Hakon smirked, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face as Casany's retort landed with force. There was something in her words—an energy, a conviction—that struck an unexpected chord deep within him, stirring his spirit and casting aside the dark veil of doubt that had clouded his thoughts. The shadow of suspicion that had clung to the Oracle began to ebb away, washed clean by the sheer force of Casany's words.
Yet the Oracle remained motionless. Eerily still. Her gaze, dark and unfathomable, bore into Praxor's helm, as though the entirety of her universe had shrunk to that singular point. The seconds stretched on, tension building in the silence. Her hands moved at last, the soft rustle of cloth the only sound as her long, slender fingers extended, almost reverently, toward the helmet. There was something hypnotic about the way her fingers traced its surface, as if she was divining secrets from its cold exterior. The moment lingered, heavy, before she finally spoke—her voice low, resonant, timeless.
Her eyes, however, never left Casany's buy'ce.
"
Hakon of Clan Fett," she began, her words slow and deliberate, "
the very mountains tremble beneath the weight of your ambition, a force so great it seeks to rewrite the stars themselves. You crave to carve your name into the very marrow of the galaxy, to leave an imprint that echoes through the ages. But ambition, unbridled, demands a price—one that cannot be paid with strength alone."
Her hand hovered over the helmet, almost as if it carried a sacred weight of its own. Her voice grew quieter, but sharper, each word cut from the mountain's bedrock.
"
For your destiny to take shape, you must surrender. Surrender the past that binds you. Let it go, as one sheds old skin. To conquer the stars, Hakon Fett, you must be reforged—not in steel, but in spirit. Cast aside your helmet, and in doing so, cast aside what you were. Only then can you embrace what you are to become."
Her final words hung in the air like an omen, her eyes still distant, yet focused, as though she had seen far beyond what any of them could comprehend.
Hesitation tugged at the back of his mind. But it was feeble—far too weak to stand against the surging tide of his ambition. The hunger to ascend, to conquer, to etch his name across the stars, drowned out all doubt. Hakon's hands reached for the helmet, and with a soft hiss, the seal broke. Slowly, he lifted it, revealing a weather, bearded face, rugged and carved by battle; his blonde hair shaved on the sides, left the top long and pulled back into a tight braid that fell down his neck; and a pair of eyes, cold and piercing as the deepest winter, stared at the Oracle. But beneath the glacier a fire of untamed ambition flickered as he set his prized buy'ce on the table.
Silence. Once more.
And then the Oracle smiled—a wicked, venomous grin spreading slowly across the Oracle's face. It was a victory savored, not in triumph over battle, but in a contest neither Mandalorian had even realized they were part of. A cruel, twisted game played in the shadows.
In an instant, her hands snapped forward. A violent concussion wave exploded from her fingertips, sending both warriors hurtling through the air like ragdolls in the grip of an unseen force. Their armor clanged against the cold stone ceiling, pinned like insects on a cruel display, stripped of their buy'ce's command over their battlesuits. They were trapped—puppets to the invisible strings of a malevolent master.
"
You fools!" Her voice lashed through the air, filled with mocking laughter, a sneer that dripped with arrogance and malice. "
Did you think the Sith would relinquish control so easily? Did you truly think we would simply fade into the darkness? You, who dared dream of conquest, blinded by your own arrogance. I am the dagger in the dark, the poison in your ambition, the treachery hiding beneath your own cloak of hubris. Look!" She threw her head back toward the shelf behind her, where a grim display stood—helmets, a dozen of them, polished to a sheen. But they were not symbols of Mandalorian honor or relics of a forgemaster's craft. They were trophies. The spoils of a hunt—a witch's cruel collection.
"
One by one," she hissed, her eyes gleaming with dark joy, "
I will cull your kind, until none remain. For when the Sith return, I shall be ready. And return they will. My work is long, tedious, but time means nothing to me." Her voice dropped to a whisper, chilling in its certainty. "
I am eternal."
Hakon's heart raced, fury boiling beneath his skin, but without his helmet, control over his suit's systems was almost entirely lost. The invisible force squeezed tighter around him, his muscles straining against the immovable weight. It felt insurmountable. But he would not yield.
He
could not yield.
The witch's voice continued to echo with her ceaseless dribble, and whether through a lapse in her focus or through sheer force of his own will, Hakon found his moment. With every ounce of determination, every drop of defiance, he managed to shift his arm. It was agonizing as if skinning his own flesh. But his hand reached his left vambrace. In one desperate surge, he triggered his wrist blaster.
Twin bolts screamed into the room, not aimed, not precise. They struck the walls harmlessly, yet in that moment, Hakon didn't need accuracy. He needed chaos. And chaos, he hoped, would be enough. Enough to buy a second, a heartbeat, for Casany to act, to seize the moment, and shatter the grip of the Sith's hold.
Casany Praxor
ooc// as usual, feel free to control the NPC as you wish! It's yours as much as it is mine.
