#armorer

Din, Armorer, and Mist.

Very excited for the fic you’re planning 👀👀

Arrangements

White clouds filled the air, mist from the Living Waters, steam from the cryoforge. Familiar footsteps rang out on the ancient stones and Din Djarin stepped into her forge-room.

She set down her hammers, regarding him with curiosity. It had been years since she had seen him last, ever since his son received his full armor and struck out into the galaxy on his own. Djarin walked a little slower now, right leg dragging with a slight arthritic limp, but he still cast an imposing figure with his beskar well-maintained.

She spoke the words of greeting. He dipped his helmet in recognition.

"What brings your journey back to Mandalore of old?"

"I wish to make arrangements," he said, and his voice carried the hallmarks of age that were otherwise hidden beneath his beskar.

She nodded. He was human. Yes, that would be appropriate.

"What are your wishes?"

"I have spoken with Grogu," he said. "We do not know what path he will walk, but if he takes a foundling, my armor may be passed on and used to protect them." He touched his right pauldron, his index finger tracing a border around the mudhorn signet. "But he has requested to keep this pauldron, should the Tribe allow."

"It will still remain with him?"

"Yes. In memory." He lowered his hand, his shoulders dropping slightly.

"This is permitted," she said. "Beskar belongs to the Mandalorian people. Your son is Mandalorian. I know he will treat it with honor."

"Thank you," he said. "I am at ease." But he did not turn to leave.

"There is something else. Your leg troubles you."

"It does. It's only age. A lucky problem to have."

"A problem of luck and skill both," the Armorer said, a touch of pride tingeing her voice. It was not very long ago that she knew no remaining Mandalorians touched by age. "I will make adjustments. You need a cuisse that is lighter, yet supportive as well."

He bowed his head in thanks, removing the armor from his right thigh and handing it to her reverently. "I would be honored." He knelt slowly, carefully.

She gazed upon him, then adjusted the cryoforge, its blue flames glowing through the white haze. She dropped the armor into the licking flames and raised her hammer and tongs, and she wondered if this would be their final time in the forge together. The idea brought an ineffable sense of a future grief, a shepherd losing a long-loyal member of the flock.

But that time was not now. The Living Waters within the forge roiled and steamed, and she spoke into the mist, her voice strong, certain, absolving. Shepherding.

"This is the Way."

The echo came as ever it had.

A silly comic I did a long ago (which I hope is not canon because I won't survive a second without seeing grogu's little face 🤧)

Gobtober 12: Armorer

Une paire d’armures de bras en acier (harnois de bras), terminée aujourd’hui dans notre atelier chez MedievalMart France.

Chaque pièce est découpée, mise en forme, rivetée et assemblée entièrement à la main. L’articulation au niveau du coude permet un mouvement naturel, tandis que l’ajustement est équilibré pour un port confortable sur la durée.

Il ne s’agit pas d’une armure produite en série — chaque élément est fabriqué pièce par pièce, selon des méthodes traditionnelles utilisées il y a plusieurs siècles.