Alchemy

[Darth Ferus]

Silently the Zabrak stepped up to the basin and whispered the words. "Mirji Ra." Only after the words were uttered did he pull the blood sealed cloth from the dagger. With a practiced swipe he cut open his palm and let the blood drip from his hand into the bowl below. After that, he would step back and continue to watch [member="Antherion"] and his ritual, feeling the Force twist and warp to the Knight's call.

 

[Ras'kala'han]

"Mirji Ra."

The words were simple -- 'unseal' -- but it they held weight. The energies that might have once annihilated the delicate lattices that had been drawn around the cavern now rushed outwards, like pouring outwards from a fountain, energizing those very constructions. He had not taken [member="Krest"] for a man well in tune with the sorcerous subtleties of the Force, but his senses had been deceived before. The power that resonated in the blood burned with a simple, elegant heat.

"The night sky parts and the left hand has descended,​

black spears bristle amongst the red legions, ​

and so sayeth Typhojem that their swords shall be unbroken. ​

Thus bows the iron before the night."​

​

The words were merely a rhythmic pattern to focus the mind and cal forth certain images to Antherion, but once they had held a deeper meaning. With this same prayer, the Kissai would bless the swords of the old Dark Lords. Divine right overrides the shape and structure to impose its will on reality. Their primitive religion had promised this, but the true masters of the Force were the ones who would fulfill it.

The Sith Lord's blood was drawn into the sword, shining as though liquid fire was pouring out of the man's veins, hissing with raw heat as it melded with the steel. The cells did not die -- he would not allow them to die. Instead, they were subsumed into the Dark Side, drawn into the structure of the weapon and sustained within it. They were the instrument of his alchemy: a tool to reshape the blade from within.

Soon, the structure was illumined by countless thread-thin lines -- every invisible, minute flaw in the make and molecules of the sword. Taking a shaking hand, Antherion used his own telekinetic power to bend his fingers into four painful arrangements in smooth, rapid succession. The trails of energy warped, a mess of cracks forming smooth, flowing lines leading outwards, to trace the flow of energy from the center to the edge of the weapon.

"The rest is yours. Your blood, your energy. Solidify it and complete the blade. Make it yours."

 

[Darth Ferus]

Oh how long it had been since he last crafted a weapon just as [member="Antherion"] had. He watched in silence, noting that for the first time since he began using alchemy himself he was the one watching, not the one crafting. The most interesting thing by far was the chants Antherion would use. Krest never bothered with long winded spells, instead using one or two words to seal the blade, and that would be it. The Force acted as one wanted it to, believed it to. No two alchemists were ever truly the same.

What came next however was something he always did. Make they who would receive weapon finish it. Though, if Krest was going to complete it, it was going to be his way. Rather casually the Sith Lord put his hands into the basin to grasp the hilt of his blade. It had been some time since he last did anything like this, but even he couldn't forget. The dark flowed through him, turning his eyes from blue to red, and he channeled the dark into the blade before him. All at once the energy that surrounded the blade was sucked within and the glow died off. The blade was pulled free from the basin and the Zabrak lifted the finished weapon before him, smiling.

"You're much better at this than I had expected."

 

[Ras'kala'han]

"Given you already expected enough out of me to let me finish this weapon of yours, [member="Krest"], I'm flattered." He offered a droll smile, yet receded to his hoverchair. Sweat slicked his brow, and his hands yet shaked. Alchemy was a wondrous, powerful thing, but it was frustratingly... taxing, it lent him a bothersome vulnerability. If he could melt into a puddle of liquid weariness and fade away to restfulness, he would.

"We have created a weapon with a blade that is, in essence, indestructible. The only vulnerability is the technological complexities of the hilt... and when those are in hands as skilled as yours, I doubt they will reach you. You can give it a worthy name, if you wish — I prefer to leave my tools nameless."

He gestured with broad sweeps of his hands, the blue fires that dotted the cave died away and burned red, a more mundane light returned to fill it, and the woven lines of power began to sweep and bend with the natural currents of the Force. Meticulously, carefully, Antherion wiped away piece by piece every trace that they had been there. Rock shifted and smoothed over.

"Is a favor to be named later too much to ask? You seem to be a man of honor, and as such I feel safe not only asking that of you, but can be confidant in saying I would never ask anything outside the realm of reason." His cheshire smile broadened. "In fact, I have a mind that if I ask something you find amusing, it would hardly require it to be payment of anything, no?"

He would nod, and act in appreciative grace as they parted ways.

"May the Force bow to you. I will... rest. It's a nice cave, after all. It would be horrid to just let it go to waste." As the Sith Lord stepped out of the cavern, each light would flicker out one by one, leaving only two golden eyes, points of light that grew ever more distant as they pierced the darkness, before vanishing into the pooled shadows of the underground.

 

[Darth Ferus]

"War, that's all." War had been a name Krest had once been called so long ago, and it seemed fitting his new sword would be named the same. He let his gaze travel over the weapon for a moment of silence before turning his gaze back over to [member="Antherion"] . The elder cracked a grin as the boy spoke, and simply nodded as he mentioned the favor. It would be a rare instance he would turn down assisting one of his own.

"You rest up well. You know how to contact me should you need anything."