Jedi Artisan 033

The Terror Box. Its creation had rocked the city for miles, and now it was to be used as a test of courage for the Mandalorians. 

It was made from gravewood taken from a resentful soul, and reinforced at its corners with Beskar taken from a traitor. 

“Greetings, Mandalore. You have revealed the strength of your Might. It is now time for the Trial of Courage. This is a device of my own construction. It contains no blade, poison or heat. It cannot injure your body. But those with weak constitutions may wish to steer clear, for it reveals to you your strongest fear! To pass this exam is simple. Simply place your hand inside for one minute, and then write your own name without trembling.” Zane said in an uncharacteristically serious tone of voice. Having experienced this damned box first hand, it wasn't something he could joke about. 

Zane set the box upon a stone plinth, and a timer was above it, revealing to everyone how long a contestant could last. 

Although the people started to line up-after all, passing this trial would result in a single piece of Beskar-they didn't treat it all that seriously. 

Clucking his tongue, and shaking his head, Zane decided to up the anté. 

“Anyone who can maintain consciousness for ten minutes will automatically bypass the previous rules, and will have won themselves a full set of armor. But be warned. This artifact is no game.” Zane seriously warned.

The Mandalorians came forward one by one. Several burly men, and scar faced women who had lived on the knife's edge were the first to volunteer. He sensed that they had all seen combat, that some of them had killed dozens of people, and been in countless near death encounters. And yet…

“Aughhhh!!!” The big, buff, bald man who had pushed his way to the front let out a shocking scream after barely ten seconds. 

The man fell backwards onto his rear, and trembled all over, his eyes rapidly blinking, he scrambled away, running out and disappearing into the crowd. 

“What did you put in there, Jedi? Some sort of injection that induces stimulants?” A gruff man asked, nearly pulling his blaster on Zane. 

Zane shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders. “Either you have the courage to stick your hand in there, or get lost. This opportunity to receive my gift is earned, Mandalorian.” 

The gruff man spat to the side, then stuck his hand in. He lasted about 45 seconds, and was quite impressive. However, when he withdrew his hand, he retched to the side, and had to be carried away by Clan Kryze guards. Upon his suggestion to Satine, they had set up tents & benches with food & water where people could go to recover. 

From there, a nearly endless line began to slowly shuffle forwards. Most lasted fewer than twenty seconds. Some tore their arms free with shouts. Others staggered away in silence. One battle-scarred woman began weeping before ten seconds had passed, and walked away staring at the children amongst the crowd with a complicated expression. 

A young man collapsed after experiencing himself trapped beneath deep water. A veteran lasted almost 55 seconds before the vision of his dead children calling from a burning house became too much. A girl no older than twelve endured a full minute while trembling so violently that her armor rattled.

Zane found that when he focused upon this item with the Force, he could sort of view the fears of those involved. That he could even manipulate things to a certain extent. It was a foul creation, but could be a useful tool all the same. Perhaps the Order would appreciate it as a gift? Or maybe they would destroy it as heresy. With the current council, it was difficult to determine which direction they would take it in. 

Whilst he was deep in thought, a few spectators laughed when a massive warrior withdrew his hand after only six seconds.

Zane rounded upon them, and waved a hand at his nearby harp. A strong note played out, silencing the laughter, and imposing a strong emotion of solemnity inside everyone who heard the tune. 

“He has had the courage to place his hand inside. Whatever he faced, he faced alone. No one here will dishonor that.” He snapped.

Hours passed by, and nine people had earned themselves a piece of Beskar gear. That young teen from Clan Vizsla managed to be the only one to pass both the Trial of Might & Courage. None so far had lasted the full ten minutes. However, he did have high expectations for one particular person, and maybe even another precocious brat. 

When Obi-Wan approached the Terror Box, he regarded it with a healthy level of suspicion. After all, unlike the other mundane people of this world, he could 100% sense its malevolent nature. 

In his eyes, it was an ugly thing, but he would never tell Knight Zane that. 

“And this is safe?” Obi-Wan asked. 

Zane pretended to consider the question, dragging out the encounter for maximum effect. “Define safe.”

Obi-Wan stared at Zane, and found this Jedi Artisan to be increasingly frustrating. Yet at the same time, he was equally unfathomable. Artifacts like this ‘Terror Box' were things he had only read about. To see one before him in person was nothing short of a miracle. 

Qui-Gon, standing nearby with his arms folded inside his robes, looked suspiciously amused.

“That was not an encouraging answer.”  Obi-Wan eventually replied with a hint of sarcasm, although he didn't know when he started to become sarcastic? 

“No one has died…yet~” 

Obi-Wan ignored him, and slowly began to advance his hand. 

Qui-Gon spoke quietly behind him. “You may stop whenever you wish. There is no need to feel that you must prove yourself superior to anyone, Obi.” 

Unfortunately, Qui-Gon's good advice fell upon deaf ears, as Obi-Wan was quite the precocious brat at this age. 

When he inserted his hand, his psyche was taken to an alternate plane. 

He was standing in the Jedi Temple, and the corridors were awash with fallen Jedi. 

“You were too late.” Qui-Gon painfully groaned, looking up at Obi-Wan & bleeding out. 

Obi-Wan froze, not knowing how to process this. Then his POV switched to being in the High Council, knowing that everything that had happened was his fault. 

“Failed, you have.” Yoda said from his seat, shaking his head chastisingly. 

“You have shamed the Order, Kenobi. Hand me your lightsaber, and disappear. We never wish to see you again.” Mace Windu thrust out his hand, stripping Obi-Wan of his robes, and lightsaber. 

“Exiled you are. Leave, now, and never return.” Yoda commanded. 

The door to the hallway opened up, and the ghosts of those he had failed lined the hallways. They began to curse him as he began his walk of shame. 

“You were not ready.”

“You were careless.”

“You were weak.”

“You disappointed your Master.”

Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut.

“No, I didn't.” He defended himself, then all he saw was darkness. 

Obi-Wan jerked backward as Zane caught his wrist and gently pulled his hand from the box.

The square returned into focus, and his face was pale.

“How long?” He questioned. 

Zane glanced at the timer. “56 seconds. Not bad, kid.” 

Obi-Wan hung his head in shame, whilst around them, several Mandalorians murmured appreciatively.

“Well done.” Qui-Gon simply stated, and took his Padawan off to the side to recuperate. 

After Obi-Wan temporarily departed, the line resumed, and many more people arrived to test their Courage. 

Late in the afternoon, Satine Kryze approached the box. Her father had objected, and several Kryze guards moved to stop her.

Zane raised his hand, halting them all in place. In their minds, they had suddenly entered ‘sentry mode.’ It was one of Zane's favorite tricks to use on soldiers & guards. Making someone do what they had already trained to do was much easier than total brainwashing. He then turned to the crowd. 

“I said every Mandalorian was welcome to partake in the challenges. No matter the age or clan, so long as you consider yourself Man'doa, you are not to be turned away.” 

Satine boldly stepped forward, yet it was impossible not to hide the nervousness in her eyes. Before she placed her hand inside, she looked toward Obi-Wan. The young Padawan appeared ready to offer advice, but whatever he saw in her expression persuaded him to remain quiet. She then looked up, up above where her father was up in the palace, watching her, yet remaining distant. Glancing over her shoulder at the various masses, the hopeful Clan Kryze, or those from Vizsla who wanted her dead. Then she gazed at those hopeless clanless, and minor figures who made up the bulk of the population, their expressions numb. 

Initially, this trial was something she took part in because she was curious about the mystical side of the universe. Even if it were frightening, at least she knew that the Jedi were good people…however, now, she was not only doing this for her own selfish reasons, but because thus far, none had earned a full set of Mandalorian armor. She didn't want this win for herself, for her father, or even for Clan Kryze. She wanted it for, for…

“For Mandalore.” Her young voice was soft, yet resolute. 

She plunged her hand inside without reservation. 

Her greatest fear saw Mandalore burning.

She saw children fitted with helmets, and handed blasters. She saw herself seated upon a throne constructed from the armor of her father & uncle whilst clan leaders knelt before her and secretly sharpened their knives, preparing for betrayal at every turn. 

She tried to speak of peace, but every word came out as a sermon for war. She tried to protect her people, but her hands became gauntlets crushing their throats. The rival clans called her a tyrant. Blood, screams and terror graced her beautiful world, her Mandalore. 

The box offered her a thousand futures. In every one, Mandalore died because she had chosen wrongly. Satine’s knees weakened, yet even as her hand nearly slipped, she did not withdraw. She refused. 

Ten minutes went by, twenty, thirty, sixty. Satine remained inside her own personal hell for an entire hour. By the time she withdrew, tears ran silently down her face.

“Satine…” Obi-Wan murmured, rushing to catch the slip of a girl before she toppled over.  

Zane took a deep look at her, and felt his heart ache. Time within the Terror Box seemed to feel longer, and stretch at an exaggerated degree. A minute in there felt like an hour. Sixty minutes…that was almost like three days on the inside! 

Exhaling a slow breath, he bowed towards the young lady in respect. The rest of the Mandalorians in attendance-especially those who had already taken the test-looked at her with respect, horror, and awe. Even those rival clans couldn't help but blink at her stupendous feat. 

“Satine of Clan Kryze …although I only stipulated one set for ten minutes.” Zane slowly stated. “Given your magnificent display of Courage. I reward upon you six sets of Beskar armor.” 

Satine-who was being escorted by Obi-Wan towards the tents-had him stop, and shakily stood on her own two feet. She tread towards him like a tortoise, her face white as milk. And yet, there was fire in her eyes. Turning towards the townsquare, Satine raised her voice. 

“You are mistaken, master Jedi. This victory does not belong to Satine of Clan Kryze, but to Satine of Mandalore. Those armor sets. Clan Kryze claims only one of them. As for the rest. Give one to Clan Saxon, Clan Wren, a clanless butcher, teacher, and an engineer.” 

Glancing upwards, she knew her father had heard every word, that she could vaguely make out his scowl. But she didn't care anymore about pleasing him. Mandalore did not give birth to cowards. 

~~~~~~

AN: I've written 3 more chaps (to be released on Fridays this month) of They're in the Trees, so look forward to it~