Solar Forges
Drone as a Key
3DS MAX, CORONA, PHOTOSHOP
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The Baptism of Beskar
The sky is an abyss where the blue is confined,
An arena of emptiness above the void.
A messenger of iron, drifting like a leaf, Tears through the whiteness of the infinite desert.
It traces a vivid wound across the salt, A trail of blood, a wake of crimson light, The only fleeting landmark toward the unseen shore Where sleep the secrets that the sun corrupts.
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The Mist of the Day
When midday awakens and the salt catches spark, The desert disappears beneath a heavy shroud. A mist made of fire, born from the white-hot glare, Erases all contours, suspending the mind.
It is then that a bird of metal and might
Cleaves this burning fog with a commanding flight;
The sleek drone descends toward the sovereign tower,
Alighting at the summit, touching ancient power.
Upon this steel mirror, the key locks into place, Monoliths of shadow, colossi of dust, Where the forges stand like phantoms of iron and rust, Waiting for the night to unveil its starry space.
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The Dusk and the Key
The desert has drowned, the salt is liquefied, A scarlet mirror where the evening has died.
The metal forge, so textured, rigid, and old, Drinks from this water for its gates to unfold.
The drone has landed, locking deep into the stone, And the key has turned in the titan’s heart alone.
An emerald glow erupts from the earth below: The signal is given, the great awakening shall grow.
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The Great Night Storm
The night has stormed the turquoise mirror’s space, The sky is but waves, an emerald tumult in place. The inverted anvil, crossed by the raging weather, Becomes the lightning rod where sparks gather together.
The salt lake reflects the relentless, fierce fight, As lances of red fire strike the giant with might.
The locked-in drone-key absorbs the shattering blast, Channeling the storm into the void, immense and vast.
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The Flight and the Creed
The tempest fades away, a pure morning is born, Before the rising heat creates its white screen of morn. The drone detaches itself, a black bird past compare, And tears away from the desert, soaring through the air. It leaves a vivid wound across the sky so bright, A trail of crimson blood, a wake of purple light.
Its sharp, straight design and its aggressive race Are engraved in the eyes of those who shaped its space.
The memory of the drone has mapped out their decree, Their faces are now hidden beneath iron and loyalty.
Their helmet will take its shape, never to be cast away:
“This is the Way.”
