First Reply Heavy Metal

[Domina Prime]

I hear this voice keep asking me
Is this my blood or is it blasphemy?​

The symphony of refined strings wove an elegant web through the museum halls as auctioneers mingled with guest from all over before the big moment. Different sections of the museum was dedicated to different kinds of displays. Some historical, others art and bizarre inventions. Even a zoo of bones and displays of creatures long gone from this galaxy as a melody of luxury, of decadence, of civilization. And yet, standing amidst the perfumed air and polished marble, Dima was an aberration among them. A beast clad in beskar and bloodstained history, wrapped in the trappings of a world she neither needed nor respected.

The scent of wealth was thick, woven into the very fabric of the place—ambition, manipulation, supremacy. The kind of power that was built on ledgers and handshakes rather than steel and war cries. Although it was certainly a mixed bag, the undeniable stink of—politicians, merchants, war profiteers, aristocrats born with silver tongues and golden knives—they lived in the illusion that they were the top of the food chain.

Adorable as the idea was, it could not be further from the truth.

Domina stood statuesque, unmoving in the center of the grand display room, ignoring the lavish works of art surrounding her. The patrons flitted from piece to piece, whispering in admiration, speaking in reverent tones of genius, of interpretation. They spun intricate philosophies from the strokes of a brush, the weight of color, the meaning behind every shadow.

But Domina's five eyes did not linger on the paintings.

No, her attention was singular.

A glass case.

A rusted blade, its steel twisted and coiled, warped beyond use, defiled in its own stillness. The jewel embedded in its pommel gleamed mockingly against the decay of its form. A broken thing, locked away like a relic, its past erased, its future denied.

And yet, it was still a sword.

Dima exhaled slowly, reaching up to remove her mask, exposing her inhuman maw as she chittered in thought. Her segmented jaws flexed slightly before she hooked the mask onto her hip, dipping a clawed hand into her cloak to retrieve a thick, heavy cigar with a purple leaf and blue pollen rolled within it. She snuck herself a peek towards the gossiping twi'lek beuties who passed her by.

And by sneak she practically broke her neck to admire while she whistled aloud.

A waiter passed by next, the delicate glasses of colorful liquor balanced with practiced grace. One of Dimas's many eyes flicked toward them for only a moment before her many arms shot out, plucking three from the tray without a word. She lifted the first to her mouth, downing it in a single gulp before turning her gaze back to the glass case.

And then...A voice.

"U-um, pardon me! But I'm afraid there is no smoking allowed in the museum during the auction!"

A sigh. A long, suffering sigh. Dima rolled her many eyes so far back she nearly saw the beskar plating on her back. She turned her head just enough to regard the timid human, snapping her claws together to produce a sharp spark.

Fwoosh.

The end of her cigar burned hot as she took a slow, deliberate drag.

"Really now? Is that a fact?" she purred darkly, her voice dripping with amusement. Then, she exhaled—a massive cloud of pinkish, glimmering smoke, an opulent haze that engulfed the space around her.

The human gagged. Choked. Stumbled away, sputtering. So did several others unfortunate enough to be caught in the shimmering miasma. Domina cackled, girlish, delighted. She sipped from another stolen drink before shattering the empty glass against the floor, its delicate chime lost amidst the commotion.

And then—she turned back to the sword.

This was going to be a fun party~

 

[Kael Varnok]

Kael Varnok stepped forward, boots echoing sharply on polished marble, cutting clean through the pink shimmer of smoke like a blade through silk.

The clamor hadn't drawn his attention—but she had.

"Always the subtle entrance," he said dryly, voice low and gravel-worn, like a blade dragged across stone. The glint in his ice-blue eyes flicked between the shattered glass, the fleeing dignitaries, and finally, the multi-eyed silhouette before the glass case. "Museum rules, huh? I'd be shocked… if I thought you cared about any rules to begin with."

He came to a halt a few paces behind her, posture relaxed, arms loose at his sides—but the way he stood, too still, too centered, made it clear he was one second from erupting into violence if needed. Not aggressive. Not confrontational. Just ready.

Kael's gaze shifted to the rusted sword inside the case.
"Funny," he muttered. "They clean the floors until you can see your soul in them, but keep a corpse of a weapon on display like it means something." He tilted his head, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his scarred lip. "Guess we're all just relics tonight."

Then he glanced sideways at her—slow, pointed, and not without interest.
"You planning on stealing it, breaking it, or kissing it goodnight before you burn this place down?"

A pause.

"…Or is this one of your softer evenings?"

 

[Domina Prime]

​

"There Was Once Girl Who Dreamed of Fields of Flowers & Fire~"​

"Always the subtle entrance," A newer, more masculine voice rang out from behind her. "Museum rules, huh? I'd be shocked… if I thought you cared about any rules to begin with."

Domina's eyes flicked sideways, lazily shifting her many optics over the stranger who seemed to be watching the case with the same curious intensity. His quip evoking a gesture as she weighed her head from side to side.

"Eh, only the rules that can be enforced~" She lazily explained with a roll of her wrist.

"All these lovely pieces of art," another voice mused, taking a slow sip of a drink, "And then there is this rusty, broken sword. Perhaps the artist was a radical? Protesting the woes of war?"

Domina took another long drag of her cigar.

"Funny, They clean the floors until you can see your soul in them, but keep a corpse of a weapon on display like it means something."

The other stranger said, everyone's perception of the piece causing more to gather round slowly as the towering xeno inhaled deeply and nodded in some semblance of understanding.

"I think it's pretty...in its own way~"

Her face twisted in a number of expressions at once.

"To me? It reminds me of stories told when i was but a hatchling…where In the age of the warrior-poets, fate was forged in steel & flames."

Her voice was softer now, almost… reflective.

"The ancient sagas, The ancestors speak of the sword not as a weapon. But as a symbol. Ethereal in their significance. They were power, honor, wealth, status...everything. Because they held within them the power to reduce a man to nothing~"

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of tradition, of ritual, of blood and fire and the echoes of a time long past.

She turned her head slightly, her five gleaming eyes studying the stranger named Kael Varnok

"In my culture... many swords were treated as if they harbored within them a spark of a soul their very own. Given names, personalities... Easy enough to understand from a people whose method of entering paradise is through the end of a blade. To die well… was to die battle-slain and holy. Manda made it so~"

The stranger seemed intrigued—yet cautious. And he wasn't the only one, as the other individual came closer to the pair.

"O-oh my… you seem… familiar with such concepts. Ancestors? Manda? You wouldn't happen to be—"

"Ironborn."

The word left her lips before they could finish.

It was an old name. A primitive one. One she had referenced when she was but a child, before she had ever known the true weight of the culture that had shaped her. And yet—old habits died hard.

"Interesting…" The stranger swirled their drink, casting a glance at her beskar-plated frame. "Don't see many Mandalorians who have an eye for the arts. Though, with how you speak of blades… it seems this one was rather mistreated."

They gestured lazily to the twisted metal.

"This is clearly a sword that was uncared for~" He mused.

"Guess we're all just relics tonight." Kael added, making Dima chuckle and nod in agreement.

"This One's kin often spoke of the stronghold of Ha'rangir, how burning blades illuminated it's halls... To Kith & Kin, these were not just a simple slab of metal. We know this to be true…that swords are often more prized and famed than those who carried them… sometimes even more so."

She exhaled through her teeth, watching as the jewel flickered beneath the museum's soft lights.

"Rulers and warriors of renown are still buried to this day buried with their swords, yes? And when a true warrior fell in battle, in those days, it was not unusual for their enemies to kill their blade as well. Bending its steel into a spiral and letting it rust in the dirt...defiled & disgraced~"

The stranger inhaled slowly, watching her now with something resembling awe.

"Is...that why it's like that?"

"This One is uncertain of this blade's origins and story."

Her gaze lingered, her voice lowering to a whisper.

"But although blades have many names, and take on many forms...they all serve a single destiny."

The stranger swallowed. "And what… destiny is that?"

A slow, creeping grin curled across Domina's inhuman face.

"You look like a smart lad...i'm certain you can figure it out~"

The word was honeyed, savored, rich with the pleasure of destruction.

And that—unlike anyone else here—was something she understood all too well.

She took the cigar back, took another long drag, and exhaled a cloud of shimmering pink smoke.

"You planning on stealing it, breaking it, or kissing it goodnight before you burn this place down?…Or is this one of your softer evenings?" Kael urged as the other stranger stilled himself and gazed at the glass case with his woman on his arm. Dima shifting her eyes back to the jedi as she blinked before blowing a thick gust of sparkling dust outward to engulf the two of them together.

"Rejoice, little godling. Today, i'm on my BEST behavior...but i do find the display captivating...it speaks to me." She admitted as she brushed her tail and swept the smoke aside with a wave. "Long as the slithering snakes keeps themselves in line~"

 

[Kael Varnok]

Kael didn't flinch as the smoke washed over him. He stood still within it, eyes half-lidded, letting the pink shimmer ghost along his skin like some mocking perfume. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched up slightly. Not in humor—no, this was something older. Familiar.

"Rejoice, little godling," she said.

His head tilted.

"'Little,' huh… well now you're just flirting."

The words came with a rough smirk, but his eyes—sharp, calculating, the color of glacial steel—never left her. Not entirely. They tracked her tail, her breath, the heat shimmer around her frame as she swept the haze aside like royalty bored of her own storm.

"You talk about blades the way my people talk about ancestors," he muttered, voice low as he stepped up beside her, just close enough that the beskar of her armor nearly brushed the thick cloth at his side. "Names, spirits, burial rites. Funny how cultures halfway across the stars still end up carving their history into steel."

He reached out—not toward her, not toward the sword, but to the glass that separated the relic from the room. His hand hovered inches above it, fingers splayed like he was measuring something invisible.

"On Drosk, we didn't spiral the blades. We melted them. Poured the metal into the mouths of the defeated warpriests. 'Let them choke on the tools of their failure.'" A soft chuckle. "Bit dramatic, I know. But so are the dead."

Then, quieter, to her and no one else:

"And yeah… I get it. The sword does speak."

His fingers curled into a loose fist. He wasn't touching the glass, but the Force rippled faintly around him—like a tremor held at bay.

"I don't know if I came here looking for a relic, or just to remind myself I'm not one yet."

He turned to look at her fully now, the smirk gone.

"You ever feel that? The moment when everything slows down, and you wonder if the fight left in you is still yours—or just something echoing from a time that no longer exists?"

He studied her—those five gleaming eyes, the armor, the grin that bared more than teeth. Something primal. Something true.

"…Or are you one of those lucky bastards who still hears the ancestors singing loud and clear?"

His voice dropped lower.

"And if so—tell me: what do they sing about me?"