Rapier of Hallucination (Isley)

[Ahani Najwa-Zambrano]

Deep in the bowels of Castle Ne'tra a raven cloaked woman trotted into the Dark Forge humming a tune. It had once been a lullaby, morphed into two lullabies and a shanty was added to the fray line by line. An Echani in Castle Ne'tra? Only the most dire need would bring Ahani there, to the den of a Mandalorian fiend, but wishes weren't horses here. They were swords.

A sword she could use to her greatest and nefarious of advantages. Something to level the field. Ahani chewed on the end of a deathstick, feeling the potent brew hit her bloodstream with the diligence of an old friend, yet it wouldn't hold her for long. Lucidity was a distant kin, whose visits became fewer and shorter in length. Her gloved hand knocked on the Forge's entrance. "The Marshall of the Templars, @[member="Isley Verd"]." Half announcement, half query, the woman tip toed in and coughed. Wild silver eyes were be speckled with bits of green and vibrant blue, odd for an Echani but that was the penalty of eight hundred years of plenty in the Force.

The woman shone with it. The woman walked with twitching muscles and constant motion her eyes and body never stilling, never waiting but learning the area and the man she sought. Had she once been called beautiful, before crows feet and the creases of a grin stroked her pale, silver face? The Force hadn't been kind to this woman, it had been bold and untempered. "Ahani Najwa, Kn-n-ight Templar, M-matron of House N-n-ajwa. S'posed t'tell you I was coming… don't know if they did. Regardless, I'm alive and here. Better than some days, eh?"

She felt like a woman possessed, constantly bathed in the retributive acts of a powerful and unceasing passion, which trembled through her veins like the deathstick stuck in her lips.

 

[Darth Metus]

The Dark Forge, Castle Ne'tra​

Though the season of the world was that of heavy rains, the sun reared its beautiful head this day. The humidity was omnipresent, however, yet the glorious light smiled down upon the world of Krant and warmed the people with its presence. Even Castle Ne'tra, which had been soaked to the bone with precipitation, seemed to brim with a joyous aura in response to the light; for spring flowers had begun to bloom all about the grounds. Yet, upon crossing the threshold and entering the citadel, the chill of winter befell those who entered. Stones, cold and ancient, formed the towering walls and corridors that twisted about the black castle. Floors of marble, as dark as ash, led the way deeper and deeper into its heart. Vaulted ceilings, illuminated by candle light, gazed down upon the travelers who roamed their master's domain...

And with each step, the heart of the castle beat.​

For those sensitive to the ebb and flow of the Force, the sensation was much akin to hearing the pages of history...wailed from the lips of the suffering. As each step drew the traveler closer and deeper into the citadel, the cry of the damned grew louder. The stones, the floors, the ceilings; all were wrought from the ruins of a Temple of old...a Temple dedicated to the study and worship of the Dark Side. Then, one fateful day, the thirst of the ground was quenched with blood; spilled by the hands of Jedi clinging to the Light. The congregation perished. Their temple was destroyed. And their malice lived on through the perpetual presence of the Dark Side, which only grew as one drew nearer to the heart of the citadel. Finally, after descending the final flight of stairs, one would be greeted by the sight of a single door...a simple mass of oak hung by metal hinges.

And behind this floodgate was held back a tsunami of the Darkness.​

From within this silent refuge stood the Mandalorian, garbed from head to toe in crimson armor of beskar. His helmet rested upon an adjacent shelf, reflecting the pyre of the forge as its master made ready for the impending guest. Bars of Desh-Terenthium, his selected metal for alchemical projects, lined the wall behind him and stood adjacent to rows of shelves. Each was packed to the brim with a variety of items: lore, ingredients, and everything in between. As the Mandalorian worked, dusting the coals of his forge with salts to augment the heat, a knock echoed upon the surface of the door. He hearkened to the words that were spoken and then gave a lackluster wave of his hand, commanding the Force to do as he bid. It obeyed, opening the door to admit his guest and customer.

An Echani...one of the lowest species within the Galaxy by his own judgment. ​

However, his own...distaste...would have to be subdued for the time being, for he was not representing his own interests this day. No, he represented the Sacred Order of Templar Knights and had to act as thus. Turning on a heel, he regarded the woman with a respectful inclination of his head before motioning for her to enter the Dark Forge. His arm indicated a vacant seat for her to claim, and Isley then moved to stand before it. "I was expecting you." he said; his voice a baritone rumble. "Welcome to my humble Forge...The information provided to me spoke of your desire to have a blade created. Tell me more of the specifics you would like, and they shall be done." Straight and to the point was his tendency here, for Isley wanted the Echani far...Far...FAR away from his home as soon as possible.

@[member="Ahani Najwa"]

 

[Ahani Najwa-Zambrano]

Castle Ne'tra would feel like a place to call home, if not for the stinking festering wound of a Mandalorian housed within its crumbling walls. What weakness of culture and genetics had created a race who hid behind bodily shielding and cowardly blaster fire? Could they not fight for themselves? A Mandalorian was a lesson in hostile decimation, a crying infant hiding behind the shields of a culture's making until the infant mind could never sprout to greatness, but linger in retardation. There was no honour in Mandalore.

Wouldn't hear Ahani voicing that in the Dark Forge, though. She tended to like her skin attached to her body. It fit better that way. Typical Echani silence, she took her offered seat, wondering as she sat whether it would swallow her whole. Even seated, her muscles twitched and her face moved in the Echani equivalent of a stutter. The ever living Force soaked into her with the penalty of overcompensating values, as if the world was too bright, flame was too hot, and passion was an overbearing inferno scarring her from her insides.

"Humble. Hah." Comedy. At least this Mando could be amusing. She gnawed on the death stick, wondering how long it would take her disapproving son @[member="Manu Xextos"] to heal her internal organs of the disease of addiction. "A rapier. One fit for Makashi, and sturdy enough to deflect lightsabers and energy weapons. I want the tip poisoned. I want whoever meets my blade to squirm and shudder under hallucinations… make them suffer like I suffer, make them see what isn't there and lose what sopping messes they claim is attachment to the Force. Can you do it?"

@[member="Isley Verd"]

 

[Darth Metus]

The mirth displayed by the Echani came as a source of moderate confusion for the Mandalorian. The Dark Forge, while well constructed, paled in comparison to some of the alchemical behemoths in the modern Galaxy. In fact, his associate Rave Merrill had some sort of crystalline machinery that put his simple Forge to shame. It was due to these realities that the Mandalorian then...smiled...for she had provided his latent distaste for her species with new ammunition. Isley entertained the thought briefly of the sheer ignorance of the Echani people, born of sub-par exposure to the Galaxy at large. He amused himself with thinking that the living conditions on Eshan were so piss-poor compared to the norm that his simple Forge was a contradiction to the word humble.

Of course, tact was above all; for the Marshal had to appropriately represent.

When the specifics were provided, Isley contemplated how he would go about the process for a moment. His offhand rose to gently tap his chin as he searched his brain, seeking the information regarding the infusement of poisons. This was new ground for Isley, but it was not a task that was impossible. In fact, it was very possible and was an excellent way to push his knowledge of Sith Alchemy to the limit. "Yes," he responded simply, "I can create this blade with no problem. I will, however, require a donation of Death Sticks towards the end; if you'd be so willing to provide. As you are probably aware, the main chemical within Death Sticks causes hallucinations and acts as an agent to muddle one's connection to the Force. I seek to infuse the tip with the very essence of that chemical so that every successful rending of flesh with the tip of your blade will release the chemical into the enemy's bloodstream. Then, they will suffer just as you."

With that said, the Mandalorian commenced his work. Turning away from the woman, he strode across the Forge and selected one of the bars of Desh-Terenthium and laid it within the coals, then pulled on the rope connected to the bellows. This breathed fresh air into the Forge, augmenting its heat. Silence ruled him for many moments as he awaited the bar's ascension to red hotness; and he busied himself with the procuring of his hammer in the meantime. Standing at the ready before the anvil affixed to the rim of the Forge, he reached out with a pair of tongs and pulled the bar from the heat. Then began the fun part. Laying the blade upon the anvil, Isley drew upon the lesson bestowed upon him by Rave Merrill in order to "zoom" in on the metal through his mind's eye. He saw its molecular structure, made mental notes of how he wanted it to look, and then began summoning the Dark Side in order to fulfill his desires.

Like a mighty tsunami, the agony of the Forge reared forth at his beckoning call and fell upon the blade. As it surged forth through Isley's body, utilizing him as a medium for the molecular changes, he began to strike against the bar with his hammer. Impact after impact caused sparks to fly into the air as Isley focused on the task at hand; yet even in this mode of focus, he decided to make conversation to keep the woman from dying of boredom...though such a death wouldn't bother him at all. "So tell me," he began as the process continued, "how did you come to join the Templar Order?" A simple question meant to spurn a tale, nothing more, nothing less.

@[member="Ahani Najwa"]

 

[Ahani Najwa-Zambrano]

The forge glowed and Ahani let the red burn her eyes, she stared at it as she did everything, with the incapacity to temper the maximum emotion or feeling or sensation. She tossed her pack of deathsticks on the nearest table and gave him a wink. "Figured. They're damned good. Then again you've had eight hundred years to get it right since I was a rebellious teenager." She'd give one thing to the Mandalorian, he knew his blacksmithing. Kicking one foot then the other up over the arm of the chair, she sprawled like a great cat in play, stretching her lithe, lengthy muscles and throwing an arm over her eyes.

"Short version? Born on Thyrsus during the Reign of Palpatine, raised on Byss with my Crimson Guard father. Had a kid at 14, ended up my son was a Force Child, so I hoofed it over the dead body of my Dad and fled to open space. Manu grew up, shoved him off the ship, joined Sith. Failed to turn my son, who married the Kae and became Royalty. Oh and a Jedi. Got tortured for seven years in a pit under Kashyyk. Got out, married my torturer - yeah, it was bizarre. Destroyed a couple of worlds, conquered others, stopped my son and my second husband from killing each other by casting all three of us in crystal.

Woke up 8 centuries later a few months back, and Manu found me on Atrisia. I've been cantering along keeping Manu from wasting away and figured if I'm around anyway I might as well equip myself to kill things, fight battles, you know. Epic wins. Passion of the Force and all. Keep from getting bored, mostly. You try finding a hobby after turning 850. Especially when the only project you have is cloning your son's long dead wife to give him something to do other than sit around meditating on the bright and shiny Lightside and sulk. What about you, how does a Mandalorian make it this far away from the Mando Empire, eh?"

@[member="Isley Verd"].

 

[Darth Metus]

The tale uttered by the Echani was...surprising...to say the least. He had anticipated something along the lines of being recruited by the recently-elevated Master who had "Lord Supplicator" written all over him, both of them being of the same race and all...but never in his wildest dreams did he think that the woman behind him had gone through so much in her lifetime. Of course, he also realized that she was either ridiculously desensitized in response to the trials she had undergone; or had simply gone off the deep end...the latter of which appealed to the Mandalorian more. "Well, for someone your age, you look good." he said in a joking tone, taking a moment to focus on the next portion of the sword's creation. The influx of Dark Side energies temporarily halted and Isley took a moment to mop some sweat from his brow before beginning anew.

The end result of the first step had resulted in key changes being made to the bar of Desh-Terenthium's molecular structure. Now, the bar as a whole was an entirely new element altogether and could withstand a blow from a lightsaber. Of course, this came with an addition of weight; hence Isley's selection of Desh-Terenthium, a superlight alloy, to counteract the potential of the sword becoming totally unwieldy. As a result, the sword created from this metal would be of average weight for a rapier; a fact that would most definitely come in handy for any duelist. "Jokes aside...you've been through hell and came out...Alive. Must be that Echani resilience I hear so much about." he said, resuming his focus on the Dark Side once more.

What's this? Was that a compliment???

Drawing a deep breath, the Mandalorian then "zoomed" in on the atomic structure of the Desh-Terenthium once more. Now that the key changes were made, it was time to do something a wee bit more elementary. Through his utilization of Force Lightning throughout the years, it became almost second nature to "see" the magnetic polarity of the blade through his mind's eye. As such, through guiding an influx of the Darkness through his body once more, he began the process of reversing said polarity. This would result in the blade being able to deflect blaster bolts and laser beams like a standard, Sith Sword. Of course, with the form Makashi and the final width of the blade, this might not exactly be the most utilized feature of the sword as a whole...but it'd be there.

Then came the answer to Ahani's question, voiced between thundering hammer blows as the Mandalorian resumed his work. "I came to Tatooine on a job. Y'know, standard bounty hunting." he began, taking a second to flip the blade so that he might begin hammering the underside of the bar. "That was....several years ago. The job went bad and I ended up being captured by a rather sadistic Sith. Tortured for three years and managed to escape. By the time I got out, the Confederacy had taken over the world and saved my ass. Thought I'd do them a solid and work off my life debt, starting doing missions alongside their military. Then they found out I was Force sensitive and the Templars gave me a few lessons here and there...Had some depressing moments that led to my making a very stupid decision."

"Went off to slay some Sith. Flew into the heart of the Empire and got intercepted by a Star Destroyer and ended up surrounded by Stormtroopers. Fought until I couldn't stand, uppercut a Sith Lord in the jaw, and ended up becoming his apprentice in exchange for a chance to kill the current Emperor. Helped with that coup, got some lessons from the aforementioned Sith Lord, then went back to the Confederacy. Worked in the military and Templars until the present, then very recently got my 'Dar'manda' status absolved by going on a kill spree of some Sith. Now, several years after the torture sessions, I've got a wife, kids, and a badass castle....Any questions?"

@[member="Ahani Najwa"]

 

[Ahani Najwa-Zambrano]

"Najwas age well. Especially when the Force is our beauty secret. I assume anyway, my mother died in a duel when I was seven. Palpatine had my entire House killed off when I ran with Manu. He was always particular to his Echani bodyguards. No one was allowed to tamper with the livestock, especially the livestock."

A compliment from a Mando? Ahani stuttered out a laugh, Manu had warned her about Isley Verd and his bought of Force Lightning and now? "We don't hide, if that's what you mean. It's all right in front of us. We fight knowing each intimate piece of our bodies and souls is on the line. That kind of imminence makes you strong, or dead… but I always overcome. it's my penalty. I'm meant to outlive all the trials of my House, for that marr of teenaged hubris where I refused to give up my son. . . I had three. Two sons, one daughter." Her voice rushed through her throat with a longing lucidity. Ahani could almost see her children in her arms, she reached out and the image disappeared. "My baby Yuca was four months old, when I left him with Manu's daughter on Chandaar. Never saw him again. Oh, Manu's more resilient than I am, he's been through as much pain and suffering as me, but with grace. Always looked on us with mercy, and not that blind mercy either, but an 'I will save you' kind. Redemption. Even when my husband poisoned Manu's heart with the heart of a Sith, he never faltered. That's resilience, the ability to deal with your pain and heal it. I'm just a predator glancing wildly for another meal, but to each their own. To some the Force is mercy. Kindness. To us it's both burden and delight yelling wildly in the deep."

Ahani burst out chittering with laughter. "Uppercut! That takes guts, mad props. No wonder he kept you. Raien had just killed my husband Urdu in front of Manu to try and get Manu to turn, he'd come back to finish me off, but I stared up at him and made myself useful. So, you and I have some similar events, Isley Verd. Only reason he didn't kill me. Picked me up, trained me, married me. At one point, I tried to run. Met Manu's wife, and was seconds from grace… but Erryn was pregnant and I knew Raien would stop at nothing to keep what he'd claimed. I went back to my torturer to save my kids. It worked, but there was no grace left for me, as I'm guessing there's none for a Dar'Manda. Well, they say there is, but whats a title but an expression of what's in here?" She tapped first her forehead then her heart.

The way his muscles moved in his back told Ahani of the interior struggle, that marked difference in character one becomes when they've peered through the gates of the darkest hells and walked through them. Was it the Fall all Sith delighted or clung to? That loss of innocence and joy which marred them that she saw so prevalent? They were junkies all, they could reform and conquer of a different sort the issues of their days, but the Dark held fast into its vessels. The penalty of abandon, instead of control.

"One." Ahani swept onto her feet with her shoulder forward, padding over to @[member="Isley Verd"] and the forge. "Wife, kids, castle… How much do you miss the bad old days?" She said in a whisper, her eyes not on his face but his body. Muscles said more than eyes. "Penalty of abandon. We can civilize, we can appreciate the finer relationships and hold our kids at night. All great things, but a Vornskyr doesn't become a dog, when the pups are born. It gives the pups to the Omega pair and takes the rest of the pack hunting. Much as we reform, that overwhelming chaos becomes us and in those moments we can express it," She clapped her hands and let them spread out before her, "We're free. The Jedi get soothed. Coddled and healed. We get exposed. Raw. There's nothing like it and that's the problem. Eventually, the wildness shackles us to relapses of action. How much do you miss it?"

 

[Malok]

Within the ocean of Darkness that swirled about the Forge, a minute change occurred whilst the Echani voiced her thoughts and history. Her tale, her pain, her woes; each stirred something deep within the Mandalorian...something that he attempted to hold back with much futility. He was much akin to the simple, wooden door of the Dark Forge: erected to hold back a tsunami of darkness...to no avail. Treading upon the path that Isley walked was something that resulted in numerous changes erupting on the inside. Just as the Echani had been shaped and scarred by her experiences, so too did the Mandalorian become...twisted...The Dark Side had molded his mind into a chaotic choir of voices, each perpetually filling his thoughts with a symphony of malicious intent. Yet those were simply the beggars kneeling before the throne of one so dark, so primal, that his mere stirring caused the Mandalorian to know that which he wielded as a weapon: Fear.

And stir he did.

With a tone that boomed like thunder, he spoke; forsaking the use of lips and voice in exchange for pure telepathy. The change was so sudden that it may elude notice from the Echani filling his ears with her tale...or perhaps not. His "voice" reverberated through the Force, echoing throughout the ebb and flow of the Darkness that filled the room; yet not a single word escaped his lips. In fact, the only sound that remained was the constant beating of the red-hot bar with a hammer. "Echani. Mandalorian. Two sides of the same coin. Similarities abound, yet we shall never face the same direction." said Metus, taking a moment to contemplate the next step in forging the sword. Though a change in "who" was dominant had occurred, the objective remained...and the end result would benefit more due to being blessed with the touch of the Sith.

"To be Dar'Manda is to be without a soul...to exist, devoid of the essence which makes one a child of Mandalore. Though politically absolved of said title, I know this to be true...and in the absence of my soul, there is only Darkness. Though every fiber of my being weeps in protest at times, I have never felt more alive..." he began, taking a moment to retrieve the Death Sticks that were casually tossed upon the table earlier. Inspecting them, he then took two and broke them over the blade, thereby causing the vital chemicals to drop upon its tip. As they fell, Metus relied upon the Dark Side in order to modify the molecular structure of the metal once more; infusing the very Desh-Terenthium with the chemical so that contact would naturally result in the muddling of one's senses.

"And to answer your question...How can I miss that which I never abandoned?"

Raising the bar with the tongs, the Sith then grinned. Another beautiful weapon was on its way to being created. With that thought in mind, he took the bar and dropped it into the trough of cool waters that resided beside his feet, turning to face the Echani afterwards. "I have embraced the...totality...of the Dark Side and made it my soul. The Black, the Voices, the Primal Cold which saturates every fiber of my being. The sensation is one that transcends adequate description. Those who bear the title Jedi are ignorant to this bliss; and those who wear the title Sith are too short-sighted to bask in the trueness of the Darkness. They writhe in passion, dedicating themselves to be a stark contradiction to the followers of Light; yet through this pursuit they have eluded the true benediction of the Dark."

He paused, catching himself before a true monologue could begin.

"Put briefly...I am what I am; and no citadel, nor children, nor spouse will ever change that..."

@[member="Ahani Najwa"].

 

[Ahani Najwa-Zambrano]

The greatest hurdle of her octocentarian slumber had been a lack of the familiar. The Empire, the space outside her son's star destroyer, the grey interior plod of the Houses of Keth and Xextos which housed the ship, it lacked a whiff in the air. A quality of the light. As the Forge expanded and contracted and with it @[member="Darth Metus"]' presence oozed from Isley Verd's posture and bones, Ahani found the trembling sensation she'd lacked. Fear. Terror. The expansive dark slunk round him and released itself into the bellows, into the walls and the Desh-Terenthium of her rapidly shaping rapier. It was primal and tasted like that cool draught which had sustained her in her tropical prison those nigh ten years under Kashyyk. Her eyebrow piqued and she sat forward, her back straightening. Hands which had shaken and twitched stilled. She let go of the deathstick between her teeth and let it crash uselessly to the ground. Her cheeks lost their pallid grey and bore the rosy sheen of health, her lips quirked upward and Ahani's eyes steadied on Isley's back to watch this cruel, terrifying beast drift upward from the belly of his mind.

"Oy! Same coin my pert bottom. We're at least two different metals in the same alloy. Same statue. Better than coins, coins get lost. Statues are harder to lose."

She stared at the man in silence until the creeping realism of his statement sunk into her flesh like viper fangs, and the poison within settled to constrict and supercede her. Ahani began to laugh. The chittering noise began as a nervous tick, a trickle on the eaves, until as she laid herself across his chair, the Echani let the laughter abound rich and full. @[member="Darth Metus"] was. He, the Dread Commander was the master of fearsome cognizance and she, lucky Echani, was in his keep. "You sly, insane son of a krayt dragon's game-leg cousin." On her feet, she padded over to Metus, "I hadn't a clue about the meaning of Dar'Manda beyond a casual interest. So they stripped you of your spirit, eh? And I bet they never gave much pause as to what would follow their absence out the door." Prancing up, she watched as he crumbled the accursed deathsticks for the sword's poison brew, her fingers dashing along his arm and perching on his shoulder. No enemy of height, she was tall and thin for a woman, with her thick combat boots Ahani's height rose beyond 6'0" but somehow the room felt dwarfed, she felt dainty as a toddler learning to waddle as she felt the impetuous spirit of the Dar'Manda Darth Metus. "Let your body weep. Let it be in the comfort of your woman you grieve over the loss of your innocent Mandalorian mind. Let her hold you and feel mighty in charge of her husband, but let the knowledge of your ascension flitter back in place. Your true calling firmly placed in your eyes, mind, heart, your spirit is full. You know more than you let on, I for my part find it a comfort. The Force to me is an exposed nerve, a wicked capacity to experience the utmost of every thing. Overwhelming, most days. Dimming it at all brings enough focus that I might linger for a while with the plebian living, watching them scatter and burn. What do you see in them, eh? What can you make of my sword to level them off and leave them tired and wanting, while I strike their death?

Is it ready? May I try it?"

 

[Malok]

Although the room was silent, save for the bubbling of the now-boiling waters which cooled the sword, there was a disturbance that rippled about the Forge. It boomed, yet was inaudible to the perception of the naked ear. It thundered, yet was invisible to the mundane senses. However, to those senstive to the ebb and flow of the enigmatic entity known as the Force...deep, boisterous laughter could be heard. The Echani had managed to tickle the Sith with her wit, a fact that manifested itself physically as his lips curved into the beginnings of a smile. Almost as swift as the telepathic peals of mirth had begun, they ceased; leaving the room calm and quiet once more...but then Darth Metus began to speak. His voice crashed down upon the mind of the woman before him whilst a single step brought him closer to where she stood.

"When devoid of a soul, my existence became opaque to the sons of Mandalore. The thought of what would creep inside of the void within did not, and never will, occur." he began, giving pause so that he might hearken to the remainder of her words. Giving a slight shake of his head, Metus signaled his disagreement of her line of thought; yet stretched forth his hand absently. He commanded the Force to do as he bid, and with supreme obedience it grasped the form of the newly-forged blade from the waters. With swiftness, he pulled the sword into his grasp and held it in the middle of its length, gently touching the very tip of its blade to her bottom lip. "This body, my body, shall not waste in the comfort of one chosen by the feebleness within. This body, my body, shall not weep bitter tears or any such frivolities. No, despite the...obstacle...which crops up from day to day, I shall not find solace in the so-called 'Gray Goddess'."

She desired to see if the sword was ready...She desired to try it...As such, the Sith obliged.

A gentle flick broke the layer of skin upon her bottom lip ever so slightly. Not enough to permanently mar the flesh nor cause any lasting pain that a few licks wouldn't remedy; but just enough to that the sweet twist of the weapon might take effect. With his lips forming into a wide grin, Darth Metus continued, speaking aloud directly into her mind. "Perhaps I desire solace in another. "he said, lowering the blade, "Now tell me. Does it taste ready to you?"

@[member="Ahani Najwa"]

 

[Ahani Najwa-Zambrano]

The cacophonously filled room broke into her with @[member="Darth Metus"]' mental laughter. Sinister misgivings hit the air with the fragrance of contempt and a concord of the evils which had formed her. Maybe if she'd gone with Manu when they shoved him off on Naboo she would have ended up with less shadow and more sun, but the die had cast itself once again into a charismatic dark lord with more to see in her than she had. Ahani trembled and delighted. The sudden burst of adrenaline had reminded her that she was no archaic throwback, nor useless vessel. Ahani had fight in her still. "It's the armour. So thick it mars your heads. Muddles the brain, they lose the quickness needed to survive without being a lumbering tank." Get a cheap shot in on the Mandalorian Dhar'lore? No one had accused Ahani of being smart for eight hundred years. Still, she liked her chances. If the spirit in the man was finding no confidence in his 'Grey Goddess', why should she? "Obstacle?" Ahani laughed, "That obstacle is the last remaining vestige of the assumedly great Isley Verd. If you find no solace in his wife, then why keep her at all? Are you afraid of her gifts? I hear she's got quite the talent and pretty face."

Confidence grew until he tapped the sword to her lip. The Echani stilled, her hand moving to her belt and the loop of metal cord she kept there, ready to act with expediency. "Xar'Chath! I meant try it on a victim, not its keeper." Men, they never listened.

A gasp struck her teeth with a chatter as the sting of the blade caught her bottom lip. It swelled with crimson that she brushed away with the back of her hand. The room began to sway, muddle and grey together with the colours of the Dark Forge. The thought occurred that the scruples of the man were in deep question: who would hit an addict with their buzz of choice after seeing them already consume it? A right karked up smeghead. That was who. She peered accusatorially at him, balled her fist and wailed on his jaw with a solid left hook. His mental voice was beginning to rattle her skull into pieces and she kicked the back of his knee, in the hopes it would buckle and she could grab her new sword. "Gimme." Ahani made a grab for the sword. He'd feel the slice of it in a minute if she had her way. "Second opinions and all."

 

[Darth Metus]

In response, the cold voice of the Sith rang out from within the darkness of the Force, reverberating about the consciousness of the Echani with his deep, baritone "voice": "Perhaps that is the reason why I survived the bout with Master Van Derveld...A battle in which a warrior of Mandalore was stripped of his armour and forced to survive regardless." He paused, hearing the woman's thoughts on Isley's Gray Goddess...then found himself filling the ebb and flow of the Force with his laughter once more. The Echani knew how to amuse the Sith to no end, a fact that caused Metus to consider setting aside his...rather prominent...dislike of the woman based upon her species. "The truth of the matter is that the 'Goddess' is a means to an end. In order to continue enjoying the enraptured path of darkness, there are certain appearances that must be kept. This is one of them. No more, no less. I'm sure you can understand."

With that said, the bemusement of Darth Metus soared; that is, until he found himself the subject of a rather nasty hook. He had to admit that she had quite the punch, as it caused him to stumble back. Absently, his offhand surged forward and his fingers found the fabrics of her shirt, hellbent on bringing her to the ground with him. Upon descending to the Forge floor, Darth Metus quickly scrambled to his knees and attempted to capitalize, thrusting forth his hand so that he might wrap his fingers about her neck. Of course, he was not seeking to maim the woman (yet at least); only to restrain. The scuffle brought the newly-forged blade within his offhand up at an awkward angle, however, causing it to break the skin on his forearm. For the first time in his life, the Sith was exposed to the sensation of being high; and experience that dragged a low growl from his lips.

"Second opinion?" he breathed, utilizing his lips for the first time as well, "The blade...works just fine." Metus paused, glaring into her eyes whilst he lingered above. "You are...unlike any other that I have encountered before. Just as scarred and twisted by life and the darkness as I...Take this blade and lay claim to it; just as I seek to lay claim to you."

@[member="Ahani Najwa"]

 

[Ahani Najwa-Zambrano]

"Van Derveld… @Ket Van Derveld!? How is that old wolf kicking around? Then again with Ket Van Derveld, I'd have more question on how he's not survived nearly a thousand years full of apocalypses… His … brother's not around is he?" Ahani groaned, her face masking a gleaming despair as she searched the Mandalorian for the initial end of gravity and swore as she hit the ground on her shoulder. "Cre-thli xcha!" So Isley knicked himself on the blade of his own design? She'd laugh if she wasn't trying to scramble past the thick-headed cacophony of her own sword's drug. The room swirled, she rolled onto her back as she felt Metus' clinging fingers round her neck. The room spun with colours and textures not present in the reality of the place.

Happy raptor, clinging to her neck. Ahani choked and writhed beneath him, eyes flickering she brought her knee to her chest then booted him hard in the face with a solid push kick led by the heel of her thick-soled metal-grounded Combat boot. "Little armour, little Forge-Man. Take your armour off now if you're so bold. Defended from the Legend Van Derveld, what have you to fear from me?" Thundering the voice reverberated through her mind. Ahani grabbed her forehead with one hand and Force-Pushed him away from her throat.

"Echani woman are not claimed, boy. We descend upon our catchments, or we drift above. I'm finished with being made into a man's piecemeal chattel." Throwing herself into a crisp backward roll, Ahani knelt on one knee and got her bearings in the Forge. What weapons did she have at her disposal? In the Forcec @[member="Darth Metus"] was mighty, but in hand-to-hand the Mandalorian was sorely outmatched by a well-bred Echani Matron. "I am the Madame of my House, the Foremother of House Najwa, Xextos and Viren. I became royalty through the blood of my veins and the sweat of my children's brows. I am no Mando's toy. I am nothing if not an equal."