull red to orange, then from orange to purest white. 

The heat should have driven every living creature from the chamber, only those dressed in special equipment would be fine, yet the Force wove around the young Jedi, proving to be a more formidable armor than any object from the material realm. 

With his eyes half closed, he reached into the metal through the Force. He felt every impurity suspended within it, every uneven distribution of heat, or potential flaw. The metal was not some lifeless object to him. Instead it held the breath of the earth, but it was barely a glimmer, a spark of what may be. This limitless potential of creation inspired him, and drove him to become a maker. This was why he was a Jedi Artisan! 

Zane closed his fingers, and the molten beskar compressed from all sides at once. Folding inward upon itself, many impurities flowed toward outward like oil rising out of water. Zane separated them with the delicate movement of two fingers. Slag peeled away in thin black ribbons, leaving behind a mass of incandescent metal so pure that the watching armorers could only watch in amazement. 

Next, under his ministrations, the mass divided into six equal streams.

They flowed through the air like a squid's tentacles, each entering a separate mold as directed by his will. Yet even the molds did not entirely dictate their shape. Zane changed the metal as it cooled, merely using the molds as a basic guideline to help get started. 

Along the section of armor where a man's ribs would rest within the breast plate, he formed overlapping scales thin enough to bend with the wearer, yet did not lose a single point of defense. Beneath the collar, he created narrow channels to carry heat away from the neck, to better protect from blaster fire. 

The Force held dozens of pieces in separate stages of construction. Some were liquid. Others were soft enough to shape. Still others were cooling while Zane aligned their structures, encouraging the metal to settle into an image unique to his imagination. Each suit was its own masterpiece, no two armors were identical, nor were any of them of uniform size. Gear fit for men, women, short, tall, fat, small, and everything in between was crafted in this forge. 

Next, a thread of molten beskar, thinner than wire, wound itself through the overlapping plates of a new, experimental piece of armor. It formed a flexible mesh between different sections, forming two interlocking ridges. Like the fabric of a stitched shirt, this particular breastplate was woven line by line, and with a little assistance of the Infinite Thread, Zane gave it a softer trait in the Force. Meaning whoever wore it, would be much more comfortable, and it could move & bend like a cloth shirt whilst still possessing the properties of metal. 

Hour after hour passed as he worked long into the night. 

The foundry’s chronometers marked the passing of the day, but time seemed to have little meaning within this forge as Zane truly entered his element. The young Jedi who was typically lazy, sarcastic, and unambitious in his day to day interactions was extremely hyper focused. The Force moved according to his will, and he too, influenced by that great energy, moved to the drum of that universal beat. 

In a trance, he moved from furnace to furnace without stopping. When his muscles trembled, he sank deeper into the Force, pulling upon its awesome glory to refresh the body. When thirst cracked his lips, a minty-green energy suffused his body, refreshing him with untold vigor like a vampire tasting blood. 

A circle of helmets took shape overhead. Some bore narrow visors, whilst others possessed reinforced brows or widened peripheral ranges. Each remained unmistakably Mandalorian, yet no two were identical. Zane left their surfaces unpainted, leaving clan colors and symbols to be added later. However, on the interior of every piece there was a little sunflower-his own maker's mark-as well as a tiny symbol of the Jedi Order. 

By the time the twin moons of Mandalore had risen high in the sky, word had spread throughout the city.

Warriors crowded the upper balconies, attempting to catch a glimpse of this now legendary feat. Children squeezed between armored legs to catch a glimpse of the strange Jedi who worked beskar ore into the finest armor. Clan elders came expecting sacrilege and remained in wary silence. Even those who distrusted Jedi found it difficult to look away. For a smith, it might take an entire year, perhaps even a decade to craft a ‘perfect’ set of heirloom armor. Even one flaw or tiny mistake in the forging process could create a catastrophic chain reaction. The creation of such gear was a sacred process, one that was resource intensive, heavily skill-based, and was knowledge carefully guarded for generations. Yet here in the heart of their city at the depths of the world, one young man turned their belief system on its head. 

The foundry became Zane’s universe, his domain to do as he pleased. As he worked, the Force swelled alongside him as if he were its favorite child. As a son of the Lightside, he drew power from the flames, but he did not dominate them. He listened to the sound of expanding metal, to the hiss of cooling plates, and to the low vibration that passed through beskar when it reached the correct temperature, then worked with these natural phenomena instead of forcing them into the direction he desired. Every alloy possessed a note, every fault introduced dissonance, and he worked his own melody into this song to see what may be, to unleash the hidden potential of the universe. 

By midnight, the entire foundry had become an orchestra.

The air rang with the humming of suspended armor. Zane moved his hands like a conductor, guiding breastplates into quenching vats and summoning them back through clouds of steam. Jets of vapor rose around him, turning his figure into a dark silhouette rimmed by fire.

He forged armor for heavy warriors and light ones. Made suits for broad shoulders, narrow waists, long limbs, and compact frames. Vambraces capable of accepting the traditional weapons of any clan were made one after another, but installed none. A flamethrower, grappling line, dart launcher, or shield projector would remain the wearer’s choice.

When the final breastplate emerged from the flames, Zane held it before him.

This piece was thicker than the others. Invisible channels ran beneath its surface in sweeping arcs, designed to redirect heat and kinetic force toward the sides. He rotated it, studying the light that moved across the unfinished metal with a smile. 

Floating even higher into the air, he tossed it to the side, and then gently brought his hands together as if he were a supplicant issuing a prayer.  All thirty-six suits of gear rumbled through the forge as they assembled before him like knights ready to march. The sound and kinetic force shook the foundry, creating a great clamor of noise & fury. 

Greaves locked around invisible legs. Gauntlets sealed in place, and breastplates fused with their backplates. Pauldrons descended, helmets lowered, and more. Three dozen heirloom tier sets of armor stood in perfect ranks upon the stone floor, their unpainted armor gleaming like newly minted silver.

Zane lowered his arms, and a great weariness descended upon him, but he remained floating before the suits, bare-chested and blackened with soot.

The first task of the night was completed, yet Zane was not finished, not by a longshot. This beskar armor was what was promised as a reward to would-be victors. However, Zane had no intention of solely testing the might of the Mandalorians. 

To win them over, he must do so on a cultural level. Strength was an undeniable fact of life for this proud warrior culture, but there was more to them than that. They valued courage, and skill just as much as might. 

Therefore, during the construction of the armor, and whilst the Force was still with him, Zane had become inspired…he would construct something this very night that could test the courage of others. 

Retrieving his harp that he had made on Mimban, Zane quickly ordered the several stunned craftsmen, and watchers to assemble some materials. 

The night was not over yet!