Black Iron

[Velok the Younger]

The overflowing life of the Demon Moon gave way to stillness when Seren Ordavo reached the tomb of Nadd. In ancient times, when Arca had ordered its creation, it had been a squat monolith flanked by obelisks. But in later centuries, the unnature of the place had twisted its physical structure, as if in symbolic reflection of the lives altered by a simple visit to the tomb. The dark side of the Force had warped the Mandalorian iron walls and towers, distorted them to match the flows of strength that rituals prompted.

Even now, over five millennia after the Age of Nadd, the tomb drew pilgrims eager to taste the strength of the impression that memory had left here. Freedon Nadd, in so many ways, had changed the future. Perhaps the temple's evolution, a beskar glacier eroding or a beskar tree unfurling, symbolized or reflected time.

 

[Velok the Younger]

There were no cultists here -- no pretenders, no pilgrims, nobody claiming a drop of Nadd's blood, though his descendants included half of Onderon by now. On his last visit here, almost two decades back, that had not been the case, and the tomb's mirrored beskar floor had run red. He'd been a different man then, a proud and disciplined professional, a man of aspiration, precision, art and even love. An Inquisitor.

People evolved like this place, bent to the will of their circumstances and surroundings. A part of him was ashamed to have changed so much from something worthwhile. Another part of him remembered the sacrifices, compromises and tragedies that had prompted him to forget what he was. He hadn't listened until prison made it easy. Habit could transform a soul, regardless of opportunity.

 

[Velok the Younger]

There had been another power here then, sixteen years ago. Undercover in a Nadd cult, he'd faced only limited signs of the Other, a being that could threaten entire Dark Side cults and keep them tacit. A being as tolerant of their nonsense as she was intolerant of their excesses. Their greatest excess, of course, the one that he'd imagine had finally earned her attention -- and not in a good way -- had been dying. Not at her hand, not at his, not at their own. Binary methods of representing power struggles had no realism, to his mind. And the tomb of Freedon Nadd, even after a thousand rituals and experiments, still had power worth the struggle. That so many recognized said opportunity was a source of irritation to High Inquisitor Seren Ordavo.

With a slightly nervous sigh, all out of odds with an identity sixteen years in the cultivation, Seren ascended the long beskar ramp. Two statues on either side, each the size of main battle tanks, each pure mandalorian iron. A lesser man might have looked to this for value; the tomb of Nadd had to be the largest deposit of Mandalorian iron off Concordia.

 

[Velok the Younger]

Then again, the point of masterforged beskar was that nothing and nobody could make a dent in this tomb. Against the unfettered avarice of the greediest and most powerful sentients in history, not to mention the possessiveness of a massive and highly skilled Mandalorian population, the tomb had remained essentially unmarked. No lightsabre or Sith lord or Mandalorian hammer had done better than scratch off the leavings here or there. The tip of a statue's spear, the occasional nose. He ran his hand over a place where an industrial jackhammer and a Sith magician had collaborated in an attempt to bend the iron to their will. The mirror finish had gone matte; there was no other sign.

"Not so easy to exploit something that knows what it's doing," he murmured, and couldn't repress a rare smile.

 

[Velok the Younger]

The tomb, outside and in, refused to fit his memories. Few memories survived sixteen years intact, either from false color or eroded detail, but he couldn't pin down the directionality of the relationship between changes in memory and in identity. Was he a different man now because his memories had altered, or the converse?

The tomb of Nadd had shown centuries of searchers what they were, what they truly wanted and how much they wanted it. It could show him what he was now. But what was it about places like these -- what was it about the fetishization of history that produced such profound results in the Sith and Jedi traditions? Tombs, shrines, temples, memoirs, grimoires, holocrons, artifacts. What was it about the past that was so intrinsically superior? Why could the past change a soul?

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Seren Ordavo"]

Walked a few steps behind Seren, eyes on our surroundings. Guy was pretty heavily vested in the tomb, which was whatever to me, everyone had their own history and I didn’t after his. If he wanted to tell me something about his relationship to the place he would do so in his own time, if he kept silent? I would respect that, hell, even after all these weeks of traveling together I haven’t shared all that much about myself either.

Place felt twisted, frecked to huge degree by the bloodshed, rituals, dark mana. Made my skin crawl, but I ignored the feeling. He needed this, apparently. Maybe when I had been younger, more an idealist I would have made a point about this.

Not now, not after everything.

Kept my silence, just scanned the perimeter. I’d have the guy’s back while he was dealing.

 

[Velok the Younger]

The presence of [member="Nui Akona"] disturbed the ambiance like a swirl of water in mud. Not light, not by a long shot, but Akona had little in common with this place so far as Seren could tell. That he was content to come along and watch Seren's back, and maybe test himself against whatever animals or cultists came round, said something about what could only be described as a friendship, no matter how new and uneasy. No matter how unwilling Seren was to call anyone friend. Then again, the scars on Akona suggested the former Jedi -- 'Sardun', he'd called himself -- had just as much cause to stand alone.

For the moment, Seren left him to follow or stay as he would. The tomb wanted his attention.

The sarcophagus of Nadd sat where it always had, in the heart of the crypt. No cultists, no rituals, no light. He found the evertorches in his mind's eye and lit them with a gesture, casting a smoky orange pall over the iron coffin. His eyes closed, Seren began to move the coffin -- slide it across the stone, revealing a small niche beneath. Nadd's spirit had been destroyed. There was nothing of substance left to desecrate.

It lay where he'd left it, beneath the sarcophagus and the Dark Lord's bones: a package as long and wide as his forearm, wrapped in the dark cloak he'd worn as a High Inquisitor. He left the cloak on the floor and slipped the lanvarok onto his left arm, then shoved the coffin back into place, again with telekinesis. It weighed tons; he could shift tons, if he tried. Packages of lanvarok discs settled into his belt pouches; a half-cylinder of them clicked into the lanvarok proper, alchemical metal on alchemical metal. The lanvarok was not of his make. It dated to the era of Nadd; whether it had belonged to the Dark Lord or one of his servants, it had also belonged to Seren, and served him well for a long time before his infiltration of the Naddists sixteen years ago. Onderon was in his blood, in a sense he couldn't quantify.

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Seren Ordavo"]

Never had many friends, Jedi, Vong… whatever the hell I was now. Never had really mattered what alignment took my sway, it had never been much for me, friends. Too much of a distraction, propriety while being a General, responsibility as a Master, you know how it is. Could really only call Grayson a friend, formerly at the very least- doubt she would want anything to do with me right now.

I didn’t approach the tomb, wasn’t afraid, didn’t really think corruption could hold me any tighter than it was already holding me. But it wasn’t my place, I knew instinctively that I didn’t belong here, just the way the currents come and go, I guess. Seren felt it too, could see the glimpse of the face as he silently sensed the undercurrents of the temple and my own self.

So I waited at the entrance, looking outside and making sure nobody could sneak up on us just like that.

Besides, the guy needed some privacy. Few could understand that better than me.

 

[Velok the Younger]

[member="Nui Akona"]

His fingers paused on the elbow latch of the lanvarok; a moment later, the rest of him paused as he drew a slow breath through his nose. The tomb of Nadd was a familiar patchwork of smells -- old blood, black iron, stale incense.

And perfume.

It had, admittedly, been a while since he'd had experience with perfume, at least not the kind they wore in civilized places. This one was wild, sharp, strong and almost fetid, the kind of thing that cost money and made men cover their noses as they walked past store displays. The perfume, like the incense, was faint and stale; whoever had been here, weeks had passed. He paused at the door to King Ommin's crypt, a dark spot in its own right, and grew more certain that the pilgrim had come here, for no sensible reason. Ommin had been nothing but an imitator and successor of Nadd, whose tomb was only paces away. Both had been kings of Onderon, both masters of Sith Magic, but there the resemblance ended.

Tucked behind the dead king's sarcophagus, he found a small parcel -- a note on flimsiplast, wrapped around a necklace made of interlinked metallic triangles. The note read Spikes through his temples and barbed wire on his hands, here lies a faithful husband. He glanced back at the door, and the crypt of Ommin's wife, Amanoa. With a shrug, he wrapped the note around the amulet and stuffed it back behind the coffin. Whatever it was, he wasn't here for this.

 

[Arage Bao]

Sardun simply looked on as [member="Seren Ordavo"] put back the amulet, seemed it wasn’t all that interesting. The Dark Jedi shrugged and turned back around to study the immediate area surrounding the complex they were in, somewhere deep in his gut he could feel something coming. He had never been all that good with senses, not his forte, but spending all this time with Seren? You pick something up here and there, Vong Nature was only helping him with it

A sniff and then a barely suppressed cough. Who would wear such perfume and why? Good question, but not the one they were here for.

‘If you are done reminiscing.’ the man finally said, breaking through Seren’s spell. ‘Gotta feeling we got something incoming.’

He tilted his head, getting a crack out and started walking towards the sense of dread.

‘Finish up, I am gonna check it out.’

 

[Velok the Younger]

[member="Nui Akona"]

"I'm eighty years old," Seren drawled in his cracking-rock basso. "Reminiscing's all I've got."

He rose from his crouch beside the sarcophagus and tossed Akona a useless alchemical trinket, obviously half of a whole. "While we wait, tell me what you make of this. Found it in Nadd's crypt, same perfume as whoever left that amulet. Look familiar at all?"

One hand rested flat against the cold beskar wall, and he stretched out through the bones of the long-familiar structure to see if he could sense what was coming. For too long, though, his senses had been tuned to sight, sound, smell, anger and fear. Whatever Akona was feeling, Seren didn't. All he felt was the beskar, the old tough metal imbued with the Dark Side.

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Seren Ordavo"]

Caught it, looked at it for a while. He had never been much for esoteric bullcrap and this felt like esoteric bullcrap, moment his skin touched it he felt some kind of… need to move into a certain direction. Didn’t like it. But Sardun wasn’t a man to go cry in a corner whenever some schutta is trying to push ‘im in a direction.

‘Nope.’ he finally said. ‘Looks kinda nifty tho, could make a necklace outta it.’

What Akuna was sensing was primal force balled together into a single entity, there was no anger or fear, there was hubris and the vague sense of being the biggest queen of the entire forest. Whatever it was, it would be here soon.

 

[Velok the Younger]

[member="Nui Akona"]

Seren took another long breath, smelling the air, then listened in silence. "Jungle's gone quiet outside," he said, the alchemical trinket forgotten. "There's a drexl hunting nearby. Think the love child of a rancor and a colossus wasp and you're close. Even the small ones can't get down here, so feel free to hide until it's gone." He grinned in the kind of mockery that didn't care and didn't expect to be taken seriously. Though he'd like to see a drexl again, he had his priorities, even if he couldn't explain them. The tomb kept calling to him. Maybe it was an ectomantic thing; Seren was an ectomancer, and Nadd's tomb had seen its share of ghosts. Maybe it was just appreciation for the tomb's resilience. He rested his hand against the metal again and closed his eyes.

"Do your thing."

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Seren Ordavo"]

Drexl. Never heard of it. But it being a cross between a rancor and a gigantic wasp made him only grin all the wider, he put the trinket in his pocket for now. Might be the Jedi would lose it in the scuffle, might be he would make a necklace out of it like he said. Who knew these days.

‘Have fun.’ said over the shoulder. One thing was for sure, he was gonna have a lot of fun with this one. He pulled a spear from his back, nothing too fancy, simple work, alchemical edged on the out-end. Wood was treated too, wouldn’t break as easily; gave him options.

He had two more smaller versions of the same thing on his back, they were used for close distance. Had a feeling he wouldn’t want to get too close to this thing.

 

[Velok the Younger]

As [member="Nui Akona"] loped off to his hunt, Seren retreated deeper into the guts of the tomb complex until he found a decidedly dusty nook, a place without footprints or glyphs. As with everywhere else in this place, everything was masterforged Mandalorian iron -- ceiling, walls, floor, and an ornamental urn that merged with the floor like the statues out front. All one piece. The Mandalorians of four thousand BBY hadn't messed around. His extensive past with this place gave him remarkably little to work with: imbued with the Dark Side, tainted by the ghosts of millennia, and masterforged under the supervision of one of the stongest Jedi Masters in history, the tomb of Freedon Nadd had defied every known effort at exploitation. In fact, it tended to exploit those that tried.

He knelt, crossed his ankles, and rested his palms on his knees. The edge of his old lanvarok dug into his leg. He closed his eyes and reached out to touch the first barrier, the solid layer of dark memory that treasured this place, warped the Force, made the mental resistant to interference and time while susceptible to gentle, patient shape-change.

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Seren Ordavo"]

Forest was quiet, indigenous population was aware a predator was on the loose and they were all retreating until the threat was gone, or dealt with. He kept to the shadows spun by the forestation, breathing in and out, tasting the sour scent of blood and a huge unwashed body.

Seemed the beast wasn’t prone to shower all that often, not that he really needed to go off scent at this point. The Drexl was making enough noise to wake up even the deepest of dreamers.

Breath rushed in, anticipation of the coming battle, muscles augmented, adrenaline coursing through his veins and giving him just the edge he needed for what was about to come. He had no doubt this would be a difficult battle, but that was thing… Sardun needed this.

Thrill of the battle, mixed with shedding the blood of something ancient. Only way to keep his own passions restricted and off the path of total consumption. Whatever he had become, he wasn’t ready yet to become a full monster.

Maybe that was his weakness.

 

[Velok the Younger]

[member="Nui Akona"]

Kneeling put his head level with the top of the ornamental urn, a black iron near-cylinder as big around as his waist. All of one piece with the rest of the tomb, it probably would have weighed close to a quarter ton if somehow cut free -- he'd glanced in the top, or tried to. The dang thing wasn't hollow. Cursed Beskar all the way through. A touch confirmed that, a forceful touch with the pommel of his knife; he listened to the reverberations, the harmonics.

The first obstacle lay within the realm of ectomancy, warding off the spirits he would undoubtedly disturb. He had his own rituals for that, procedures he'd honed in the dark. He'd never been explicitly trained in Sith skills, had no right or desire to call himself a Sith Lord, and his ritual had nothing to do with Sith magic so far as he was aware. The ritual was more for the spirits' benefit than his. They saw him inscribe a line around himself and the urn using his own blood, they sensed his power, they remembered him. They would respect the forms.

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Seren Ordavo"]

A roar. Feth. It got his scent and he wasn’t nearly in the position yet, heel planted in the dirt he launched himself forward, speed blurring his form and motions, everything slowed down to a screeching halt allowing him to get a jist of the situation he found himself in.

Beast was making cursory circles around his location, it knew he was around, didn’t know where exactly to find him though. Scents turned into each other when distance was a thing, ‘sides… he probably still smelled like the corpse of a Hssiss which threw the thing for a loop too.

Clearing in the forest became apparent, he bend away from it - last thing Nui wanted was to fight that thing all in the open… well actually. Another grin. He bend back towards clearing, the beast spotted him a few seconds after, but Sardun was ready.

Point was… he didn’t need a spear, didn’t need a knife either. That was the thing with breath and the concentration to clear your mind, power fluxing through your muscles… you just needed a good fist. Took aim, let the spear fly. It wouldn’t do a lot of damage, hit home between two scales - just made it more angry.

Sardun breathed in, planted his heels in the ground and stabilized his footing. This was going to be interesting.

 

[Velok the Younger]

[member="Nui Akona"]

While the Jedi made himself kinetic, the killer made himself static. A ring of blood, his blood, surrounded him and the urn, more to intimidate spirits than to channel the Force. He split his focus, half toward ensuring he'd remain undisturbed by the shades of this place, and half toward mastering the layers upon layers of memory infused into the metal. Most Force spirits, shades, were just echos, no more sentient than the tomb they guarded. Most Dark Side nexuses were little more than memory infused into a place; the old files on Dagobah and Irax had made that clear, and Seren's experience bore it out. Refining that chaotic mess was a process akin to that which had turned rare ores into the beskar itself. The end product would partake of the tomb's strength while constraining it, and gain greater strength by counterpressure, like the spiritual equivalent of a structural support made more solid by weight. The mess of spirit and memory, the fabric of the nexus, began to take on a more refined aspect in the vicinity of the solid ornamental urn.

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Seren Ordavo"]

Remnants of the Infinite Empire had changed him. Claws extending from a wall and gripping his head, memories not his own flooding in and leaving him unconscious, night and day he was dealing with new sensations, words, experiences not his own. He had come there for knowledge, and left with a whole library of it.

The beast was swooping in, gave him flashbacks from a day ancient. Had been another beast, a different world, but the result was the same. Standing staunch, feet planted into the ground, defying expectations and the rules of nature.

It clenched its mighty jaws, clamping them down. First attempt at an attack would be a headbutt, he could sense it, saw it as the predator reared his head in flight and angled it for a dash. Daze the target, then eat him. Interesting strategy.

This target didn’t move though, had it been more sentient it might have asked itself why. Might have questioned the lack of mobility from prey that had moved so swiftly only a few moments ago. Didn’t do that though.

Ten meters. It roared again, intimidating presence.

Eight meters, last chance to run. Too ecstatic. Calves were locked tight for the following move.