Faction The Art of the Unseen Stroke (THP)

[Krass Wyms]

The thrum created within the heart of the Ancilla. One of the works of the jedi within the galaxy was always welcoming. The concentration of energy collected by the massive panels was channeled into tens of thousands of forges that fashioned gear and equipment on a scale few others could see and as you traveled in deeper. Among the pulsars, the clusters of mini suns, ignited gas giants and strange rogue planets that had been pulled from their systems to the intense gravity here. The heart of it saw the Celestial Forge on display, a massive station positioned with micro precision to be perfectly balanced and placed in the heart of the stars. Being kept in place by their intense gravity all around so it didn't move. The no-space shielding at the top of it allowing the gleaming display of the forgemasters prize. The kyber anvil, designed to channel the hearts of stars around, the largest housing hearts of kyber and fonts of lightside energies.

She had invited the jedi of the Hidden Path here for a special class. The chance to learn, to take away and most importantly to create. The Forgemaster walking as she was often one of the smallest women in the room but she knew how to cast a large presence. Krass cut a figure of formidable, compact efficiency. Standing a solid four feet, she was a study in dense kinetic potential, her body an accumulation of muscle shaped by the resistance of cold steel and hot plasma. There was nothing delicate about the heavy fullness of her form; her shoulders and chest were a powerful mantle, built to withstand the recoil of the hammer and the heat of the core around her. She wore the marks of her trade with stoic pride. Her dark hair was swept back, though softened by the steam that constantly wreathed her.

Her flawless features were interrupted only by the intricate lacework of silver burn scars on her arms and cheeks fossilized sparks from a thousand forged suns. Her gaze was sharp, the eyes of a master appraiser: black pools scattered with shards of purple and white light, permanently crinkled at the corners from staring into the abyss of creation. In the crippling heat of her workshop, her attire was purely pragmatic. She wore no trousers, only a rugged harness of beskar and silk that acted as a holder for her tools. This left her mighty legs and thighs entirely bare, a necessary concession to keep her blood from boiling in the stifling air. A lone ornament rested at her throat: an embersteel choker clutching a raw Kaiburr crystal shard, pulsing with a sympathetic rhythm against her skin, glowing through the glaze of sweat and light that anointed her brow.

Her hammer was on her hip. The hammer of the forgemaster Jǫrmungandr Steði... and something rarely seen as her lightsaber was within the hilt of the hammer. The tetherrite and solarite metal bonding it to her alone. She had set an area of the forge aside, it was circulating cool air and a breeze in contrast to the normal heat and fire. Stations there for all of them while she crossed her arms over her chest and offered many of them the class here. "Welcome, this isn't going to be one of your more orthodox classes. I am here to teach you fine movement and precision control. Memory and cognitive enhancement skills which will allow you to remember and visualize the finest details... and most importantly it will allow you to stoke the fires of your own creativity." She said it while standing there in the center with a look at the ones assembled.

 

[Michael Angellus]

​

PERSONAL FLIGHT LOG – Entry #
Location: – Celestial Forge(whatever THAT is)
Assigned Craft: My X-wing
Astromech Partner: BRED (BB-30)
Current Mood: Curious
Background Noise: I can’t hear anything over the noise of this place.

Okay. This… place… is… HUGE!
“Wooo-beeep.” [Translation: A big place, run by a little woman… If she were a guy she would have a sport speeder.]

Wow… That’s just… wow…

“Weeep-bwoo.” [Translation: I’m just sayin! I don’t mean it bad.]

I hope she didn’t understand you.

“Chrrp.” [Translation: I’ll blame you.]

Gee… Thanks… I actually want to do this. Don’t get me kicked out.

“Bwoo-Weeep.” [Translation: Not my fault if no one gets me....]

Anyway, I’m here at this… what IS this place? This is so awe inspiring! I’m here to paint? Crazy!

Hi Bos… Master…

Force of Habit.

– Michael A.
I’m the artist, not the smartest!

TAG: Krass Wyms

This is where he is speaking

 

[Lyra Ventor]

Lyra had been standing quietly near one of the cooled stations, arms loosely folded as she let the scale of the Forge sink in, when the familiar voice cut through the reverent atmosphere. It took her a second to place it, not because it was unfamiliar, but because hearing it here felt so wildly out of context that her brain lagged behind her ears.

Then she turned.

Michael. Same cadence. Same energy. Same running commentary, now accompanied by a droid that apparently felt very comfortable sharing opinions in a place built around captive stars and ancient discipline.

For a moment, she just looked at him, blue eyes steady, and then the corner of her mouth curved despite herself. A quiet huff of laughter escaped her, the kind you don't plan, before she shook her head and exhaled.

"I should have known you'd end up here," she said, voice low but amused, recognition settling in easily. "Last time I saw you, you were bluffing with garbage cards and giving life advice that absolutely should not have worked."

Her gaze flicked briefly to the droid as it chimed in again, then back to Michael, one brow lifting just a touch.

"And yeah," she added, softer now, glancing toward the Forgemaster without turning fully away, "I'm operating on the assumption that she understands every word and is deciding whether it's endearing or grounds for incineration."

Not a warning exactly. More…friendly counsel.

She let her arms fall to her sides and shifted her stance, giving herself room to breathe again as the immensity of the place pressed in from all directions. The Celestial Forge hummed around them, patient and immense, like it had all the time in the galaxy to wait for them to catch up.

"It's a lot," Lyra continued, her tone smoothing out as she gestured vaguely at the stars, the anvil, the heat and light bound into purpose. "I thought I was here to draw too. Or paint. Or…something normal."

A faint, incredulous smile crossed her face.

"Turns out it's more about learning how to hold detail without getting lost in it. Memory. Structure. Seeing something enormous and still being able to focus on one line, one shape, one idea."

She looked back at Michael then, really looked at him, the way you do when you recognize a familiar face in a strange place, and it steadied her more than she expected.

"I'm Lyra," she said again, even though they'd already been introduced once, because here it felt different. "Pilot. Sketcher. Not the smartest either, so you're in good company."

Her eyes flicked once more toward the Forge, then back, calm settling in where awe had been.

"If you're here to learn," she finished, voice grounded and sincere, "I don't think there's a better place to be. Just…maybe don't let your droid heckle the woman holding a star."

The smile that followed was small, but genuine, and for the first time since arriving, the Forge felt less like it might swallow her whole and more like something she could stand inside without losing herself.

Michael Angellus Krass Wyms

 

[Jack Wright]

(Tags: Krass Wyms , Michael Angellus , Lyra Ventor , OPEN)

Jack was a writer.

Or, well, one in practicing, he waas humble enough to admit to anybody who'd ask. As such, he was appreciative of any lesson related to and learning in the finer details of one's craft, and this was was essentially as Jedi's variation to art class. The second he heard of this course, it was just a trap of ensnarement of his senses.

Arriving to the rather beautiful ship and immediately taking his own station, albeit in one of the furthest corners. Less noise and distraction, that way. Didn't hurt for their instructor to be, uh, to put it mildly... Quite a sight.

What the Hapans wish they could exude.

Resting both palms on the edge of his table, the Knight perked up with cheek, "Ready, teach!" His enthusiasm for the lesson at hand vibrant in both posture and the Force. Didn't hurt his right boot was tapping on the steel floor a little, Jack nodded to the others in mild greeting that were here for the lesson.

 

[Michael Angellus]

​

PERSONAL FLIGHT LOG – Entry #
Location: – Celestial Forge(whatever THAT is)
Assigned Craft: My X-wing
Astromech Partner: BRED (BB-30)
Current Mood: Curious
Background Noise: I can’t hear anything over the noise of this place.

“Chitter.” [Translation: HA! I like her! I remember that.]

Wow! RUDE!
“Wooo-beeep.” [Translation: Oh, you’re just mad because she called you out and was right!.]

What about you?! She was calling you out like she understands droidspeak!

“Weeep-bwoo.” [Translation: It’s not like I’m insulting anyone.]

“ELL OH ELL”

“Chrrp.” [Translation: What in the Blue Mustafar is that?]

I’m laughing at you out loud.

“Bwoo-Weeep.” [Translation: Oh my word! You “LOL”’ed? That was … well I’ll be nice….]

… For once…

I’m not denying it.

– Michael A.
I’m the artist, not the smartest!

TAG: Krass Wyms , Lyra Ventor , Jack Wright
Text like this is in “recorder” and review of what happened.

This is where he is speaking

 

[Supisy Blen]

Objective: Fun with art
Location: Celestial Forge, Ancilla
Outfit: Casual
Tags: Krass Wyms | Michael Angellus | Lyra Ventor | Jack Wright

Supisy wasn't sure she actually belonged her. But that was never something that stopped her in the past. Maybe when she was old she would care about such things, but now she would expect to have fun unless someone told her otherwise. Everyone loved the young Twi'lek pilot as far as she was concerned anyways. Two of her squadmates had gotten the invitation to join the class, it wouldn't hurt that she tagged along. Not that she asked for permission.

Art had become quite intriguing to Supisy since she met Princess Junko. The fact that Supisy was one of many who had been immortalized in sculpture by the princess was only part of the reason why. The body of Junko's collection was, however, quite enticing. She allowed others to head into the class first. It was supposedly a "Jedi" class. But art wasn't just for the Force right? Just the same, Supisy decided to be a little mischievous and perhaps avoid notice. She stepped in just as the Forgemaster started speaking.

The Forgemaster gave a short introduction to the class. Fine movement. Precision. Memory. Doesn't sound very Forcy…Cognitive enhancement? Yeah…that sounds Jedi-like. Or this place is an old person's home in disguise… Supisy thought to herself. She noted that her flight leader, Micheal, was talking with the new pilot in their flight. Supisy smirked to herself noting how incredibly attractive Striker Squadron was. She made a mental note to invite them all to her estate to relax in the sauna one day.

The other student present was unfamiliar. Not exactly shocking, Supisy hadn't really made a point of putting herself amongst Jedi and this was supposed to be a Jedi class. The fact that she heard about it because two other pilots had Jedi potential was just lucky. She wondered if mingling would call more attention to herself. The crowd was sparse. Supisy wasn't very good at hiding her presence. For now she decided to take a seat at a nearby easel and peak at the instructor. If she was called to interact with the other folks she wouldn't argue.

 

[Krass Wyms]

Supisy Blen Michael Angellus Jack Wright Lyra Ventor

Krass looked at them and listened as she approached the droid for a moment and didn't say anything she just looked at it with a raised eyebrow. Her full stature being on display in some cases so she was smaller then everyone there but she looked towards a rising area in the center of where they would be working. The covering for it in place still but she turned her attention back to the ones who were here with a moments look. "Welcome." She went towards the center. "This won't be a traditional class, most of the other temples teach combaat and forrce user forr defending... but this is more to develop attention to details and finer motor movements. Which can translate if you are skilled to combat or force user, diplomacy and encountering dangers. Where the smallest detail or movement can mean life and death." The forgemaster said it while looking morre at them and providing a grin on her face that was wide and welcoming. "That is why I brought you here, the creative heart of the orderr where the jedi are able to make anything they can think of with the heart of a thousand stars. Respect my workshop." She said the last but let them all go into place with a nod. "When you are ready sit, get your supplies ready and prepare you are going to be painting and it is about detail, cutting out distractions from what is around us and being able to make the smallest adjustments." She pulled the covering back to reveal three other jedi masters as she was going into her own position there.

Sprawled across the lowest marble plinth in a mirrored, classical recline are the Masters of the Physical and the Spiritual, their bodies forming the heavy, grounded foundation of the scene. Syn dominates the left, his body propped up on one powerful, bronzed arm in a pose of casual but absolute dominance that makes him appear more like an ancient deity than a living man. His skin is a deep, sun-bronze that gleams like polished white marble under the high-noon sun, casting sharp shadows into every ridge and valley of his hyper-defined musculature. From the flaring width of his pectorals to the cobblestone abdomen tapering into low-slung gear, he is a study in raw, functional power. His long, muscular legs veins tracing bold paths across his thighs stretch out across the cool white stone, one knee bent high to support his right hand. That hand drapes loosely, almost dismissively, over his knee while his fingers maintain a grip on an lightsaber obsidian hilt planted vertically into the marble. His head is tilted back with a jaw set in a line of calm serenity, the long tails of his black sash whipping in the wind of the forge like war banners, yet most know that he can see the students through his sightless gaze.

Opposite him, reclining on her right side to complete the symmetrical base, is Vaata Ver Riya, providing a lush and vibrant contrast to Syn's jagged intensity. Her body is a harmonious blend of curves and subtle athletic grace, her deep amber-brown skin glowing with a warm, luminescent quality against the sterile, white-veined marble. Her vibrant pink-and-gold silks cling to her form like liquid jewels, the fabric spilling over the edge of the fountain in a waterfall of fuchsia and gold embroidery as her legs stretch out to perfectly mirror Syn's pose. Adorned in layered gold necklaces that cascade over her décolletage and a glowing ruby maang tikka, she holds a knowing, enigmatic half-smile that suggests a terrifying level of foresight. Her almond-shaped eyes, lined with heavy kohl, are locked directly on the students with an unsettling tranquility, while the bindi at her forehead pulses with a soft, ethereal light. While Syn represents the violent torrent of the physical storm, she sits as the deep, still waters of the force, her posture relaxed yet perfectly poised as she weighs the very souls and futures of the class standing before her.

Positioned on the higher tier behind the reclining pair, the two remaining two Masters provide the vertical spine of the monument, looking down with the weight of law and creation. Krass Wyms , the Forgemaster, looms directly behind Syn like a lord of the forge given flesh. She sits with a regal, grounded authority, her legs planted wide on the upper step to accommodate her short but statuesque physique a masterpiece of dense muscle, broad flaring lats, and thighs like carved stone. Her corded arms are bare, revealing the vascular strength of a warrior who has spent lifetimes at the anvil, while her heavy hide apron, cinched brutally tight at her narrow waist, shimmers with embossed nebulae that seem to swirl with actual starlight in the shifting shadows. Her expression is one of absolute, unyielding certainty as she rests the head of her hammer upon her shoulder, its purple light reflecting in her amethyst eyes which burn with a steady, living flame. Her voice comes out for them to hear her as she takes her place. "I wanted to give you all something with high levels of detail and skill."

Flanking her at the top is the form of Arona Kae, providing the ethereal and aristocratic balance to Krass's industrial heat. She sits with a tall, statuesque grace, one leg tucked beneath her and the other planted firmly on the edge of the plinth, her weight shifted forward to emphasize a sense of looming, aristocratic lethality. Her pale porcelain skin and platinum-blonde hair catch the light like spun starlight, framed by a heavy cream-and-gold fur-lined cloak that drapes over her shoulders and spills down toward the lower tier like fresh snow over a mountain peak. Her piercing ice-blue eyes scan the horizon with a cold, patrician intensity, her straight nose and unsmiling rose lips speaking of a lifetime of noble vigilance. One hand rests delicately yet purposefully near the reinforced white corset that cinches her lean core, her fingers hovering near the hilt of the lightbringer blade that remains half-hidden by her robes. She is the grandmaster of the jedi fortress worlds. Mythos calling her the broken queen but she was someone Krass knew to be powerful.

"I would never ask one to do something I am not willing to do myself." She said it while in position and looked out from the tableau of the masters and stonework. "Begin when you are."

 

[Michael Angellus]

​

PERSONAL FLIGHT LOG – Entry #
Location: – Celestial Forge(whatever THAT is)
Assigned Craft: My X-wing
Astromech Partner: BRED (BB-30)
Current Mood: Curious
Background Noise: I can’t hear anything over the noise of this place.

“Chitter.” [Translation: HA! You have to paint a naked man!]

Dude! Not happening! I mean, I don’t care if people are that way, but I’m not!
“Wooo-beeep.” [Translation: Oh, you’re just worried about what your “bros” are gonna think.]

DUDE! I’m not like that! I’m not playing this game!

“Weeep-bwoo.” [Translation: So, just draw the chicks.]

You mean “lllaaaadiessss”?

“Chrrp.” [Translation: Do you realize how creepy you are when you say that?]

Say what?

“Bwoo-Weeep.” [Translation: Nothing, nevermind. I need an oil bath.]

Alright, fine. I’ll just soldier through… heh though I’m a pilot. This is weird…

Mine doesn’t look right.

– Michael A.
I’m the artist, not the smartest!

TAG: Krass Wyms , Lyra Ventor , Jack Wright
Text like this is in “recorder” and review of what happened.

This is where he is speaking

 

[Lyra Ventor]

Lyra had been in the middle of arranging her supplies, carefully aligning her stylus and pad with the same quiet precision she used in a cockpit, when the reveal happened and the world very nearly tilted sideways.

She looked up. Maker help her.

For the span of a single, traitorous heartbeat, every mental exercise she had been practicing threatened to unravel, not because of the Force, but because of memory. Heat. Weight. Gravity. Four stolen days that had bent her sense of time and proximity around one very specific man who was now very inconveniently posed like a living monument. Syn was not simply present; he was enshrined, carved into marble and light as though the galaxy itself had decided to test her composure with deliberate malice.

Her breath caught before she could stop it, and her jaw tightened just enough to remind herself she was still in control. Then, slowly and deliberately, she recovered. Barely.

Lyra lowered her gaze with the kind of discipline she usually reserved for violent evasive maneuvers, fixing her attention on her easel as though it were the most important object in the universe. Her fingers adjusted her stylus with almost excessive care, grounding herself in motion and familiarity. She absolutely did not stare. She absolutely did not let her thoughts wander to the remembered warmth of his hands, the steady power of his presence, or the way those four days had felt like stepping outside the galaxy's rules.

Maker above, this was deeply unfair.

"Of course," she murmured under her breath, the words pitched low and edged with dry disbelief. "Of course, this is the day the Order decides to put him on a pedestal."

She drew in a slow, steady breath and anchored herself the way he had taught her, through memory rather than mysticism. The Starling's hull. The familiar pattern of weld seams. The gentle, trustworthy hum of engines that never asked her questions or judged the choices that led her here.

When Lyra finally allowed herself to look up again, it was brief and measured, her expression carefully neutral as pilot calm settled into place like a well-worn flight jacket. To anyone watching, she might have seemed merely attentive, perhaps impressed by the artistry of the tableau. No one would see the private history humming just beneath her skin, or the careful restraint holding it in check.

"Focus," she whispered to herself, a faint, wry curve touching her lips despite everything. "You're here to paint, not to relive questionable life decisions."

She leaned into her work, letting the discipline of observation take over. The interplay of light and shadow on stone. The balance of form and tension. The illusion of stillness over coiled motion. If Syn noticed her among the students, she gave no outward sign, only a quiet steadiness in her posture, an acknowledgment carried without words.

Not today. Today, she was just another student. Even if the Maker was laughing very clearly.

Michael Angellus Krass Wyms Supisy Blen Jack Wright

 

[Jack Wright]

(Tags: Krass Wyms , Michael Angellus , Lyra Ventor , Supisy Blen )

...

Okay, yeah.

Jack was convinced.

This was all some big scam for these rapscallions to pose and be immortalized with Jedi-worked art, it was a losing battle that said Jedi worked not to grin like a fool, shaking his head at the sheer absurdity presented. By the Force, he had assumed it was up to the individual to envision an art and express it through the brush.

Not imitating posing Jedi.

Welp, we're not beating the allegations we see ourselves as Gods, anytime soon...

Shaking his head for about the tenth time, Jack raised the brush and begun to work on his 'craft,' even if the low snorts of incredulity exhaled from his nostrils every few seconds or so, peeking up to the display with a grin so wide it hurt his facial hair. Jack's low coughs a poor concealment behind his mirth.

But sound carried for the rest who'd hear a man attempting not to die in ridicule.