If thoughts were lights?

[Mór-rioghain]

There is no real beginning or ending to a story.. Just the places where you start and stop telling it. It is of little consequence whether or not it is true. It is the expression, the expression has been the vessel for the heart always. We express what we feel and that is a truth that would never be rooted in something as shallow as reality. What is true and what is not, they are not always the same.


Once there was a girl, who was but a child in body, and so possessed a wisdom that only innocence may envelope within it's folds; where it lie safely, before it was tarnished by all the corrupted, gnarled ideologies of souls withered by time and wounded by heartbreak.


Often the mind and heart then become an unforgiving, barren place in which hope and trust no longer can flourish. Hung in the heart of a child is the unquenchable thirst to believe, from that stems the birth of all creativity, creativity having always been the most charming aspect of wisdom. Creativity is the hope and inspiration of intellect, but with boundless potential.


All that is needed to know is that one day, she asked herself a question, and it changed everything.{"Why don't I feel?"}


Now this particular question lead her to thinking, and when she got to thinking; it never seemed to stop. A twirling spiral of ever lasting thoughts, dancing through her mind at a mile a minute. Making her way through the hallway, the fiery haired female would hunt her father down, sidestepping the various people she came upon. Closing her eyes, she would put out feelers in the force, attempting to get a feel on where the man that sired her would be located. She was on a mission, she sought him out so that she might have an at length discussion with him. "Father..?" A soft call through the force would alert the old man that she wished to speak to him at length.


[member="Isley Verd"]

 

[Darth Metus]

Blood.

Over the course of eons, the Crimson which flowed through Creation's veins had become...a symbol. While racing hot through a man, it signified life. Vibrance. However. When the flesh was breached or broken...when a predator finally made the kill...Blood always represented Death. For a time, the Warmaster had done his best to avert his gaze from this simple truth. In years long past, he had become fluent in dealings of Death; for it was by Blood that he drew power. By the vibrance of his foes did Isley create terrifying samples of Darkness, for no other purpose than to test his skill. Yet now...now that he had become Warmaster - a "hero" to his people - doubt crept into his thoughts.

On one hand, he felt that duty demanded that his hands remain clean from his Old Ways. He felt as though the people of Mandalore would frown upon the truest applications of Alchemy - those which demanded the shedding of Blood for power. But the practical part of his mind spoke differently. The Force had bestowed upon him a Vision: a terrifying glimpse into the future. It showed him the dead rising in droves. It showed him beasts preying upon the masses. It showed him the Blood Shamans rising to power. Isley knew that the Light was a fleeting ally in the storm that was to come...and that, if he were to find success in the coming Hunt, he needed to prepare. A solemn breath filled his lungs.

And blade in hand, he faced subdued foes.

Bound. Tortured. Broken. The men before him were plucked fresh from the ranks of a Dar'manda Warlord, the very same who had opposed the Crusaders on Mygeeto. They were taken to provide information: why had they not returned to Mandalore, how the Warlord had amassed such resistance...And for their crimes, execution was certain. Their fellows had already been sent to face the judgment of Kad Haran'gir in the Great Manda; yet these souls tarried behind. Death was certain, but the sole question was how they would go. The Warmaster teetered on the decision. He could claim their lives now, in an instant; but to do so would mean diving into the Abyss once more. Should he? Could he?

An armored hand seized the first of the men, lowering his head over the rim of the Forge. Terror shrieked from his lungs as the sheer heat began to cook his face. They were not here to be tortured...Isley knew that. He had to decide. He had to decide. The blade was as ice upon the blistering flesh, a cool contradiction to the inferno burning below. Isley exhaled, concluding the debate in his mind once and for all. He did not embark on this journey to be hailed as a hero, nor worshipped as a King. He began this path for the people. His hands, over time, had already become caked with blood...so why stay them now? He was, at the end of the day, one of the finest Alchemical minds the Galaxy had ever known.

And that talent would be honed to an edge. That prowess would see the Hunt's success.

Terror echoed about the walls of the Forge, only to be silenced by a ragged cut. A sacrifice had been made: an offering to a famished Forge. Yet this was but an appetizer...and for Power to descend upon his works, Isley needed more. One by one were the seven souls fed to the fire. One by one was blood poured upon the hungry coals. And in their wake, Darkness reared its head. The Warmaster inhaled...

And realized he was not alone.

Turning, Isley made no attempt to hide the corpses who hung - rather unceremoniously - over the stones of his Forge. Rather, he simply discarded the piece upon a tool-cluttered table. "What is it, Child of Mine?" he breathed, motioning for her to step forward. "Do not be afraid...This-" he then swept his arm at the grotesque display. "is but a necessary step. This is what I do - what I am. What...I've run from for so long." He sighed. His people would never accept this, nor would he flaunt it...but, when the victory is ushered by the work of his hands, they would turn a blind eye. They would speak not a word condemning the slaughter of traitors in the name of Power. They would utter not a damning word.

"Come. Sit. Tell me why you have come."

[member="Mór-rioghain"]

 

[Mór-rioghain]

She should be appalled the the scene before, appalled and disgusted.. Yet, she was blissfully blank. Nothing. She knew how she should be reacting and as such when no emotional response to the scene before her came, only then did she react. Nails dug into the palm of her hand, encouraging slivers of pain to slice through her being.

A reminder that she was in fact real and truly there. Stepping forward, she would side-step the man whom had sired her only to walk forward and reach out and brush a hand over the various corpses. They felt real. The unique stench that came with death was real. So it was only when she turned to face him that Mo would begin speaking, her face completely neutral.

"This won't bother me. Nor would you dropping dead in front of me. I know the emotional response I should have to such scenes playing out before my eyes.. Yet, I feel nothing. I've come to accept that this blissful emptiness is a part of me."

It was then that emerald hues slid over every inch of the room, appraising in with a analytical glance. She was looking at this with a cold detachment. One her father would surely be able to pick up on. "I came to speak to you about a tedious problem I've been having since I was a child.. That is if you of course have time father."


[member="Isley Verd"]

 

[Darth Metus]

There was a time...where this very moment would have terrified Isley.

When first he had walked the path to his redemption, the Warmaster feared that his children would discover the truth...that he, and his craft, were steeped in blood. He had attempted to come to terms with every scenario – living with the truth that hiding his work would eventually come to the light. But it never did, at least not the gruesome side of things. Runi. Nyx. Deneve. Ithiel. And now his youngest all knew that he practiced Alchemy and Forgework. But they had no inclination that Blood was the price to make things...powerful. Despite this, Isley attempted to prepare himself for how they would react if they discovered this truth.

He had braced himself for screams...for anger...for their running away and never looking back. But this? Walking forward to examine the dead - to touch them? To...to be complete unphased? That took the Mandalorian completely by surprise, enough so that he gaped at his child for a moment. To make matters even more odd, Mori had even voiced that she would never be taken aback by these things. That she knew she was supposed to, but didn't. She seemed...detached. As if she were present physically, but far from it mentally. Isley swallowed, taking a step closer to his daughter.

"For you, there is always time." he began. "Tell me what troubles you."

For a moment, a comforting hand was placed upon the small of Mori's back, but the touch was relinquished soon after it had begun. Isley was there to listen - to understand - but there was a precious window to take advantage of. The Forge was ready and eager to create, and the Warmaster would be a fool not to oblige. As such, he briefly stepped away from his child, kicking aside a corpse in the process, in order to grab a single bar of Desh-Terenthium. This was then tossed into the coals and shoved, telekinetically, into their blood-soaked midst.

"If you so desire, you can aide me as you once did..."

[member="Mór-rioghain"]

 

[Mór-rioghain]

"Visions and whispers in the dark.." Six simple words left the girl's lips before she stepped forward to inspect her father's work, her gaze sliding to him in a piercing glance. She knew she felt darkness coming from him, would see comment on it?No. She found the feel of the darkness comforting. It wasn't as bad as the man she had visions of as a child.


"I've had visions of a man doing what most would consider horrible things since I can first remember from torturing people to killing entire populations.. That thing that puzzles me is that I look forward to the next vision with a detached clinical interest.. You see father, the pattern blood takes when shed tells a lot about the person that shed the blood in the first place.."


Drifting into silence once more, she would glance down at her nails before once more glancing up at her father, her lips twitching slightly, a habit that occurred when she tried to show emotion but fell flat. Taking a deep breath, she would prepare herself before speaking to him once more.

"I want to find the man in my visions. I want to learn from him. The way he kills is beautiful. Savage in a clinical yet regal way. I would like for you to help me. Let's face it. I'm not like my siblings. I'm drawn to the darkness and will embrace it. I have no desire to embrace the Mandalorian culture. I am here because my family is here.."


[member="Isley Verd"]

 

[Darth Metus]

Isley listened.

There was a saying the Mandalorian heard during his days as a budding Alchemist. It went something along the lines of "a sharp knife is a kind man's weapon." Only now, having heard what was on his child's mind, did the gravity of the expression weigh upon him. Isley was barely dipping his toes in the metaphorical ocean. He slit throats with keened blades as to make bring about a swift demise. Yet monsters? Savages? They would wield knives caked in rust. Chipped. Dulled. They would make them suffer.

Their creations would shatter the world.

A low sigh escaped the Mandalorian. In his heart, he never saw himself as "evil." He always wielded this power for the "decent" reasons: to protect his home, his kin. But to fully accept it? That would mean to become something he wasn't. That would mean to wield blunted knives. Setting his eyes back upon Mori, Isley felt was met with guilt. If he had been there, maybe he could have done something about these visions early on. Maybe that was why she had a morbid curiosity with the deceased leaning over the coals – black visions from childhood had warped her into the woman of present.

"I can help you find him." he began, before turning away. His focus was upon the Forge. His lips weaved an incantation. Old. Paecaen. Soon, an emerald tinge blessed the blood soaked coals. "It wouldn't take much to do so, in fact." He was referring to the "trick" he had picked up from the late Warmaster - his brother Ember. A walk through time and memory itself.

"But nothing in this life is free, child of mine. In return, you will indeed adopt my ways."

She may not have been like her sisters, but she was still a Verd. Bound by blood.

[member="Mór-rioghain"]