Private The Forge and the Fog

[Lysander von Ascania]

Naniti​

The chill of Desevro was a different breed than the embrace of other frozen wastelands. Damp and bone deep, it clung to skin and hair with a relentless grip, seeping through layers of clothing and whispering of death.

Above the depths of tunnels, Lysander stood in a modest training yard, a pocket of open air. Cracked permacrete stretched beneath his boots, scarred by time. Rolling fogs seeped in, swirling lazy around him like ghostly tendrils. Every gust arrived with a sigh, and the stone shifting reminded him of teeth grinding.

Clad in wool trousers and leather boots, with a plain tunic beneath a heavy layer, he dressed only for function. The fabric was practical, nothing more, meant to keep him moving through the cold.

The activator clicked beneath his thumb, and the crimson blade hissed into being with a venomous snap. The glow painted his features in hellish light, emerald eyes narrowed. He shifted into the opening stance of Shii‑Cho, the foundation upon which all others were built. The blade swept low across his body, angled like a shield. Boots shifted against the stone, weight balanced, every muscle coiled.

With a slow exhale, Lysander began the kata.

One cut, then another, all textbook sweeps of Form I. His body flowed through the motions, the saber humming as it carved through the fog. Pivoting, he turned away and brought the blade down in a vertical strike, aggression sharpening the motion. In the yard there was no room for thought.. only the form, the breath, the blade.

He ran the sequence over and over, the blade tracing the same arc until the motion lived in his muscles rather than his thoughts. At the edge he paused, staring into the ruins. The academy was a forge, tunnels alive with rivals most likely waiting for him to fall. Stepping to the side of the yard, he slowly lowered himself onto a stone fragment. Thoughts wandered, toward survival, toward ambition, toward questions of what kind of Sith this world may shape him into.

 

[Naniti]

"You finished?" as feminine voice asked shrouded in mist. A violet-skinned Togruta as it became clear with the shifting air currents. She leaned against the wall of the tunnel with her arms crossed. As soon as she'd spoken, the young woman rocked away from the wall and began to stride slowly toward the training ground. Her form was wrapped in leather with hints of wool tucked at the collar for warmth on Desevro; her black, polished boots rolled across the ground without sporting outrageous fashion choices that'd kill reckless youths.

"Funny. They have us learn such an inelegant Form when they go on and on about how we're going to slaughter all the Jedi." Naniti rolled her shoulders. "Well, people still use vibroblades." Shii-Cho hadn't lost all value in the galaxy; it just hadn't changed since its original conception so long ago. Not that most Acolytes cared. Arguably, neither did she, but having read a book or two about it while looking for deep knowledge... Really, all she'd found out was anything worth learning was kept locked up in some Lord's personal collection. All that reading just to figure out the obvious.

Naniti stopped and looked over at the man. "What do you think? Would you be eager to show your junior a step or two?" The Togruta smiled. Was Lysander the type to instruct, dismiss, or kill? There was a reason a lot of students didn't go out of their way to ask others for help. Once they had their clique. And that's where Naniti was -- without a posse to stave off the ravenous hordes of ambition. Left her sore having to stave off so many attempts to kill her; usually without being able to put down her attackers because they came at her as a group.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Naniti​

Amidst the shifting fog that swallowed sound and dulled the edges of this frozen world, Lysander failed to register her presence at first; so consumed was he by the memories that clawed at him from the depths of his mind. It wasn’t until he heard a voice, that his trance was shattered.

With slowness, unwilling to show the surprise, he turned his head to track her approach. For a moment longer he remained perched upon the stone, simply basking in the hum of his saber. As she drew closer, one corner of his mouth tugged with the ghost of a smile, mainly due to her dismissal of Shii-Cho.

“Even the best end up leaning on it,” he said after a moment, “When things get messy, when all the fancy footwork falls apart.. it’s the basics that keep you breathing.” A simple truth, tossed out casually like he was talking to the fog.

Perhaps it was the duelist in him, biased toward structure, toward the elegance hidden in repetition. Or perhaps, he simply knew that forms were nothing without the foundation beneath them..

Then his gaze drifted past the Torgruta, memory daring to pull him elsewhere, back to Ukatis, and to the fencing halls where he’d first learned the discipline. From footwork to the sting of a foil across his body, and the instructors having drilled economy into his bones.

When he eventually returned to her, Lysander shifted his weight forward with a slow exhale. He didn’t waste any energy on posturing, nor look down on one as some apprentices did. He remembered that well enough. Korriban had been nothing but sharp teeth and vibroknives after he’d left Naboo. That hell had burned the arrogance out of him.

“If you want to learn..sure, I’ll show you a step or two. But just don’t expect charity. You’ll have to keep up.”

Stepping back into the training yard, the Sith's calculating eye fell over her stance, shoulders, and every subtle movement as he assessed her potential
"Go on.. give me your best. I'll point out what needs work."

The saber angled down, now giving the space of a circle. "Don't worry.. I've probably seen worse."

 

[Naniti]

The basics, huh? Wasn't even snide about it. "You're different," she replied as a matter of fact. Lysander seemed to understand a purpose behind an otherwise 'antiquated' technique. Naniti was certain some instructors taught it to students because it was antiquated. Weed out the weak. Keep the young helpless until everyone picked out their "favorite" to make it through alive. That sort of thing. There was more to it -- or there could have been -- but she didn't expect people to see it.

"I always want to learn. You don't get stronger thinking you have all the answers." Fact was, Naniti was confident in knowing nothing.

The Togruta followed Lysander toward the ring as he accepted the interested another showed. No need to goad him into it? Insult his honor? Just who was Lysander anyway? Maybe she'd have to dig up some biographical data on him.

She stopped and turned to face Lysander on the weathered proving ground. "Oh, you have." Naniti snorted. "And better." The price someone paid not spending every waking second throwing their lightsaber around. That and the lack of proper instruction. Sith Intructors imparted as much knowledge as they took by teaching -- deliberately or otherwise -- the wrong thing. And you didn't learn proper form in a book. Naniti hoped Lysander meant he'd be one of those interested in the truth.

The young woman drew her a scuffed saber and ignited the blade vertically upright in one hand. Its violet blade was cloaked by the mist, but cast its hue out into the nebulous surround. Slowly she brought the saber around to her right, left foot forward, right foot pointed to the right. One of the proper Shii-cho stances.

Naniti stepped forward to with a diagonal cut at the opponent's left shoulder, a step forward with the saber brought around for a strike at their right leg, and then a step with a vertical strike down at the head.

"Train out here often?" Not that she's caught him training. Some reflection? Naniti would ask about that soon enough, but it wouldn't hurt to discuss the form first.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Naniti​

Lysander didn't deign to answer immediately, letting the fog swirl between them in tendrils of violet and crimson like poisoned smoke. With the same efficiency that marked all his actions, a seasoned blade, he rose from a low guard, every movement stripped of excess. Leather boots kissed the cold permacrete with a scrape as he shifted his weight.

There was calm in his gaze, but it was the kind that came after fire, embers banked, heat concealed. So he embraced words that were all too familiar, yet this time they fell without venom’s sting.

“Different,” Lysander echoe. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Different because I don’t mistake survival for weakness. Strip away the fancy tricks, the bravado, and all that’s left is this..” he gave the blade a gentle incline, crimson light cutting a line through the mist, “..the spine of every form. Forget it, and you’re already mine.”

A diagonal sweep followed, his body answered before any thought had a chance of intruding. A pivot on the back foot, crimson rising in a broad arc to meet the Togruta’s strike. The clash hissed, a few sparks spitting into the mist. Eyes narrowed, not out of anger, but at the way her shoulder overextended.

“Not bad, but you gave me your flank.”

A second cut came low, aimed for his leg. The saber naturally dropped, a sweep this time, knees bending. Blades met once more with a crackle.

“You’re pulling from your arms. Power comes from the hips.”

The third fell vertically, straight for his head. This time, it was a more textbook block, elbows tucked in sharply, wrists firm. The impact still shuddered down his own arms, but the Sith’s stance was rooted, and his focus would never leave the acolyte.

“Most Sith aren’t going to meet you head on. They’ll cut across.. don’t give them the line.”

After he pushed the violet blade aside with a twist of his wrists, before stepping back to reset their circle. Lysander’s chest rose and fell, the exhale slow.

A reply arrived at last. “Every day.. after I run. Gets the blood moving.. clears the noise. I can’t start the day without it.”

A glance flicked to the ruins beyond before returning to her. “You call me different. Fair enough. But what about you? What makes you worth the trouble of teaching?”

His stance compressed, a coil of discipline. “Again. But this time, show me your intent. Make me believe you want me dead.”

 

[Naniti]

Naniti eyed the man as he provided his feedback. A tightness appeared beneath the eyes as she considered it. More than just the fundamentals then. Should have figured. They were still at a Sith Academy, after all, where the first rule was there were no rules (unless you got caught). She'd just have to file this all away for a more thorough consideration later, and do what she could in the moment.

The violet blade spun off to the side as she stalked back to her own starting position. It gave her that moment to think -- not something often encouraged at the Academy.

"My life is a riddle that must be solved. And to do that, I need to survive." The Togruta lunged forward as she said the last word, both hands took hold of the hilt as she swung it for Lysander's left side. She'd give him force if that was what he sought. From the hips as he'd said. Her eyes were locked on him as she looked for signs of deception. To not be where your opponent expected you, and allow them to hit nothing but air, could get a person killed.

If their blades locked, she'd try to press the moment to bring them close together with the blades between them. It wouldn't exactly be stressing the fundamentals, but tactics were important to exercise as well. Try to get his feet in the right position, the saber at the right angle, and perhaps she could slip around his guard.

"And you're different because you're humoring me. Most the people in there think to survive they need to eliminate the competition. Cull the weak." Whether they exchanged words over locked blades, or just after the pressure released in their efforts to take the round's point, Naniti was interested in hearing more of the man's personal code. "How much knowledge as been lost? How much power tucked away never to be seen again? Just to demonstrate they possess the ability to kill -- and not even particularly well." Everyone only seemed to do things that made it impossible for her to learn the truth. That frustration and anger kept the instructors happy when they demanded signs of their students internalizing their lessons.

Lysander von Ascania