Soul of the Sword

[Julius Sedaire]

Ijaat didn't know where the blade had came from, who made it, or what it was capable of and how it could do it. But he knew exactly who would, and knew he could trust them. A smithing mentor of his on a far away world, a hermit of such, who worked making force imbued blades and used Sith Alchemy, although he wasn't of the Dark Side, a fact of which Ijaat was immensely grateful for as he sat down his white and gold painted patrol craft on the landing pad. Without a moments hesitation, he set the droids that helped him pilot the craft to a defensive programming order and hopped aboard a speeder bike in the hold, gunning the engine and screaming off the ramp even as it closed and locked.

Appropriately, he arrived at the place they had agreed to meet with the engines smoking. He was wearing not a single plate of armor, dressed for once rather oddly, though his old friend would recognize the flowing long sleeved tunic that came to just above his knees with the high neck and insignia of supercommandos. Ijaat had taken an old swordsman uniform from their past, and included the various medals and awards he had gained fighting in the official mandalorian army, his rise something he suspected Marasun would have heard of quite with a bit of pleasure, the old warrior always telling Ijaat to accept responsibility.

Stepping into a back room guided by a kimono clad woman with white face paint and black lined eyes, Ijaat bowed to her in thanks as he cradled the taozin hide wrapped bundle. There was no formalities between him and Marasun, he simply set the blade down without a greeting and unrolled the bundle as he pointed to it with no preamble or introduction. There was speech only as Marasun reached out to the long hilt of the weapon.

"I brought that thing back with me from the Netherworld itself... Somehow I managed to keep it... I know such things are your specialty.. It was cutting honed durasteel like a rock knaps flint. I need to know how, and what it can do..."

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Marasun recoiled from touching the thing like he had been bitten by a sanke, hissing almost audibly as his oiled black top-knot, held tightly in place on his head swayed, the long pony-tail come down from it tinkling with the sound of bells as it moved, each bell a symbol of a ranked master he had killed or defeated in sanctioned combat on his home planet. There were well over twenty bells in his hair, attesting to a lifetime of skill not only within the forge, but within the dueling arena and fires of combat themselves. The human smith stroked a finely manicured hand along a pointed and waxed goatee, curling it slightly as his eyes narrowed. The mandalorian assumed he was using his particular talents in the Force to examine the blade.

"We won't mention the fact that my predictions when you left my tutelage were correct, my friend... Your medals and bearing suit an ori'ramikad, not the drunken brawler I tried to save. This is indeed not a normal sword. Far, far from it. It is an alchemical blade, but without the taint of the darkside... I can see it's beginnings through psychometry, would you hear of them? Of the tale of this blade, and what it can do? It is a powerful one, and I think it is fitting for a warrior of your new stature and pride. It may even help keep you humble."

Snorting a bit, Ijaat sat cross legged across the table from Marasun and nodded, indicating for him to continue as he waved away a potent smelling rice wane that he and Marasun had once favored, instead requesting nothing more, in a quiet tone to the side, than a cup of hot Meilang, a honey sweetened green tea with clove and ginger in it. It was a drink that he knew his old friend found alluring and divine, and had always preferred over liquor and dark ales the younger self of Ijaat had liked.

"Yes... Please... I need to know... Something tells me it was more than mere chance that I found it...."

 

[Julius Sedaire]

"It was almost eons ago... When the Jedi were not as we know them now, when they were on Tython still, dreaming yet of a future to be. When they were just discovering the secrets of things such as alchemy. One of them who led such research did not fall at first into the traps of the darkside, and made this ancient blade was made by that follower of the Ashla, before he turned to the Bogan, before the allure of evil tainted him. I can see his face now, how he moves, the care in his eyes....

This blade... It is powerful, he poured decades and decades of knowledge into it, and it was the last thing he crafted. Though he knew it not yet, it can withstand even lightsabers, for I see it fighting one on the planet Corbus when the Old Sith Empire was strong.... IT is such though, that you will need to train with it, for it echoes it's creators fall, as he finished it at the beginning of his seduction to the Dark Side. It will consume you, as did it to him, magnifying your flaws..."

Here, Marasun stood, and Ijaat became noticably agitated as the man opened the door behind him to a sandy courtyard. Such was the prestige of his friend on this planet, that he merely had to clap, and those within it scattered to the side and he walked out and stood in the middle of the courtyard, rolling his shoulders slowly as a young child ran up to him with an plain and battered looking sword in a dented and scratched saya. Ijaat knew the blade without question, and knew what Marasun was proposing. His old mentor had always believed in the power of first hand experience, and likely would continue the story as they dueled, a common want and habit of his.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

As he stepped to the sands, Ijaat unbuttoned the silver chased veshok wood toggles of his military uniform like coat, handing it off quietly to an attendant that ran forward with the worshyk sheathed blade, which Ijaat grasped in his hand. For the first time, he bared the weapon, examining it. There was gem and electrum work detailing like scrolls, curving and crossing up and down the few inches of the bared blade, which somehow felt impossibly light and agile in his hands, practically screaming to be used and to move and slash. Indeed, it would take time to get used to this blade, and he drew it forth almost hesitantly, for the first time feeling again the awe he did when his father handed him his first blade so long ago.

"There was much suffering to be gained by this blade. Eventually, to cement it's powers, the one who made it died. It was forged of a desh-terenthium blade alloy, making it feel likely impossibly swift and light in your hands, even after the alchemical process. The blade will not be so sturdy in a bind, slightly flexible from it's makings, but it will be swift enough a worth fighter will rarely be caught in such. The handle is made for those grand sweeps and ripostes you love so, with your silly double edged blade fighting."

Standing, Marasun drew his sword and spun it in a lazy figure eight, the sunlight catching it with a dull gleam. The blade wasn't nicked, or scarred, and was not dull of edge or sheen. But it was not mirror bright, not a single glitter or sign of fancy art, like Ijaats. This was an old blade, a blade of a humble hermit. Marasun had made it himself, the last blade he made as an apprentice. He had made many more since it, better ones even in some regards, but he maintained and kept it, as a reminder of skill gained and beginnings, no matter how humble. It was an affectation Ijaat did not wholly understand, but which endeared the man to him all the same.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Shrugging, the slightly Asian looking human slipped the top half of his robe down and then off, the silken garment not even reaching the sand before the same boy who brought Marasun his blade had bolted forward, caught the garment and hurried off the side, folding it and setting it neatly on a bench, the grey garment trimmed in crimson braided silk, a rank denoter of an entirely different manner. It spoke not of power, but of failing and loss, at least in the ritualized and formalized society Marasun was born into. Still, the braiding over-rode the cords, and spoke more of skill than anything. Funny how such little things spoke volumes. In this regard, Ijaat preferred silence, and to let his actions speak.

"There was great sorcery invoked in this blade. They mixed practices that now we would know as Light and Dark. Alchemy, Sorcery, Jal'shey. All of them had their grandfathers involved in this thing, practices that would become backbones of my arts were practically invented to make it, in some respects. At the end, knowing it could not do what he wished it to do, the creator invoked rituals that went beyond the Grey Spirit, as my people call the Force of Balance, and sacrificed his own life using arcane secrets known to the worshippers of the Bogan..

Anyone who rightly wields that blade will be as fast or faster than even a Jedi or Sith or any other Force user using such powers to enhance their own being.... It was a tedious, tawdry process... I see him flagellating himself, blood pouring down his back and from his body over the blade.. It caused the effect he wanted, but it took too much of his life force to sustain the power the ritual needed, and the man died, his apprentice taking up the blade and fighting against those worshipping the Bogan, those he viewed as responsible for his Master's death. The grief the young man felt as he interrupted the ritual, the rage, caused a singular flaw... "

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Stalking forward, Ijaat listened to the man as his old friend saluted him in a gesture of respect, inclining his head deeply. The gesture was one that took him back, as the depth of the head-bow meant that Marasun recognized him as a worthy foe, a rival, one of equal stature and worth. And the man now standing in an advanced guard, twinkling grey eyes almost smiling at him, rarely joked about such things as a dance of blades, as he considered it demeaning to the spirit of the swords and practitioners to do so in any way or form really. It was a rare thing for him to deign to such a gesture, and Ijaat returned it as the blade in his hands was drawn and he assumed a guard, feeling a quickening of his pulse as the point of the blade rose up and settle into a classic falcon posture, a wide and inviting guard he knew Marasun didn't care for.

"The inlay is corsuca gems, if you can't tell... Beautifully worked and strengthened even so they are not a weak point on the blade... WIth a Force Master behind them, they could possibly do amazing things with lightning, but in your hands the blade will merely catch and deflect or absorb such. It will not be as strong for you as it could for me, but it will push you to recognize your own flaws... Only by overcoming your own self loathing will you ever truly master the curse of that pretty little toy there that you wield. And only then will it truly become more of a toy and something akin to a blade with which to forge your legend across the sky."

Standing, the other spun, whirling in a tight pattern as the blade came right for Ijaat's head in a focused strike, the edge almost quicker than he could think, the very tip aiming to slice at his ear, a disfiguring strike Marasun favored against opponents he thought were being overly cocky or needed humbling. It was a challenge to fight more, to draw out that which was in ones-self and become more true to the spirit within, whatever that may be for the particular person he was fighting. Ijaat moved, almost his eyes widened as the blur of motion came from him, swatting aside the blow with casual grace and ease, even though he usually struggled to even see Marasun's moves, let alone almost anticipate them. But he began to feel a nagging sense in the back of his brain, a growing doubt of some flaw Marasun was mocking moreso than usual.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Spinning back, Ijaat's mentor grinned, a rare expression of true enjoyment, and the man suddenly punched the air. The gesture was odd, requiring him to remove a hand from the hilt of his blade, flicking the tip down and almost into the sand with the length of it, the cant and angle being the only thing that saved it from tracing lines in the shifting sand beneath their feet. As the man punched, a ring on his finger gleamed and spat a ruby shard of light at Ijaat's head with surprising speed and clarity, a deadly concealed blaster in the ring itself, a one shot toy that Marsun quite loved to use against the unsuspecting foe or two.

Again, somehow, he felt the sword seem to tug him, to speed up his muscles and hasten his synapses. He could swear, despite every bit of his combat experience and knowledge screaming it was impossible, that he saw the bolt coming at him and hand time to react, spinning neatly in a pirouette like manuever, snapping the blade down and at such an angle as he did so that the bolt of light deflected easily from it as he spun, and bounced it back at Marasun at ease. It was a move that was a hallmark of a jedi bladesman, and not something most like him could do for sheer complexity of reflexes involved being beyond mere mortals, as he thought of it.

"This is another ability I wished you to see and experience... This blade can deflect certain blasters.. The more powerful shots will only be minimally knocked aside or blocked, with regular strength likely being able to be almost aimed, with time and experience, and weaker shots just straight out dissipating around the blade in futility. It is a hallmark of lightsabers and most alchemical blades. Tread warily, and training with a probe droid like the Younglings and Padawans do before you get too cocky with it... It is more than just the science of ionization and magnetism, it is also the flow of combat and angles of deflection."

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Nodding as his opponent spoke, Ijaat lashed out, duplicating the strike of his friend and slashing with the blade at head height. At the last moment his wrist twitched with a fluid roll and flick, the tip darting down and out like a hummingbird to seek out the pectoral muscle of the other with a fast and defiant attack, aiming to sever a major muscle and debilitate his opponent with a vicious attack that was pure swordfighting 101 in what his father had told and taught to him. It was utterly weak, uncivilized, and beneath a true swordsman in Marasun's opinion, which is why Ijaat liked the move so much probably.

"I see you have still become little more than a brute compared to that which I tried to teach you, which is sad... We shall see what you have become in truth, and if your skill is yours, or the hallowed blade at your side and now in your hands' reach. We shall test you to see if you are equal to a blade that can carve through lesser alloys like a pair of shears through papyrus or silk. I have seen what this sword did on Ossus, and even on Korriban... It is deadly even against the plasma beam of a lightsaber...We shall see indeed"

With that, Marasun launched an all out assault of furious strikes coming in from all angles, his eyes never moving, his muscles twitching into action only at the last second to barely betray his movements. To anyone else he would appear to be never moving until the strike landed, he was so fast, and somehow the Mandalorian managed to parry, block and dodge, their swords ringing with a sweet, sharp song that was music to his ears. But still the pervasive cloud of rage and sadness nagged at the back of the supercommando's mind and he shook his head as if to clear his focus, resisting the urge for a kill stroke and instead, sprung forward, spinning the blade forward and grasping it securely along the forte and edge, bunting the pommel into the temple of his opponent.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

The blow was unexpected and came quicker than Ijaat thought he could move, and yet the muscles of his arms and legs didn't burn or sweat and tremble with fatigue as they would often in such fights. The heavy pommel of the sword flew at the temple of Marasun and connected with a savage thud, splitting skin and releasing a bright flow of crimson as the trick hit home and sent the other swordsman flying, stumbling as he spit with stunned surprise, rubbing at his jaw. The first blow was considered a win, and Marasun bowed to him, but stared at him with a raised brow as he wiped his flesh clean of blood.

"Did you feel it this time, Ijaat, did you feel the rage? The burning inferno of hate and grief? That is the dark side incarnate, the Bogan, the Shadow Self, or whatever it is called. It's power is such that it is seductive, and easily clouds your judgement, making you think its' will is your own, and that your clouded judgement and ideas are pure and crystalline, devoid of taint and righteous in their execution. You must beware of it... You must ware it's siren sibilant seduction..

It will cause you harm, lessen you, and make you stronger all the same. But you must learn to detach from it in combat, to be more than pure instinct, to be a being of neither the rage nor the pity that war within you, my young friend and student.... You must tread a path of the void, of the devouring flame that is neither destroyer or creator, but merely indiscriminate and unstoppable in it's inexorable trek onward... You will not win against such influence any other way."

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Ijaat nodded, rubbing the pommel on his under tunic and ignoring the shocked gasps at the apparently rude and crude and base gesture he performed during such a sacred thing as a duel! Sheathing the blade he shoved the beautifully worked and banded wooden case into his belt, and bent to his friend, laying a hand on the gash and nodding to the sidelines, smiling at his once mentor and now, he supposed, his equal. Marasun grunted in pain as he touched the wound and shrugged, accepting the shoulder to lean on only grudgingly, obviously dizzzy and disoriented from the blow as they walked back into the small cubicle in the back of the tea shop.

"Thank you, War of the Honorious... Thank you for the lesson in humility"

Ijaat blanched, not aware Marasun spoke Mando'a or that he had understood the significance of his fathers' words when he had introduced him to Marasun so long ago, but he had obviously. There was something to be said for knowing anothers culture, as in a way you knew their soul and their bearing better, for if life was an anvil to shape a man, his culture and family were the two opposite sides of the hammer, the striking faces the directed the flow of that which the man was becoming and would be forever more. And now matter how much you tried, on some levels, those faces left marks which could not be reversed or erased.

"You are welcome, Marasun... Let us drink tea and speak of times past.."