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The blacksmith's workshop is a cave in the network of tunnels under the city. The Ranger leads the Girl and the Old Man across various bridges and through the alleys as instructed. This they can do confidently - give the Ranger a sequence of directions and they can make a detailed and reliable plot on their mental map that is accessible for days, even weeks, afterward. It's something they've been able to do since they were a kid. They wish this whole ordeal was as simple as this preliminary task. The Ranger doesn't allow themself to hope for simplicity.
The chance of finding a Jedi is slim. And the chance is slimmer still they will find one able and willing to train the Girl. It was by luck alone that they got this name - Din Grogu - from one of the Old Man's contacts. The Ranger expected the trail would lead them to some barely-known moon or a swamp deep in no-man's-land. Instead, they've ended up in the bustling tunnels under a bustling city.
Finally, they reach the door. The sign reads BLACKSMITH in Common but underneath there are words in a language the Ranger doesn't recognize. In the centre is a carved image, a mean-looking mudhorn in profile. The Ranger shushes their companions, who are in the middle of an argument about what to get for supper. As if they don't have more important things to worry about. The Ranger knocks.
"Enter." The voice is muffled through the door, mid-tone timbre and slightly gravelly. The three of them step into the workshop. The Ranger catalogues the space, assesses for threats.
The cave a decent size for a workshop. In the centre of the room is the forge with two anvils bracketing it. Various tools are strewn across workbenches and multiple pieces hang from the wall in different states of completion - armour, weapons, tech repairs. Near the back of the room is another door, about half the Ranger's height. As it opens, there's a glimpse of a small living area, well-lived in and cluttered with various collections of trinkets and puzzles.
The blacksmith gives them a nod as he enters the workshop, shutting the door behind him. He's wearing typical protective leathers and also, strangely, a metal helmet. It covers his face entirely with a dark, wide, T-shaped visor in the front and holes in each side where his large, green ears extend out. They bounce slightly as he walks toward them, drying his clawed hands with a towel at his waist.
"He's just a little guy," the Old Man mutters and the Girl giggles. The Ranger resists the urge to shush them again.
"Apologies for the interruption. We are looking for Din Grogu." The Ranger asks with emphasized respect.
The Girl immediately becomes disinterested in the conversation and wanders around the workshop, inspecting the wares. Her tail swishes in excitement. The Ranger gestures to her and, thankfully, the Old Man obeys their silent request to follow her.
"And you have found him. What is it you seek?"
Before the Ranger can say anything more, the blacksmith's helmet tilts and one of his short arms extend. In the blink of an eye, a laser knife is flying across the room until the tip of it touches the Old Man's beard and there it hovers. "Do not touch that," Din Grogu says calmly. The Old Man's hand shakily lowers from a shelf. The Ranger barely resists rolling their eyes - did the Old Man never learn basic manners? Anyone could recognize that shelf as an Honour Shrine. Flanked by a few small candles were three items, all made of that same illustrious, strange metal, slightly scuffed and scraped from age but well maintained. There is a circular piece of armour that bears the same mudhorn symbol as the sign at the door - a crest? In front of that is a small necklace but the Ranger can't make out the shape. And in the center is the piece the Old Man had reached for - another helmet, similar to Din Grogu's but narrower, no ear holes, more suited for a human.
The Girl's eyes widen at the sight of the knife, but not in fear or concern. She shouts in delight. Din Grogu makes a smooth, small gesture and the knife floats back to a utility table.
"Who did that belong to?" The Ranger asks with seriousness. They hope it comes across as the olive branch intended.
After a few tense beats, it seems to be received because the blacksmith sits at a small dining area and gestures for the Ranger to do the same. He uses the Force to move two additional chairs to the table. A child's puzzle toy floats from the living quarters and into the Girl's grabby hands. He nudges a bowl of dried meat toward them. The Ranger eats a piece to accept this olive branch in return.
Din Grogu's helmet tilts up, a proud gesture. "That is my father's buy'ce."
"When did he pass?"
"One hundred and thirty-three years ago."
The Ranger raises their eyebrows. This man is a lot older than he looks. Regardless of the significant amount of time, the Ranger empathizes with his fierce protectiveness of his father's memory. "My condolences."
Din Grogu nods. The Ranger gets to business. "We heard you are a Force-user. The Girl is Force-sensitive. It is of the utmost importance she has a teacher. That is all I can say, for now."
Din Grogu's helmeted face is expressionless, but the Ranger gets the impression he is annoyed. "I am not a Jedi. I am Mandalorian."
The Old Man laughs sharply. "A child's tale!"
Din Grogu's helmet tilts. "To some. To others, a way of life."
"But you are trained in the Force?" The Ranger asks.
"Only briefly. When I was a child."
The Old Man snorts. "How long is 'briefly' to you? Eighty years?"
Din Grogu shakes his head. "Months."
The Ranger can't help but sigh out of their nose. Yet another dead end.
The Mandalorian seems to assess them. He looks from the Ranger to the Girl. She has solved the little puzzle and is attempting to use the pieces to make a picture of her favourite constellation on the table. There is a slight shift in Din Grogu's body language and the Ranger suspects he is smiling. "I have heard tale of other Jedi. I will give you what little information I have."
"Thank you." The Ranger says, then nudges the Old Man in the side so he does the same.
"This is the way," Din Grogu replies.