The Birth of Ha'rangir

[Darth Metus]

Castle Ne'tra, Krant

Well past midnight was the hour at current...so late that the children had long since been tucked away into bed; and the wife was bundled underneath silken sheets. All were lost within the sweet embrace of slumber, and naught save calm breaths characterized them. Indeed, throughout the aesthetically-menacing citadel, the silence of the hour ruled supreme...thereby freeing The Lord of the Castle to do as he so pleased. Tonight, whilst free of the distractions posed by a loving spouse and adoring children, the Mandalorian would allow his creativity to run unchecked within the Dark Side of the Force; a "hobby" that would only cause his children to scream in absolute dismay. As such, Isley Verd moved as quietly as possibly throughout the home he had erected atop the ruins of a Sith Temple, breathing in the sweet "scent" of Darkness as each step bore him deeper and deeper within the citadel. As the minutes rolled by, the Mandalorian's movements began to become labored; for the burden he carried was quite...heavy...and fond of squirming. Mandalorian Iron already weighed down upon his tired body in the form of his beskar'gam, but on top of this cultural burden was the one that trailed only inches behind him: a burlap sack.

Spanning several feet in length, the rather-study bag held within it something that obviously did not want to be there. It squirmed and thrashed with each step, clawing against the burlap with its fingers. Stifled cries filled the air, muffled by both the bag and the gag that had been placed in the victim's mouth...down here, no one was the wiser...Isley could feel the fear which emanated from the being inside the sack, a fact that only served to give him the drive to continue down his dark path. Fear was something he thrived upon and practically lived for...and tonight, he would make the unfortunate sod trapped within the sack know the truest expression of the word. As he mused over these things, a cold smile formed upon the Mandalorian's lips: a testament to the effects that the Dark Side had wreaked upon his mind over the years. No longer was he the wet-behind-the-ears whelp with a strong sense of justice and an abhorrence for the Dark Side. No longer was he the indebted mercenary who fought in order to repay a life debt. No...Isley was now a much darker, much more sinister creature; twisted by the Darkness that gave him power. His steps, long and confident, continued to bear both him and his burden until he reached the final flight of stairs.

"This is going to hurt." he all but hissed in a whisper, before taking the first step forward. His descent down the stairwell caused thump after thump to sound from the burlap sack, accompanied by fresh moans of pain from the unfortunate being entrapped within. Isley could not have cared less...Hell, he practically enjoyed the fact that the being felt agony. Of course, being dragged down a flight of stairs was only the beginning...they had quite the long night ahead of them. With his pace quickening due to the proximity of the destination, the Mandalorian continued to bear his burden along the marble floor until he reached a single, oaken door. 'Twas the entrance to his "home away from home": the Dark Forge. Utilizing a single foot to open the door, Isley then admitted himself within before releasing the sack onto the cobbled floors. He sucked a breath of air in through his nostrils, reveling in the scent of hot coals before looking down upon the burlap sack.

"Last stop..."

 

[Darth Metus]

Upon the instant that the burlap was relinquished from the Mandalorian's grasp, a fresh wave of thrashes and flails erupted from the unfortunate soul. For a moment, Isley simply folded his arms about his chest and watched. The antics of his...prisoner...were quite amusing; given the circumstances. However, although the hour was late and there was minimal chance of a daughter making a nocturnal trip to the Forge, the Mandalorian opted to get started with his work. After all, there was quite a bit of work to do. Striding over to the door, he first gave the occupant of the burlap sack a solid kick with his boot; quelling the thrashes and filling the space with a fresh moan of agony. Then, reaching out, Isley slowly closed the door...an act which caused a solid creak to fill the air. This concluded with a solid thud that may as well have been a death knell, for the thrashing resumed almost instantly. Peals of laughter than ripped forth from the Mandalorian's lips, characterized by a slight, deranged edge. His voice bounced off of the walls of the Forge, creating quite the menacing effect. "What's wrong?" he jeered, giving the burlap sack another solid kick, "Are you scared for your life?"

As the words escaped his lips, blessed with a metallic edge as they exited his helm, the Mandalorian then reached for his utility belt. His fingers sought and found the hilt of a simple knife and a single tug loosed it from its sheath. He then lowered himself to a squat, flipped the weapon so that the blade resided in the flat of his palm, and jabbed the flailing sod with the butt of the knife. "I suggest that you pipe down with all that noise. I've got a knife and...it'd be quite a shame if the simple act of cutting you free from this bag cost you a limb...or an eye...or something worse." he said, reaching out with his offhand. Isley then gave his "companion" a reassuring pat and spoke again. His voice was suddenly soft and fatherly; the exact tone that he'd use to tuck his children into bed at night. "There there...Shhhh...There's no need to be afraid. It'll all be over soon. Just relax and sit still...I'll cut you out of this sack, okay? Oh, how the occupant of the sack had every reason in the world to be afraid, for they had been whisked across the stars and landed into the literal mouth of the lion's den.

With a neat flick of the wrist, the Mandalorian then caught the hilt of the knife in his dominant hand and held it aloft. He then, with a solid thrust, penetrated the burlap with its cutting edge. Ragged movements created a rough incision upon the side of the bag, which he promptly ran along the length of the sack. Then, with the path to freedom created, Isley returned the knife to its sheathe and reached for the burlap. His fingers laced into the material with a rather strong grasp, and a rather solid tug brought what remained of the sack rippling off. Isley casually cast the sack to the side and took a moment to look upon his prisoner, who grunted and attempted to flail against the bonds upon seeing the light of the Forge. "Oh come now, you've got nothing to worry about. I just want to chat is all." Isley said, blatantly lying from behind the helm of his beskar'gam. However, he felt that there was nothing more poetic than allowing this unfortunate sod's final sights to be of him. So, he reached up and grasped his helmet, lifting it free before setting it aside. At once, Isley's eyes; ever-stained orange by the dark side, glared down upon their prisoner.

"Hello, hello, hello...Private."

 

[Darth Metus]

The eyes which met those of the Mandalorian widened with sheer terror; an emotional response that felt delicious through the Force. However, Isley typically could not feel the fear, confusion, or pain of this particular caste of individual...Hell, he could not even sense them under normal circumstances. However...whenever a cook concocts a batch of cookies, one or two end up burnt; 'tis simply the reality of life. Likewise, when ambitious adjustments are made to the cloning process, sometimes a handful are born without the desired effects. Such was the case of the unremarkable clone which laid upon the Forge's floor. His face was one renowned throughout the pages of Galactic history: the spitting visage of Jango Fett...yet he was a copy wrought in the modern age. At one point in the past, he and his Mandalorian captor once fought together as subordinate and officer...but the heretics known as Liberty Concord brought about a swift conclusion to this relationship. Some decided to break their oaths and contracts to follow the deserters into the bosom of the Protectorate...whilst others decided to venture off on their own in the Galaxy.

Such was the case of the clone which laid before Isley; with his eyes pleading for mercy. There was also disbelief plastered all about his face, as if the concept of his...impending demise...at the hands of his former commander was alien to him. Oh the naivety...As Isley looked down upon him, the cold smile that characterized his face only seemed to grow; exposing rows of teeth. In the light of the Forge, he was quite the imposing figure to face down. "My, my, my...you seem confused..." said the Mandalorian, extending his offhand once more. He grasped the gag within his fingertips and tugged it free, tossing it over his shoulder with not a care in the world. Upon being liberated, the clone began to cough and sputter before looking back into the Mandalorian's eyes. "T-This has to be a trick...Y-You wouldn't. It's me! Razor! Why are you doing this? began the clone, his frantic voice all but rising several octaves. As such, Isley had to reprimand him. After all, if he got much louder there was a slight possibility that someone would wake up...and that would just complicate things. Rearing back, Isley then struck the clone with the back of his hand before resuming his rather carnivorous grin.

"Why am I doing this..." he mused, rising to his feet straightaway. "Well, that's quite the loaded question...You see, I have this hobby...and it's done quite a bit of good over the years. I've helped arm the Mando'ade with knives which render Lightning useless. I've created gifts for our own Templar Order...I've even created a sword named for my darling sibling Devorah. However, it's very seldom that I create a weapon with purpose...and that's why you are here today." he said, striding forth in order to pace the floor. However, before three steps could be taken, he turned and gave himself a rather-animated slap on the forehead. "OH WAIT!" came his "exasperated" response. "You want to know why I picked you...Well, I'm sure you're smart enough to figure it out. You're a traitor, and you decided to explore the stars. Oh, how cute of a bed time story that would have been; freedom in the stars...but you made a rookie mistake. You think that I wouldn't find out that you were poking around Lorrd? Do you think that I'm that...uninformed?! Tell me Razor..."

His words were like daggers as he rounded on the bound clone...and then a solid kick was launched for his ribs. There was a sickening crack as beskar met bone and Razor gasped; suddenly able to breathe as easily. "Do you think me stupid? Do you? Oh, I bet you and all your traitorous kin think you're representing something grand. That you're all freedom-loving-heroes! But you're wrong...dead wrong...you broke an oath! A simple, basic oath...and me? Well, I love justice. But! Since you're so patient, I'll let you in on a little secret...Jango and Nova weren't the only clones of the Dread Guard...oh no, there was one other. Dear old Ishmael; or as I like to call him, my eyes and ears. He, a fellow clone, pointed you out! He set it all up, from the Acolyte ambush to bringing you right to my doorstep. Ah...It's almost bloody poetic, isn't it? The traitor..."betrayed" by a fellow clone."

 

[Darth Metus]

"Commander! Listen to yourself! You...you're slipping! It's me, Razor, your vod. Your brother! Your friend!" the clone all but exclaimed. At once, the Mandalorian gave a sigh of sheer annoyance. Taking a step forward, he then raised his boot and slammed it down upon the clone's stomach. A pained grunt tore from his lips...but this was just the beginning of Razor's agony. Isley promptly raised his boot again and slammed it down...then again...and again...and again, until there was not a sound that escaped the clone's lips. He then paused his rather relentless assault and placed his foot upon the cobbled floor, folding his arms across his chest once more. Razor made no sound, for the pain which characterized his body was simply too much. He rolled onto his side and curled up, assuming the fetal position. "For someone who took orders without question, you sure as kark don't know when to shut up." he said, lowering himself to a squat once more. He then gripped the fabrics of the clone's shirt and began to tug, dragging him across the floor several paces into one of the cleared corners.

"The pain you feel at this very moment...it's nothing. You don't know what true pain is." he said, rising to his feet once more. His long, confident strides then bore him to the adjacent shelves, where he procured the most simple of tools: a basin. Taking the wooden bowl into his hands, he then returned to his squat and reached for his knife. Loosing the weapon before the clone's eyes caused a pained gasp to escape his lips, but he was simply too pained at this point to fight back. Isley made no attempts to jeer nor taunt...yet...but instead liberated Razor's offhand from his bonds. A simple flick of his wrist cut free the rope which held his left arm to his body; and it promptly slid to the floor. The clone was the definition of defeated, but this state of being was not enough to liberate him from the punishment which Isley had selected for him. A rather solemn clatter echoed about the Dark Forge as the basin was placed upon the floor, and then Isley began the process. His lips began to move, but no audible sound escaped them. For those trained to the tongue he utilized, ancient Sith was the language of choice. These words, inaudible, dripped with the presence of the Force...and heralded the creation of something new.

His offhand then surged forth like a serpent after prey, coiling its fingers about the clone's wrist in a vicegrip. Isley's mirth and taunting tone was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating glare of an Alchemist. Now, Razor had descended from the mortal plane in his mind; going from sentient being...to ingredient. As he continued to mutter word after word of power, the Mandalorian's weapon graced the flesh of the clone's wrist. He then dragged the metal across, creating a neat, horizontal incision. This would provide him with amply sums of blood without fear of the clone bleeding out in a matter of minutes. Quickly, he then held the wounded wrist aloft and gave a press upon the skin, prompting a fresh flow of crimson. The blood came forth as a steady drip at first, before all but pouring into the basin. Then, once a satisfactory sum of blood had been collected, Isley released Razor's wrist and took the basin in hand. Rising to his feet once more, his footsteps then bore him over to the Forge itself, which was alive with a modest blaze. At once, his incantation began to quicken, a fact which caused the light of the Forge to only intensify with each moment...and then he cast the blood onto the coals. Immediately, the Forge responded with rising to a steady and intense heat...a fact which caused Isley's eyebrows to soar.

"Most interesting...the Force has judged you innocent..." he began, almost in a whisper. For a moment, a glimmer of hope shone within Razor's eyes at this news; but Isley promptly crushed his hopes. "This is most interesting...But better for the overall process. Innocent blood yields the greatest effects...Yes, you'll do perfectly."

 

[Darth Metus]

As the crushing realization washed over the clone...the Mandalorian turned on his heel. His attention was not placed upon the man who now struggled with the truth of his impending demise, but instead upon that which leaned upon the adjacent wall. Like any Alchemist worth his salt or reputation, Isley had procured a decent supply of his metal of choice, Desh-Terenthium, in the form of bars. These were either stacked or leaned upon the wall of the Forge, so that they were within arm's reach at all times. Today, he selected a single bar of this rare, ultra-light material and balanced it in his palms. At once, Isley opened himself to the Force and beckoned for its presence to fall upon him. Standing in a neutral position before the Forge, he then lulled his eyes to a close and placed the vast majority of his focus upon the task at hand...however a small shred of attention was afforded to the crumpled heap of a man upon the Forge floor. Upon drawing a single breath to center and focus himself, the Mandalorian was greeted by a sudden influx of the Force. 'Twas purely of the Dark Side and crashed down upon him like a mighty cascade; so much so that a lesser man would have buckled under the "weight".

However, this was a sensation that Isley had familiarized himself with over the years and was very much accustomed to. He, much akin to a dam, then directed the flow of the Force through his body and into the bar of Desh-Terenthium. This was a rather daunting task to accomplish, for he had to make absolutely certain that each and every molecule of the metal was saturated with the Force. To this end, the Mandalorian utilized a technique that was shown to him by his mentor in Sith Alchemy, Rave Merrill, in order to "zoom" in on the metal. Through the sight of his "mind's eye", Isley then looked down upon the countless particles which composed the metal that rested upon his palms. Then, he conducted the Force through each and every one of them, noticeably darkening their hue through the sheer magnitude of the Darkness. Despite the groans of the clone periodically filling the air, the Mandalorian's focus was absolute in this task. He continued to drive the Force into the blade with all his might...until he reached a point of utter satisfaction. This point arrived several minutes after the commencement of this task, and finally Isley lowered his arms. He then rolled his shoulders to alleviate the stiffness, and then began the next step of the process.

Stepping closer to the blazing coals, Isley then lowered the bar of Desh-Terenthium into the Forge. His offhand then reached for the adjacent rope, connected to the Forge's bellows, and gave it a solid tug. This augmented the heat of the Forge all the more through feeding it a fresh breath of oxygen. With the corruptive properties of the ritualized blood coaxing the coals, coupled with the constant influx of energies through Isley's conduction, the bar of Desh-Terenthium was beginning to become the intersection of two ancient techniques...a fact that brought a small sum of amusement to the Mandalorian. However, he could not, and would not, allow himself to be deterred from his task by rudimentary thoughts and promptly cleared his mind. The design which he held in the rear of his psyche absolutely had to come to fruition, for it was to be the envoy of the justice he so desperately sought to wreak.

 

[Darth Metus]

After a sufficient span of time had passed, the Mandalorian leaned down before his Forge. His fingertips scrambled about in a whicker basket full of tools for one in particular...and upon seizing the correct one, Isley promptly righted himself. 'Twas a pair of tongs, whose metal was charred black from obvious usage in this very Forge. Next, the Mandalorian reached behind him and allowed his fingertips to roam the table that stood there. Here, he sought the means to mold the Desh-Terenthium into the desired shape and found it after a few moments of fumbling. With his trusty hammer and tongs combination in hand, Isley then set his eyes upon the bar that was now red-hot in the Forge. Whilst maintaining the constant flow of the Dark Side into the bar, he plucked its form out of the burning coals utilizing the tongs. Then, adjusting his grip upon the metal, he placed it down upon the anvil built into the side of the Forge and raised his hammer. Upon reaching the level of his brow, the Mandalorian then utilized the same "zoom" technique that his mentor had instructed him in; thereby allowing his mind's eye to witness the individual molecules that made up its form. For a moment, he took stock of its current structure and then began the process of adjusting.

First, he took a glance upon his beskar'gam with his "mind's eye" and got a rough feel for the atomic structure. While the modifications would not result in Mandalorian Iron, he did thus so that he might have a rough basis to refer to whilst accomplishing the task at hand. This was an exceptionally taxing portion of the Alchemical process, but for an individual whose specialization was in mental applications of the Force, his mind was more than prepared to handle the strain. As such, he continued to maintain the constant influx of the Dark Side whilst making molecular adjustments to the metal. At the same time, he began to hammer away at the red hot Desh-Terenthium, causing sparks to fly into the air with each impact. Through these, the pained expressions of the fallen clone were drowned out; but there were scarce a distraction anyways. This portion of constructing the blade was the definition of a challenge, but it was one that Isley had faced several times before. He had done so alongside his beloved sister, standing in the same room, in order to forge his personal sword. He had done so in order to forge weapons on the behalf of Templars...and now, he would do it again. This time, for closure....this time, for himself.

Taking a momentary reprieve from the exceptionally grueling work, Isley then raised his hammer-wielding arm to his brow. A prompt movement brushed his forearm against his forehead and mopped away some of the sweat which had beaded up there. Then, upon drawing a breath, Isley continued to hammer away at the heated metal. The process was slow going, as there was no such thing as quickly making molecular adjustments, but the Alchemist had learned the fine art of patience throughout his time utilizing the art. 'Twas a good thing too, for the minutes quickly rolled into an hour by the time he had finished making his adjustments to the molecular structure of the blade. These were the first of two sets of molecular adjustments and focused around resulting in two effects. The first of these was immunity in the face of a lightsaber; and the second was the overall strengthening and sharpening of the metal. Of course, this came with the addition of weight throughout the process. Typically, items crafted through Alchemy would be exceptionally heavy due to the process, but his selection of Desh-Terenthium as a basis was a means of addressing this. While the element resulted in potentially "floppy" blades if the weapon's length exceeded a certain point, the concept at hand only called for a few inches of size; thereby it was the perfect metal for the job.

 

[Darth Metus]

When finally the first portion of molecular adjustments was completed, the Mandalorian then elevated the bar of Desh-Terenthium with his tongs. He then lowered it back into the ritualized coals of the Dark Forge and took a moment to catch his breath. All the while, he maintained his connection to the Force and the metal, constantly acting as a medium between the energies and the product. Whilst this task was an immense challenge on its own, the difficulty was only scaled ever higher when combined with the heat of the Forge, the molecular adjustments, and keeping an "eye" on the clone which still laid on the floor. Soon, Razor's time would come to be useful to the process once more...but this time was not yet at hand. Instead, after gulping down a few more breaths of air, Isley centered himself once more. The harder of the two adjustments had been made to the metal; and now what remained was the "simple" task of reversing the Desh-Terenthium's magnetic polarity. To this end, Isley reached once more into the ritualized coals with his tongs and retrieved the manipulated metal from its fiery depths. He then returned it to the anvil, raised his hammer over his head, and resumed the "zoom" technique. Through this view, he then began to seek out the telltale signs of the Desh-Terenthium's current polarity.

It took a few moments to identify the rather elusive charge; but once he located the magnetic "aura" which characterized the blade, the rest was smooth sailing. Firstly, the Mandalorian adjusted the placement of his tongs upon the metal and then flipped the bar over so that he might address its rearmost side. Next, whilst continuing the process of pouring out the Dark Side onto the metal, Isley began to hammer away at the metal. This time, as opposed to centering his focus upon the molecules themselves, he set his efforts upon the aforementioned magnetic "aura". Through the Force, he then "grasped" hold of this practically invisible presence and began the process of flipping it inside out. The best way for Isley to accomplish this particular portion of the task was through relating it to a mental image...which he then selected with haste. With his mind paralleling the intricacies of reversing magnetic polarity and the elementary, laundry-related task of flipping a sock inside out, the Mandalorian began to accomplish this secondary set of adjustments. However, a slight challenge arose when the partially-reversed polarity began to react with the unchanged polarity, causing attraction. The sudden confrontation of these "auras" created a rather solid, attractive force that began tugging at the Mandalorian's hammer, but the challenge soon ended when he completed the task moment's later.

Finally, Isley inhaled yet another breath to calm and center himself before re-adjusting the tong's grip on the metal. Now, with its magnetic polarity adjusted, it could address the other threats that it would face on the battlefield, such as blaster bolts or lasers. What's more, the metal was already beginning to accept its saturation of the Dark Side; a fact that would come into play later on in the alchemical process. For now, Isley then shifted his attention to the forging aspect of the overall project and continued to act as a medium for the Dark Side of the Force. Whilst hammering away, folding, and hammering some more, he continued to guide the Darkness over the blade and constantly poured out its presence.

 

[Darth Metus]

After several minutes of meticulous attention to detail and careful shaping of the metal, the time came to douse the Desh-Terenthium in order to further strengthen its form. To this end, Isley took the metal, which was now separated into two, distinct pieces, and gripped them each with the tongs; one at a time. Upon plunging and releasing them into the trough of water adjacent to the Forge, a plume of steam exploded into existence. Now that the most taxing of the steps had been concluded, Isley finally relinquished his connection to the Dark Side of the Force and took a staggering step back. He almost lost his balance, if not for quickly grabbing the chair that was casually slid underneath the table. Righting himself, he then placed both hands upon the back of the chair and gulped air, attempting to catch his breath. Upon finally succeeding in this task, the Mandalorian stood straight and tall before setting his eyes upon the crumpled heap upon the floor. Razor still resided there, unmoved and writhing in pain. Now was the time for him to become useful once more.

However, there was a single step that had to be taken beforehand. Striding over to the shelves, he reached forward and plucked from a shelf a single box. It was a rather large box, to say the least, and clattered noisily upon being lowered to the cobbled floor. Upon opening it, Isley promptly fished within its form for just the right component and emerged victorious; holding a cylindrical piece of wood no more than two feet in length. For a moment, he succumbed to nostalgia and held the wood to his nose, taking a deep inhalation. Straightway, the aroma of the resinwood reminded him of home, sweet, home: Mandalore...but he promptly shelved these thoughts altogether. What mattered now was making minor adjustments to this particular component as to ensure that the weapon's overall effectiveness was not squandered by flimsy wood. As such, lulling his eyes to a close, the Mandalorian re-opened himself to the flood of Dark Side energies and resumed the "zoom" tactic imparted to him by his mentor in all things Alchemy. Through this, he could clearly see the molecular structure of the Resinwood in his mind's eye.

Straightway, Isley began to replicate the process that he had spent a large heap of time on. However, unlike the Desh-Terenthium, he did not have two rounds of adjustments to make; nor such a length of metal to tweak. As such, it did not take him too long when compared to the original task to strengthen the wood and augment its molecular structure to the point of resilience against lightsabers. However, he did not stop there; for as aforementioned there were now two components wrought of the alchemized metal. To this end, a thin hole was ran throughout the length of the wood, thereby allowing the shaft of the weapon to be reinforced with a piece of alchemized Desh-Terenthium. As it became painfully apparent with each passing moment, the Mandalorian was in the business of covering each and every one of his bases when it came to such projects; and this was one hell of a base to cover.

 

[Darth Metus]

Now that the shaft of the product, in addition to the main components wrought of Desh-Terenthium, were completed...the time came for the finale of Razor. First, the Mandalorian set the adjusted shaft upon his tool table and promptly bent over. His hands grasped the box of aroma-rich resinwood and returned it to its proper shelf. Then, Isley promptly began to browse yet another shelf for one of the final ingredients. Yet again, it was stored in a box; but this was was immensely smaller and the Mandalorian did not even bother removing it from the shelf. Instead, he simply flipped open its lid and looked within. He was greeted by the sight of four energy crystals, with each a different color. One was green, one was blue, one was red, and one was purple. For this project, Isley elected the purple energy crystal and held the precious resource in the palm of his hand. Easily, for his desired effect, this weapon would require the next step to be of the highest quality...and so Razor's clock began to count down to zero.

The Mandalorian took several steps closer to his former comrade and promptly squatted beside him. Up until this moment, silence had ruled the Forge; save for the din of hammering and the clone's pained moans. However, one of these sounds was about to come to an end. Reaching once more for the weapon that had liberated Razor from his sack...and wounded his wrist...Isley promptly loosed his knife from its sheathe. He then reached for the basin once more and placed it upon the surface of the floor. "You know...if you had made different choices in life, this fate would not be yours. The burden of being the first of the traitors, felled by my hand, is yours to bear. However, when the Manda rejects your soul, as I'm sure it will...always remember...the Hell you found was of your own making." he said, before promptly reaching out with the hand that held the crystal. His fingers seized the clone's hair roughly; rudely dragging his neck into an awkward, yet exposed position. Isley then mimicked the step he had taken on the clone's wrist...but this time extinguished the flame of his life forevermore.

With a wellspring of crimson provided for the basin, Isley did the best he could to catch the blood before releasing Razor's head. It thunked against the cobbled floor rather solidly and crimson began to pool between each stone. Of course, this was a fact that did not bother Isley in the slightest yet, for he would have a labor droid clean it up later on. No, what mattered most was completing the ritual. To this end, Isley simply dropped the energy crystal into the depths of the blood and fished the two components of Desh-Terenthium out from the trouth of water. His eyes lulled to a close and he sat upon the ground, cross-legged. His lips began to mouth words of Ancient Sith once more, ritualizing the three components which resided within the blood of the fallen clone. This prompted a union between the energy crystal and the metal; born of the Force and Isley's own conducting of the Force through them by means of incantation. As each word escaped his lips, a purple glow began to emanate from the basin, signifying that the process was nearing completion.

 

[Darth Metus]

As if the basin had been ignited by the Force itself, a purple blaze of energy erupted upon the surface of the blood. This was a signal that the constant influx of energies provided by Isley had paid off. The lattices of the crystal had married to the Desh-Terenthium components, resulting in their permanent imbuement with the Force. This also signified the formation of a relationship between the new weapon and its master; for none save he could access the power found within its aura. What was notable to the Mandalorian, at first, was simply the sheer magnitude of power that emanated from the aura. 'Twas...a nexus of energies that dwarfed the Force presence found within any of his earlier works. What's more, this energy was to be applied in one key area: the augmentation of cutting power. While the Dark Side portion of this billowing presence was to act as a focal point for Isley's powers, the aura itself was a by-product of the constant imbuement of the Force. As such, with such a powerful aura...Isley bet that he could cut through some rather impressive materials with the finished product.

With no time like the present, he promptly returned the components alongside the energy crystal to the trough. There, the crimson of the clone was washed free by his diligent hands and he promptly removed them. Now came one of the more fun portions of the project: putting it all together. First, Isley took the longer piece of Desh-Terenthium and fitted it inside the shaft of resinwood. He then fitted the blade of the weapon upon the top, lashed it all together; then added a little decorative flair in the form of a feather, leather wrapping, and etching the symbol of clan verd upon the shaft. When all this was completed, Isley then utilized what he liked to call a "Sith Whetstone" in order to keen the edge of the weapon. Without this step, the weapon's blade would potentially dull and rust over time...but through applying this whetstone diligently, Isley had no fear of this outcome. With each pass of the blade upon the whetstone, the Mandalorian's mind began to race at the thought of something vital: a name. Each weapon he had ever created bore a name; one of purpose and power. Well, for his instrument of justice and...destruction...the name had to be something that would be the definition of fitting.

So, he searched high and low for ideas...but finally a tale from his childhood hit him like a brick wall. His stepmother used to lay him down to sleep with tales of the old Mandalorian deities; and one in particular stood out to him at present. Kad Ha'rangir, otherwise known as Kad the Destroyer. Yes, this would be the name bestowed upon the weapon: Ha'rangir! With glee plastered all about the Mandalorian's face, he finally completed the keening process via the whetstone and held the Force-imbued, Alchemized Tomahawk aloft in his hands. The blood of an "innocent" man had been the catalyst in the creation of this masterpiece...and now this weapon would be the catalyst of his vengeance.