Jedi Artisan 032

After departing from Qui-Gon, Zane had instructed a young Satine Kryze how he wanted his venue set up, and then put together something special with that one epic piece of Mandalorian gear he had crafted. Once that was handled, it was close to the afternoon, and he was ready to begin hosting this cultural exchange. 

Walking out into the square, the place was bustling with people. A somewhat festive atmosphere penetrated the gloom of war. Although full-scale assaults & clan genocide hadn't happened yet, this conflict was due to last for a staggering ten years. The Mandalorian Civil War was incredibly bloody, and although Zane was incredibly lazy, he'd like to stop it if he could. 

Within this massive townsquare, Mandalorians crowded beneath the marble statues of ancient conquerors & slain beasts, eyeing one another with suspicion. Blue-marked warriors of Clan Kryze held the steps of the municipal hall. Across from them stood the black-and-silver plates of Clan Vizsla, reinforced by lesser houses nursing grievances generations old. Clan Wren occupied the balconies and rooftops, officially neutral and therefore mistrusted by everyone.

Most people, however, weren't armored, as heirloom gear was quite rare. In fact, most of those present weren't warriors in the traditional sense at all. The allure of Beskar armor was just that grand. Any son or daughter of Mandalore who was fully equipped in such a suit achieved transcendent status. Improved housing, better quality food, and lines of pretty men/women to act as lovers…this was what awaited those lucky winners. Who wouldn't be tempted by the thrill of glory, and the benefits that came with it? 

However, the various clans were indeed beefing at the moment. 

Hands hovered over holsters, and despite the ‘festive’ ideals of this event, it almost felt like Zane had walked into a cowboy standoff, like something out of a Western movie. 

Overhearing a dispute over two missing crates of munitions, six blood feuds, and an insult supposedly delivered by a dead man from eighty years ago, the young Jedi Artisan could only sigh at his own naivety. He had half a mind then and there to pack up, and let these idiots kill themselves. However, with the threats of the Vong, mega corporations, and various corrupt governments, the Mandalorians were some of the only people who could be used as a force for change. If he could rope them onto Team Good Guys, he could then send them off to hunt the Bad Guys, whilst he-Zane-could then slack off in his glorified laundromat. 

Zane walked into the open ground between the various clans, and was quite conspicuous thanks to his robes, and his Uneti-wood staff.

“Stand aside, Jedi.” A broad shouldered warrior in crimson armor warned. “This is a Mandalorian matter.”

“And here I thought you all came here for my promised opportunity to earn some quality Beskar gear. Little did I know we were more interested in measuring the size of our Hutts.” Zane sarcastically remarked. Rolling his eyes, he gently shoed the warrior out of the way with a casual flick of the hand, and walked up some steps until everyone in the square could see him. 

Zane then planted the end of his staff against the stones, planting it in place like a flag pole. The crack echoed through the square like a cannon shot. Seconds later, a pulse of the Force swept outward, lifting cloaks, rattling door frames, and sending the tens of thousands of people in attendance back a step.  

The arguments between one another transformed into collective weariness, as well as a bit of hatred towards this young Jedi. Zane pretended not to feel these death glares, and mightily yawned. His robe was rather crumpled, and sloppy looking, but no one dared be the first to make a move. 

“Apologies, warriors, young and old, for being so late to the party. I think we all felt the shockwaves last night, and I'm a wee tired from keeping this city from falling apart.” Zane said, lazily stretching as if he were just waking up. 

“Get on with it!” A voice called from the crowd. 

Zane then spread his arms like a carnival master addressing a mostly morose, and expressionless audience.

“I shall give you the opportunity to prove yourselves as warriors. The rumors are true. I am offering over 30 full sets of unmarked Beskar armor, and several dozen singular pieces, weapons, and other prizes~” Zane remarked. Seconds later, a live feed played above the square showing the Kryze armory. “This Jedi Mandalorian cultural exchange is not, however a bribe, or gift. We of the Jedi Temple respect you as warriors, and wish to see you challenge yourselves. To see if you are worthy of this opportunity.” 

His words stirred the crowd, and they then pushed & shoved one another, pressing in tight like sardines. 

Qui-Gon Jinn stood beneath one of the archways, arms folded within his robes. Beside him, Obi-Wan watched with a tense expression, in his hand was a dataslate with pages full of notes. Satine Kryze stood near them with a fresh bandage beneath one sleeve. Unlike her absent father, she watched Zane with naked curiosity. 

“There are three pillars upon which the reputation of Mandalore rests: Might. Courage. Skill. Today, you may demonstrate your worth. I have designed three trials testing these attributes. The victor of any one trial may claim a single piece of Beskar…but should they clear all three, then a full set is their prize!” Zane half waved at the crowd as their excitement reached a fever pitch. 

Some laughed. Others accused him of lying. Several smiths shouted that Beskar was not a toy to be handed out by offworlders.

“The metal shall be inspected by your own armorers. Its design shall honor the victor’s ancestors. It was forged in a Mandalorian smithy, beneath the eyes of Mandalorian witnesses. Anyone who has issue with this can go cower in a corner. The true sons & daughters of Mandalore fear no challenge.” Zane confidently stated, shutting down those troublesome voices. 

Nodding to himself, Zane began to explain the rules. 

“For the Trial of Might, only cold weapons will be permitted. No blasters, explosives, poisons, or incendiary weapons are to be permitted. Nothing shall strike except by the strength and technique of the one holding it. The victor must disarm me, force my surrender or drive me from the circle.” He said, pointing at an arena about as big as a Sumo wrestler's fighting ground. “In turn, I shall refrain from telekinesis, or any other Jedi tricks.” 

The Uneti staff seemed plain compared with the beskads, vibroaxes and shock-mauls rising throughout the crowd. Its golden-brown surface still bore the natural lines of the living branch from which it had been shaped, whilst everything else was made of some metal. 

A Mandalorian carrying a double-headed axe stepped forward first. The fight was full of many ‘ooo's & ahhhs.’ He lasted eleven seconds.

Zane turned the first strike, slid beneath the second and placed one end of his staff behind the warrior’s knee. A twist brought the challenger down, and the staff cracked the ground next to his head. 

“Dead. Next.” Zane mildly said, then used a [Force Kick] to disrespectfully roll the challenger off the arena. 

A woman from Clan Rook came next, wielding a beskad-a traditional Mandalorian arming sword-and a hooked parrying dagger. She drove Zane backward with an aggressive sequence of slashes, using the dagger to trap his staff while the sword sought his shoulder.

Zane yielded ground until the back of his heels touched the edge of the arena. Then his staff entered her guard, punched into her jaw from below, and sent her flying away unconscious. 

“Dead~” He observed. “Could someone play some drums, or maybe some music? There's tens of thousands of you in the crowd, and only some 30 sets or so of armor. We really need to speed this up. Otherwise I'll miss lunch.” Zane said in a tone that totally put others beneath him. 

His toxic words, and act of pretending to be weak, only to one-shot others fired up the crowd. Before long, a thousand participants had stepped into the circle, none of whom had so much as touched a hair on his head. 

Every victory was decisive, and was extremely humiliating. Before long, many of the clansmen who had been feuding before were now complaining next to one another drinking a pint as they watched the Jedi trounce yet another warrior. Perhaps three or so hours of this passed until a young man stepped forward. 

“My name is Darik Vizsla, heir to the Mandalorian Jedi, Tarre Vizsla.” The young man simply stated, and waved his blade back and forth. 

Darik was scarcely older than Satine, and had dark black hair. His armor was old, repaired so many times that portions of it belonged to different centuries. He carried a single straight-edged beskad.

After he recounted his heritage, many of his peers responded with jeers & loud boos. 

“The Force is strong in you, young man. But are you mighty enough?” Zane slowly drawled. 

The young Mandalorian attacked without a roar or flourish. His first cuts were disciplined, aimed not at Zane’s head but at his hands. Zane turned them aside one after another, treating this fight like a game. Darik adjusted, shortened his grip and drove forward with a heavy stab. 

Their weapons cracked together again and again. Surprisingly, the young man had lasted more than 30 seconds, although he was already sporting several bruises, and had blood dripping down his nose. Any unarmored man, or non-Force Sensitive would've had their brains blown out had Zane not held back. Eventually, he knocked the blade out of Darik's hands, and instead of reaching for the falling weapon, Darik seized Zane’s staff with both hands. He allowed the Jedi’s next movement to pull him forward, stepped across Zane’s lead foot and turned his entire body beneath the staff.

Zane shifted to counter, and they engaged in a rapid series of blows. The Jedi Artisan blocked everything coming his way with one hand, occasionally responding with brutal body shots, and a backhand so tough, Darik nearly collapsed. Bloodied, and bruised, the kid refused to yield, and ever so slowly pushed Zane back. 

Eventually, one of Zane’s boots crossed the line.

Darik collapsed, breathing heavily as his blood slicked hair, and various cuts along his face fell forward.

Zane admired that kind of determination, and seeing that no one had won up until now figured he'd let someone win. 

“Victor of the Trial of Might!” He thundered.

The resulting cheer nearly shook dust from several nearby roofs.

It came first from Clan Vizsla, but it did not remain there. Within moments, Wren warriors were striking gauntlets against breastplates. Even several Kryze elders grudgingly joined the applause.

“Go, brave warrior, and receive your promised reward from the Kryze armory.” Zane floated the injured kid up, and sprayed him with some bacta, then sent him on his way. 

Several more hours passed, and of the tens of thousands of challengers, he allowed thirteen more to pass. Although he didn't consider himself to be a particularly skilled duelist, against these unenhanced Humans, victory was as easy as taking candy from a baby. Although there were a handful of participants in Beskar armor, a few cyborgs, and those on stimulants, it wasn't that troublesome. 

Next, it was time for the Trial of Courage. Producing the Terror Box, a small amount of malevolence leaked out, making several nearby people subconsciously take a step back. 

A small smile graced his lips. 

“Don't be afraid, warriors…it's not like I'm after your soul!”