Private Notation From The Stars

[Arcturus Dinn]

Okay, take two.​

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And... Action.​

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Once, not too long ago, a pair of unruly Acolytes got together and began to plan out the construction of a blade. Sadly they did everything but.​

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Now, locked deep within the bowels of the Sith Academy on Korriban, that same pair have assured one another that the task will finally be completed, regardless of how many hours or days the arduous process might take. It was a warm chamber, some might argue too warm, furnaces burned hot enough to melt some of the toughest metals and alloys known to man, bellows churned, and the steady drum of a hammer atop anvil clanked out within the space between.​

​

Arcturus was already a rather sweaty mess. It was grueling work, to stand and pound out steel in such a way. Proximity to heat was bad enough, but the repetitive motions were perhaps his least favourite part about it all. Though it was in its own way rather peaceful in its methodical nature, it forced his muscles to cry out and left him ragged for days after. His wasn't a muscular form, though certainly days such as these nudged him into such a direction, thankfully he did have the stamina to hold out.​

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By his side was the other, Ishani, who would soon enough take the reins herself. Until then she was not idle, the Force needed to be worked into every aspect of the blade from the very base of its construction all the way through to the finishing touches.​

​

This was to be her blade, and that connection should lie with her.​

​

Ishani Dinn ​

 

[Ishani Dinn]

Ishani sat nearby, eyes closed, appearing outwardly idle and motionless. She wasn’t as drenched as Arcturus, but her clothes were damp with sweat. Maybe she would’ve been better off coming down here in a swimsuit or gym shorts or something. Arc probably would’ve found it too distracting.

She opened one eye to peek at him as he worked, then quickly closed it. She couldn’t keep watch for long. Imbuing the sword required complete concentration during the whole process. The heat of the forge was enough to make her feel like she was melting, but the strain on her brain made her feel like her head was going to explode at times. Then the pounding of the hammer drilled it into her skull, you are developing a headache, a headache, a headache.

Her one consolation were those occasional winks to check on progress, reminding her that the sword really was coming along. But good grief, how did the ancient Je’daii do this? How did they suffer through it? Maybe they had a nice clean technique all worked out, one that had been lost to the ages, while she and Arc were taking the long way like a couple of goofs. Yep, probably. Damn intellectual dark age…

Arcturus Dinn​

 

[Arcturus Dinn]

With much of the initial work done, the steel folded over on itself numerous times, reheated and returned to the anvil, he slowly came back to a halt. His breathing was heavy, heart pounding, but he had achieved what he had set out to do. He turned and observed the girl on the ground as she seeped the Force through the air and toward their creation.​

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Then he set down the hammer.​

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On the edge of the pair of tongs he was using to hold the red hot metal sat a bar of layered metal. In this state to look upon it was to see very little change from the initial state it had been in, but the end product would certainly present more. Beyond that to feel it through the Force would reveal its intense presence therein, the Darkside flowed through every fiber of it, as interlocked with it as the molecules which made up the base material itself.​

​

"It's time, Ishani," he informed her, tone unintentionally grave due to his own exhaustion and the heat of the room. He waited until she rose, then gestured to some of the safety gear she'd been able to forego up until now. Similar to which he was wearing in that moment too. Goggles, heatproof gloves, overalls if she wasn't wearing something long sleeved. The last thing they needed was a severe burn. She'd simply have to suffer on through the heat.​

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Once she was suitably geared up, he handed her the tongs which still held the bar, and began to direct her in pounding out the metal. This time they weren't looking to layer it, though the Force was still needed, instead they were drawing the piece out, heating it and stretching it with each pound with the hammer.​

​

There were mechanical devices which could make this process faster, but the end result would not have been the same. There was less control behind such, and less intimacy. The intimacy, he knew, was an integral part of this process...​

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Ishani Dinn ​

 

[Ishani Dinn]

Ishani’s eyes peeled open at the sound of Arcturus’ voice, then peered at his work (their work?) so far. In the Force, it didn’t feel like much of anything to her—it mimicked whatever she had poured into it, which felt neither ultra-Dark nor secretly-Light. It was full of potential.

“Very nice.” She dragged herself off the ground, hopping around to try and wake up her leg, which had fallen asleep, and mechanically went to put on the safety gear. Her head no longer hurt, but now it felt a little bit floaty, like she wasn’t quite all there. Probably just fatigue.

Once she was suited up, she stood beside him, having no idea what to do. But Arcturus did, and he was quick to take the lead. At such close proximity, she could smell the sweat on him. It didn’t smell bad, but it was strong, mingling with the leather-and-copper scent she had come to associate with him. The perfume of the forge.

Her first try with the hammer, she barely tapped it, afraid of damaging it and destroying all their hard work in one fell blow.

Arcturus Dinn​

 

[Arcturus Dinn]

"So you want to keep a steady pace," he told her, lightly reaching out to guide a couple of her initial blows to the steel, "It will held to ensure that each stroke is the same as the next. If you're not sure about your next hit, then bring the hammer down to the anvil instead. Try to keep a steady pace, alright?"​

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With that he began to guide her into drawing out the metal. Every now and then they'd bring it back to the heat of the forge, watching as the metal glowered orange and white, then back to the anvil for more shaping. Arcturus would offer his assistance where necessary, but for the most part he was hoping to have Ishani do the bulk of the work.​

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It was an arduous task, repetitive, no doubt it strained her muscles and tired her quickly.​

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"We can take breaks as needed, the steel can cool and be reheated at this stage so don't feel as though we need to rush, okay?"​

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Besides, even when the blade was shaped that would still only be half of the work. Then came the grinding, and the polishing, and the setting, and the etching...​

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The etching had been his favourite part when he'd made his dagger.​

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Ishani Dinn ​

 

[Ishani Dinn]

“I thought you weren’t supposed to hit the anvil…” She trailed off as he guided her through the first few blows, absorbing the lesson. After a while he retreated to a distance, observing from afar as she did as he had shown her.

Patience wasn’t one of her virtues. She had the tendency to jump into things, rush to the finish line, motivated by a nervous need to finish the task at hand. It had its uses and its drawbacks.
Of course, Arc noticed her uneven pace, running sprints only to tire quickly and be forced to slow down again.

"We can take breaks as needed, the steel can cool and be reheated at this stage so don't feel as though we need to rush, okay?"

She smiled and quirked an eyebrow at the mention of taking breaks, but kept pounding away. If she didn’t come out of this with the physique of an Amazon, she was going to be sorely disappointed. But mostly sore. Very, very sore.

Arcturus Dinn​

 

[Arcturus Dinn]

"On the contrary, my dear Apprentice," he chided with a wry and playful smile; as jesting as it was, he quite liked the way that word rolled off his tongue. Apprentice. Still he was only one himself, he could enjoy that word as much as he liked one day when he had a true student of his own. For now he simply shook his head. "It is a vital skill to learn, when to strike steel and when to strike anvil. Not every beat of the smithing rhythm will flow soundlessly into the next, sometime there is need for thought, consideration on where best to strike next. Yet that rhythm is important... So we strike the anvil top, and we keep it going even through our thoughts."​

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For a moment he looked extra thoughtful, tipping his head this way and that as he mentally argued with himself. "Of course, most of the time one or two strikes is enough to get us back to hammering steel. If you require too much of a pause for thought, perhaps an actual pause is more apt." Hopefully that made sense, it was hard to truly explain it more had to be felt he supposed. Even so.​

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She was doing well, particularly for a first timer, but she was uneven and as such her endurance was shot. Bursts of energy that could not be upkept.​

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"This is not a race, Ishani. Slow and measured blows make far more of an impact than hasty and rushed ones ever will. It's about placement, and intention, and the weight behind each hit, not the pace at which you undertake the act."​

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He moved closer, hovering to her side, and began to count. The words themselves were quiet enough to not be wholly distracting, more like a metronome than anything else. Slow and measured... Yeah, that was the way.​

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Ishani Dinn ​

 

[Ishani Dinn]

Apprentice. Her face somehow grew even hotter than it already was, and not from the forge’s heat.

That blush became one of genuine embarrassment as he pointed out the mistake she was making. She was prone to becoming angry with herself if she kept screwing up. Though she hadn’t quite reached that point of frustration yet, there was a noticeable tension in her now.

Then he started counting. She was reminded of music lessons she had taken as a child. Of all the unwanted practices her mother had insisted upon, from summer camp to piano to girl scouts, she had minded singing the least, though she could never be persuaded to sing in front of anyone other than the teacher. Singing didn’t usually require a metronome, though. Oh well. She was singing.

It was some folk tune from Chaldea about the importance of living simple and free. The song itself was quite simple in terms of melody and composition. The beat Arc was counting out matched up with it in such a way that she was hitting the sword or the anvil after every line of the song without losing the rhythm. She didn’t know how else to get herself into the right groove.

Arcturus Dinn​

 

[Arcturus Dinn]

He could sense her tension, practically see it in the way in which her muscles seemed hardened. Careful as he could, so as not to surprise her and cause any potential damage to girl or forge, he reached out through the Force and left an impression of his hand upon her back. It was a gentle touch meant to soothe her very soul. By contrast, he still stood beside the anvil, hands at his side.​

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"Emotions are good for this process, you want to pool them into the blade as you strike, but... Do not mistake such for dissuasion. You are more than capable of doing this, do not allow your patience to fray Apprentice."​

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Arcturus had decided in that moment that where the Force was concerned, Ishani was precisely that. His student. And he felt a bolstered sense of pride at not just the thought but at watching her work. Frustrated though she was, she was still striking the superheated metal. And with the counting came a quiet song, and with that quiet song a truer strike to the makings of her blade.​

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Her melody sang out into the void between them, quietly enough at first but he felt it rising ever so slightly as she came into a continued rhythm. Arcturus did his best to follow the story inherent within the song, to set it to memory; he'd never heard her sing before. Maybe he'd try and change that, going forward. After all, he much enjoyed the sound of her voice.​

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They remained like that for quite some time, blade being reheated between a series of blows, and Ishani shaped it into its new form. Whether more songs were sung or not, he would not interrupt her any further. He knew well how difficult it could be to focus with so much going on.​

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Ishani Dinn ​

 

[Ishani Dinn]

"Simple Gifts" wasn't a very long song, unfortunately. Upon running out of words to sing, she repeated a few lines before finding another that could serve the same function. It was worse: an earworm children’s nursery rhyme. She started to smile, unable to keep from laughing. Somehow, when she ran away to become a Sith, she didn’t think it would involve her singing “The Repulsors on the Bus” in a basement forge.

Ah, well. Let her laughter get poured into the blade, along with her shy pleasure at being called Apprentice again.

“Am I going to be ‘Apprentice’ to you from now on?” she asked, taking a break from her singing. She'd have to find something else soon. Maybe a sea shanty? She knew a few of those. She kept hitting the metal; it had gotten a little easier to strike the mark, even without a beat to keep time to.

They’d discussed the matter before, though not in much depth. She couldn’t think of anyone else she’d prefer to teach her, especially when it came to alchemy.

Arcturus Dinn​

 

[Arcturus Dinn]

Laughter.​

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Glee was not the traditional emotion used to imbue such blades with strength, but boy if that wasn't Ishani Sibwarra through and through. A goofy grin played over his lips as she sang some variant of a nursery rhyme he only vaguely remembered impressions of. Still she was doing much better now, striking out far less than before. He hummed in approval of her progress.​

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"In this Forge, you'll always be such to me," he replied, an unintentional intensity to the way in which he'd uttered the words. Something in him stirred, and colour rose within his cheeks. Thank the Force she was more focused on the blade than on him. Silence hung between them then. Silence and the steady striking of steel.​

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And in that silence, something rose up within him. Words to a song he hadn't uttered since that hunt on Valrar alongside Grundark and Noelle Varanin wherein each saw fit to share a little of their past. A song which, prior to that, he hadn't even remembered learning. Yet it had been so ingrained within his soul that it came to him all at once regardless.​

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Even when compared to Ishani's rendition, Arcturus' voice was quiet. Barely above a whisper, he sang a song whose surface seemed serene and beautiful, though his voice did not do it quite so much justice as he might have liked, it was light and airy and almost ethereal in nature. So much so that it did wonders to obscure the sorrow of the words themselves. ​

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The lyrics spoke of his people's struggles, their strife and experiences as a people enslaved. Spoke to how their voices were taken from them, and how pieces of themselves were lost along the way. Their heritage ripped from them. And then, it spoke of their eventual freedom, the fight which ensued to ensure that Lorrdian's would never break their backs at the behest of another again.​

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The song itself was a pure reflection of such, it gave renewed strength to their voices and saw fit that not one of them would forget all that their ancestors had endured. Grief washed over the boy whose own life had mirrored that of the Lorrdian's long since passed, who had found himself torn away and indentured, who had found himself without name or recollection of his past. And who had fought for a freedom of his own.​

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A longer song, to be sure, and one which drew his immediate attention away from the forge and the fire and even the girl at his side. And when he was finished, it felt to him as though echoes of it still lingered in the space around him.​

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Ishani Dinn ​

 

[Ishani Dinn]

To her utter surprise, Arc started to sing. She didn’t stop her work—his song was good for keeping time—but she fell silent, listening. Her movements were automatic, and she found that she could focus on the lyrics without losing her rhythm.

Understanding was gradual, but she finally figured it out. The references to strife and slavery, a great silencing and loss of culture, and finally the actual word, Lorrdian. Hard as it might be to believe, she had no idea that Arcturus was a Lorrdian. The subject simply never came up—and why would it? Between attending classes, practicing alchemy and other Force use, traveling from planet to planet on dangerous missions, and free time usually spent fooling around in his suite or aboard the Leviathan, where would she ever have the time or a reason to ask what are you? Besides, the only answer to that question that was supposed to matter was Sith.

Of course, merely singing a Lorrdian song didn’t make one Lorrdian. But the emotions she was picking up from him while he sang those words indicated a personal connection that went beyond basic empathy.

“I didn’t know you sang,” she said, her voice soft. “You’re not half bad. I liked the song, too. Where did you learn it?” He seemed distracted. Hopefully she wasn’t prying too much.

Her arm was so sore by now, she could barely raise it anymore. Hopefully she was done with this part of the forging process, and they could move on to something that wouldn’t require her to lift heavy objects with one hand.

Arcturus Dinn​

 

[Arcturus Dinn]

"I don't think I ever learned it," he stated, blinking once or twice to pull himself back from the haze which had overcome his mind. Glancing down at the wrought metal, he smiled and dissipated the last reminders of his forgotten heritage. "Good work, Apprentice. Quench it in there," he nodded to a barrel of what one might assume was water, but was in fact some sort of bloody mixture. "Then set it aside to finish cooling."​

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He walked away from her, no doubt leaving more than his fair share of questions behind, and stepped over to a desk that lay on the other side of the room. A short bookcase made up the legs of one end, and from there he began to pull out various different tomes. Unrolled some parchment, too, and opened up an inkwell. Sure there were more modern options for scrawling, but Arcturus took the artistic aspects of this process very seriously. He set down a wooden ink-dip pen beside it, then found himself a seat in a different chair. Waited for her to be done.​

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"Have you given any thought to what you wish to inscribe upon it?" he asked her. She was tired, he could see that she was tired; if she spoke up about that at all, maybe he'd see fit to let them retire for the evening. But she had to learn her own limits and when to speak up about them. It was an integral part of the process, he believed, and would help to mitigate future exhaustion.​

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Ishani Dinn ​

 

[Ishani Dinn]

Ishani blinked at Arc’s response, then did a double-take as he proceeded to walk away without elaborating. Probably an indication that she shouldn’t press the matter further.

She did as he asked. Somehow quenching the blade made her feel like more of a blacksmith than swinging a hammer. She used her left arm to do it; her right arm was unsteady from strain.

Once she set it aside, she noticed he had walked away. More bewildering behavior from him. Not that he hovered or anything, but…

She found him at a desk, having pulled out ink and parchment—archaic among most of the galaxy, but Ishani was used to it. Hopefully it wasn’t the kind made out of the skins of the enemies of the Sith. Maliphant had a taste for that sort of thing, she’d noticed.

“Inscribe?” Her brow furrowed. “Like, on the blade? I can put words on the blade? Or—do you mean the tattoo?” They’d discussed binding the weapon to her via a tattoo, and she was all for the idea, though she planned on putting it on a part of her body where it wouldn’t be that noticeable. As a Chaldean, it was surprising she’d get one at all.

Arcturus Dinn​

 

[Arcturus Dinn]

She seemed surprised by the notion of etching words onto the surface of the blade, which had him tilt his head curiously to one side. Had he not prepared her for such? He felt certain he had... But then it wasn't as though he'd never been mistaken about something before.​

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"My apologies, I honestly thought we'd gone over this. Oh well, no time like the present right? Good thing I have the resources on hand, though I suppose that means we'll be more or less done for the evening." Unbeknownst to Arcturus, he'd taken on something of a more aloof presence, as though he truly was nothing more than her teacher in that moment. Master... He preferred the word Master to teacher, however out of reach such was for him. For them.​

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It wasn't intentional. The Lorrdian folksong had taken more out of him than he'd intended.​

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Pushing up from his seat, he stepped over to her. "Words of power, Apprentice, they're an important part of any blade, at least at this early stage in your Alchemical development. They help with the imbuement process, ingrain the blade with whatever effects you wish it to hold. You can use a lot of words, you can use a just a few. Even one could work with enough intent behind it. You'll find out what you want it to say, then you'll make your design - in Kittât, that is, I can help you translate - and then we'll use a specific set of tools to etch it into the surface of your blade. As large, as small, as you'd like. The design is ultimately up to you..."​

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As though only just remembering he had something of his own to reference, he pulled out his dagger. There, clear as day upon the blade, lay a series of runes.​

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Ishani Dinn ​

 

[Ishani Dinn]

He probably had mentioned it already, she’d just forgotten about it. As he explained further, she leaned to one side, her fist resting on her hip and one corner of her mouth curling upwards.

“What if I don’t want it written in Kittât?” she asked. She was quite aware of his aloofness, but rather than pouting, she answered it with sass. “What if I want all my enemies to be able to read it before I stab them? Sith isn’t exactly the most well-known language.”

Words of power were powerful because they meant something to people, right? Couldn't mean anything if you couldn't understand it.

But she oohed and ahhed over his dagger all the same. “Very sexy. What does it say?” She already had an idea of what she wanted for hers. “Uh… how about ‘For everything a reason’?”

Perhaps not what most Sith would have picked, but Ishani wasn’t most Sith.

Arcturus Dinn​

 

[Arcturus Dinn]

Ishani's question put him in quite the conundrum. He frowned momentarily, tipped his head this way and that as he pondered a response... And then shook his head. "I... Well... I guess I don't know if something else would work. I've only ever done it this way..." Could it work? Without pressing any further, he picked up one of the heftier tomes and began to scan through it, searching for a specific section. No... No... No...​

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There.​

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Eyes flicked back and forth as he read at a frankly mindboggling rate, something he'd developed during his earlier years when he felt as though he had so much to catch up on and not enough time for it. Without thinking he sank down to the floor, back against one of the desk legs, and read. Read some more...​

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Ishani had asked another question, querying the words upon his blade, which earned her a brief glance up from the page. "From your edge, ever-sharp, from my hand, ever-there." He started to look down at the book again, before he paused. "I was much younger then. It was my first blade." Was he being defensive about the silliness of the words? Perhaps. But they were potent words, and they worked, and frankly that was all that mattered.​

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A few moments more, and he closed the book shut.​

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"It doesn't state. No mention to any specific language. In fact, it states that even the Je'daii of old would sometimes inscribe their blades, and they most certainly did not use the Sith tongue for that. So... I guess... You can make of it as you wish, Apprentice."​

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Ishani Dinn ​

 

[Ishani Dinn]

Arc took her question seriously—a fact that set him apart from quite a few of her Sith instructors, who would’ve responded with mockery at the idea or anger at being “backtalked”. He pulled out a tome and started reading through it, looking for an answer.

Why he was sitting on the floor was beyond her. It didn’t look comfortable. But as she watched his eyes flick back and forth across the pages, she lowered herself to a crouching position, then eventually sat beside him, using his shoulder for support.

He told her what his dagger said. “So is that basically a fancy way of saying ‘my hand alone wields this perpetually sharp object’?” After she spoke, he began to sound a bit defensive and embarrassed about it. She wished she hadn't tried to make a joke. Why did she always have to make everything a joke? “How much younger? I mean—were you little-little, or just a young teenager?”

There wasn’t anything really wrong with the phrase, as far as she was concerned, but self-doubt was infectious—and Ishani was already beginning to rethink her initial idea for her own blade. Should she have it say something more, er, forceful? Aggressive? Cooler, at least?

“How do you say it in Kittât, Master?” she asked softly, still thinking. “Are you fluent in Sith, or just… better at it than me?”

Arcturus Dinn​

 

[Arcturus Dinn]

Arcturus shook his head.​

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"It means it'll always come back to my hand, and remain sharp as the day it was made. Maliphant had me infuse the edge with Svolten Rhyolite, it ensures it keeps its edge. And, well, you've seen how the dagger works. Can't get the darned thing to leave me even if I wanted."​

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That was of course a blessing. And given its small nature, it meant he could throw it and keep throwing it without ever having to try and find it among grass or inside corpses or whatever. A potent little bugger to be sure.​

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She had crouched down to his height, and when her head rested upon his shoulder he began to feel some of the tension waning. While finishing the paragraph he'd been reading, he leaned his head down a touch to rest atop her own.​

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"I don't ever remember being little-little" he reminded her calmly, "But I also don't have any clear knowledge of how old I was at the time. Or in general. I just remember being small, and weedy; Maliphant towered over me back then." In many ways the man still did. But that was neither here nor there.​

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Her next words however eclipsed all other thoughts; had she... just called him Master? A shiver ran down his spine, and he looked down at her curiously for a moment. Hearing it from her lips sounded just... right. There was no other word for it. It would be a shame when their project came to an end, and he'd have no reason to call her back to the forge again. A damn shame indeed.​

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"What, my words or yours?" he inquired. Then he reeled off the translation for his blade's words effortlessly, as though he'd practiced it time and time again. Her own? That took him a moment of consideration, they were far more foreign to him. Still he managed it in the end. "Man, I'm rusty... Gonna have to work on that."​

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It had been too long since he'd indulged in the more scholarly side of himself, since he'd studied the ancient tongue and learned at the feet of their forefathers as he'd been so desperate to do when first he'd come to this place. Academy life was far busier than the life he'd known back home in Harpers' Retreat, though, where all he'd had to distract him was Darth Empyrean himself, Odana, and occasionally Nilia.​

​

Bastion. It had been too long since he'd visited Bastion...​

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Ishani Dinn ​

 

[Ishani Dinn]

“Svolten Rhyolite,” she echoed the words as though tasting them. “Oh yeah. You surprised Naan with your teleporting dagger.”

After what happened during the fateful survival trip, Naan had been transferred somewhere else. Bendik’s family had stepped in and had him brought home. Dinah had seemingly dropped off the face of the galaxy…

She promptly forgot all about them as he spoke of his gaps in memory. “Well, you’re not so weedy anymore, and you’re bigger than me… though that doesn’t mean much.” She smiled. Her eyelids were drooping a little with fatigue; his shoulder made for a surprisingly comfortable pillow. “I bet you were adorable back then.”

"What, my words or yours?"

“Both.” Had he shivered just now? “You really like it when I call you Master, don’t you?” she teased, gazing at him through sleepy eyes. After he gave her the two translations, she sighed. “What an ugly-ass language. Sounds like gargoyles having a spitting contest. Uh, no offense—but not even you can make Sith sound pretty.” She was getting a little bit loopy, as she often did when she was tired, though unlike last time, she was in no danger of passing out and having to be carried.

Arcturus Dinn​