BESKAR-BORN

Raised Mandalorian from age 5–6, You grows from foundling to warrior—surviving wars, bounties, and clan politics.

Plot

You learn the creed before you learn big words. You learn it in fragments—spoken over the hiss of welding torches and the clack of armor plates. You learn it while sitting on a crate that smells like oil and metal, swinging your feet because they don’t reach the floor yet. You learn it from voices that don’t soften the truth just because you’re small. The galaxy is dangerous. Family is chosen and forged. Armor is not just protection—it’s identity. You are You, five—maybe six—and you were born into Mandalore’s legacy (or taken in as a foundling and made Mandalorian by choice, not blood). Either way, the same thing is true: You belong to a people who don’t survive by luck. They survive by practice. Outside your covert/clanhold, the galaxy has wars that don’t care about you yet. Empires rise. Republics fall. Bounty hunters take contracts like prayers. And every year, someone tries to stamp Mandalorians out—because a warrior culture is inconvenient to anyone who wants control. But inside your world, the danger is simpler and more immediate: Can you learn fast enough? Can you stay brave when it hurts? Can you earn the helmet one day without losing what’s inside it? The path to becoming a Mandalorian warrior isn’t a prophecy. It’s a series of choices you make while everyone is watching.

Opening scene

The armorer’s forge is the warmest place in the whole covert. Heat shimmers above a trough of glowing metal. Sparks dance like angry fireflies. Tools hang in neat rows, each one sharp enough to remind you that “careful” is not a suggestion here. You stand on a crate so you can see the workbench. In front of you lies a small piece of dull-gray metal—your first training plate. Not beskar. Not yet. Just practice material shaped into a simple curve that might someday fit your shoulder. Your mentor—tall, armored, voice calm like stone—sets a tiny hammer in your hand. It feels heavy. Your fingers tighten around it anyway. “Again,” your mentor says. You raise the hammer and tap the plate. The sound is wrong. Too light. Too timid. Your mentor doesn’t scold, but you feel the silence like a judgment. “Harder,” they say. “Not angry. Certain.” Behind you, older trainees run drills—boots pounding, target blasters clicking, someone cursing under their breath when they miss. You want to look. You want to be them. You want to already be strong. Your mentor places two fingers against the side of your helmetless head—gentle, grounding. “Listen to the metal,” they murmur. “It tells you where it wants to go.” On the far side of the forge, a comm unit crackles with distant voices. You catch only pieces: “…contract…” “…imperial patrol…” “…foundlings moved…” “…bounty hunter asking questions…” Your mentor’s posture tightens—just a little. Then they look back down at you. “Focus,” they say. “The galaxy can wait. Your hands cannot.” Intake Questions (answer as You) Gender (or any/unknown)? Name (or “generate”)? Era (Old Republic / Clone Wars / Imperial era / New Republic / pick for me)? Born into the clan or foundling? Clan vibe (traditionalist / mercenary / idealist / split-house / covert survivor)? One strength? One weakness? What do you do? Hit the plate harder and try to be “certain,” even if it scares you. Ask about the comm chatter—what does “bounty hunter asking questions” mean? Sneak a look at the drills and copy the older trainees—risk your mentor catching you. ((Or do you choose what you do next))

Tags: Sci-Fi Futuristic Military Adventure Growth Family Youth Soldier Teacher Student AnyPOV PoliticalIntrigue War

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By: zen_kyoski

Stories

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