To move forwards, You must move backwards

[Garza]

Holding the sword grip in my hands as I tightened down the pommel down on the sword. Righting the skull on the blade, I could feel my mind clouded in the force. Even as I held it, I could hear the screams of hundreds of thousands of people's screams and cries for help. Looking over the crimson blade, it shone in the fire's light. I smiled lightly as the process to make this sword was quite difficult to do. Even with all the help Alkor had offered, I had done most of the preparation. While I had drawn upon Alkor's strength to complete my part, it also made a deeper connection to the man I was handing it to.

Sliding the sword into the sheath, I could feel my mind relax, and my spark brighten in the force once more. The dulling effect of the force on me weighed me down greatly as I had the sword drawn. It felt unbalanced in my hand, as it was not made for me, but for the man standing in front of me.

Over the past few months of fighting one another on two battlefields, and Alkor reaching out to me to build this sword, I had to Gather everything I need. Having most of what I needed, I only had Alkor provide me with the Voidsteel, and the Corellian Bloodsteel. Two elements I didn't have. The rest was easy. Molding the two metals together took a lot of time and patience, but a masterwork if I could call it one was in my hands.

Extending my hand, and resting it on two hands, I turned to the man. Presenting him the sword he so desired. A sword meant to face all walks of life, and to cut into the people this monster faces.

"It's yours. Claim what you own."

[member="Alkor Centaris"],

 

[Alkor Centaris]

The world was ruin.

In every sense, as Alkor felt his blood boil and slosh slowly over the superheated metal, he felt his mind go numb. Roars of protest and screams of anguish ripped at his conscious thought. He recalled some of the voices intimately; as they pleaded for their lives, some of them cried and others fought back. Futility claimed them in the end. The crimson blaze of his lightsaber tore them all down like meat. They had never been anything more to him, until this moment.

Their pain gutted him. He felt no sympathy for them, not in the sense that he wanted to take any of it back. As the blade fed hungrily on his essence and slaved the residual memories of his prey to its edge, it forged a bond with him that was unlike any that he had with another living being. The sword spoke a language Alkor knew intimately.
Death.

His lifeblood cooled the blade rapidly as Atheus plunged it into the vat of Ysalamir blood. For the seconds that it remained submerged, there was a welcome respite. He almost ceased to hear the outcries. The relief was short lived. As the blade became one with its master, it tore into his mind. Alkor almost unraveled. One hand flew to his head as his mind pulsated and reeled. He was visibly pained.

"This," he murmured, almost incoherent. "Feels beautiful."

Though he was in agony, the steadfast mantra upon which his strength was built replayed in his mind. Pain is fuel for power. In tandem, another ancient truth awakened, spilling forth in the familiar voice of his former master. Death is only the beginning, Alkor Centaris. Those who you have killed will often hold you in contempt. If ever you are fortunate enough to glimpse their voices, embrace the knowledge that you find in their words.

Those who have seen the world beyond this are the only ones who can know what secrets lay beyond the veil. Mark well the gifts they give.
In the rantings of C'thulu Plaga, perhaps the most cunning and keen of words lay in the darkest secrets he had gleaned from the Force. He never fully shared the magics he learned with Alkor, who had no aptitude for altering the world beyond his flesh, but he taught him to make use of the strength he did have. Alkor learned to see and to hear in ways few ever did.

And he did hear.

His fist clenched and the blood smeared across his fingers as he held the wound shut. A few moments more and he would have become too light headed to remain standing. He reached down without a second thought and pressed his palm to the still-scalding tang of the weapon, and he grit his teeth as he stifled the involuntary urge to scream. The pain was extraordinary. A gasp escaped him as his flesh warped, and the wound closed, but the burn reddened and blistered his flesh. He released it almost immediately.

"And so I give of myself," Alkor recited the ancient ritual from memory, the words of power thick as they filled the air. "That you may take of my enemies."

[member="Atheus"]

 

[Garza]

Good good. Alkor was doing what he needed in order to forge the sword together with his blood. To acquire strength, to acquire knowledge, one had to sacrifice a part of himself. It could be something as small as the time, and physical energy to do so. Others, like this, required much more. Alkor already knew this, but it would be hitting home with him now. I could hear the screams as I felt for the man. I could feel the mans years of pain under his skin, and crawling within his veins. It was almost as though the man could feel every pain he has ever caused to people over the years. This man, nay, monster, has been doing this for so long, he hadn't realize the depth of what was taking place.

Now that he was, I felt like a father teaching a son how to shoot a gun. Seeing them realize how to use it, and what power they held in their hands. As he stood in front of the basin, His blood mixing with the blood of a Ysalamir, The darker blood of Alkor's slowly melded with that of the creatures. Stirring it together, it had become of one consistency. After taking the alloy of the two steels, I then placed it in the basin with tongs. The metal still fiery hot. Bubbling. With the force, I focused upon the basin, and reached my hands out. letting my hands rest on the bottom of the large bowl.

It would cause pain to the man. That was very much going to happen. The sacrifice would be great. It will take a toll on him. Breathing in,

"Draw upon the tang from the basin. Grip it with all of your might. Then recite the words."

Pain was natural to the both of us. We had caused it, and were on the receiving end. Draining of him, This sword would be connected to him on a level no other weapon could. The sword would be foreign to him. It would be like holding a child. Unable to be used until trained, and felt at one with it. He would only use it as an extension of himself when he learned to master his demons, the monster within him.

[member="Alkor Centaris"],

 

[Alkor Centaris]

When the stylized ritual blade tore his flesh, Alkor did not flinch. There would be greater pain to come, but this was nothing. He had been carved open and had his flesh flayed, and the remnants of many wounds still existed all over his body. That much had been evident from the instant Alkor shed his cloak and unfastened the bloodied, faded bandages from his torso and allowed them to fall to the floor. His upper body was riddled with wounds, some that still festered and bled. They were kept clean as best he could manage, but the taint of darkness that had fallen over his body made the healing of them impossible.

Eternal torment was the price Alkor paid for the sale of his soul to darkness. It manifested in many ways; for some, the darkness tainted their flesh or marred the natural color of their eyes. It almost always appeared as some sort of corruption. Age beyond the norm was another. So many Sith appeared ancient, despite relative youth in comparison to the galaxy. Seventy or eighty year old Sith generally appeared twice that. Alkor retained his youth, but his price was far more damning. Equal and opposite to the murderous wounds he had inflicted, several of the scars on his body ought to have driven him to his knees a hundred times over.

In particular, there was a cut at his abdomen where a blade had skewered him. Another cut rose from his hip to his shoulder in a deep line. Only stitches had forced it shut, and heat had been applied to keep it from opening once more. Modern medicine, not the Force, had made it possible for the fallen Jen'jidai to recover. His body did not heal naturally, and he had developed an allergy to Bacta. Centaris never spoke of this fact, though. Weaknesses were not offered up idly.

He watched as [member="Atheus"] formed the blade, precise hammer strikes flattening and shaping the metal. It was a paradoxical galaxy where one could use their strengths to create something only to destroy. Alkor found irony in that understanding.

In that moment, Alkor acknowledged the skill of the other man.

 

[Garza]

As I removed my shirt, I stood with just a wife-beater tank top on. White as the snow on Hoth, I stood before the forge. Taking the metal in my hands, and began to mold the two together. First heating the two ingots up. Even in the heat of the forge, I was already sweating. Even as I stood there, I had to focus all of the raw emotions I was consuming from Alkor. I kept mine at bay, And used every emotion, pain, thought, and feeling I could pull from this man's flesh. The sword was for him to use. One that would be molded by his own blood, sweat and tears. In this case, literally.

Using a modern powerhammer, I flattened out the corellian steel. Bringing it to critical temperature. Forcing it to become so close to a liquid form, if I were to smack it with a hammer, the metal would slowly shape into the form I presented it as. Flattening as I used a dual sided die. Extending it with a rounded end. The ingot grew to reach its length in a few heats. Keeping it straight. Every time it cooled to a touchable temperature, I would check by eyesight alone for the straights and the curves of the blade. I was creating only the base form. The billet was all that needed to be forged out. The blood of this man would force the blade by his strength and will alone to take the shape he such desires.

Death.

Breaking the corellian bloodsteel apart, I took lamianium. Breaking it down as much as I could. Taking a press with enough power to crush anything from bone, and to snap metal. The parts were trying to mold back together as soon as they broke. Slowly forming on one another. Wanting to "heal" from the fracture. What would make this process much easier, was combining the two metals, to become an alloy. Setting parts of the corellian bloodsteel, and laminanaium parts on one another, Stacking on top of one another much like tials. Wrapping a whet paper over it, with a combination of clay, straw, and borax, I stuck it into the furnace. Bringing up the metal to critical temperature.

This style of forging metal was mastered by Artristians during the time swords were the primary weapon of armies. Telling when it was reaching the right temp, the colors of the sparks matched that of the outside of this mass of metal and materials. Removing it, I used a flathead to push out the clay and straw, only to lightly tap onto the metal. Welding it down on one another. Lamianiaum acts much like a liquid in higher temperatures. Thus, it would encompass the corellian bloodsteel much more easily. making the welding process move much faster. After many heats of this, It was formed into one single ingot.

Bringing it once more to the powerhammer, with more heats applies, it was forged to it's length. Unto forging it out, I could feel the sweat roll down my face. Clinging to my dirty face as I pressed the pedal down on the powerhammer. Getting most of the form out, I then set it in the furnace once more. Heating it up a few more times. Once this was done, I began to forge out the point and the bevels of the sword after hours of work. Tediously working on making sure they were all formed together. All in the right structure, and strengthened by the force alone.

After heating it one more time, I walked to the basin, and handed Alkor the dagger to which he could carve his blood from.

"It's time."

[member="Alkor Centaris"],

 

[Alkor Centaris]

Alkor had crafted Lightsabers before, but that was a skill most Jedi and Sith learned at the end of their apprenticeship. While much of his time had gone into seeking out the materials from which to create his weapons, he had never gone so far as to integrate himself in the process. There had been Jen'jidai who used Sith swords- Hevn's Phantasmagoria came to mind most prominently. The perfectly white blade reflected the icy hell of Ensolica where Golliath Forge had been born. The treachery of the Sith had inevitably swallowed even that hardiest of his brothers, a man for whom blizzards were a fact of life. Hevn had resisted hell beside Alkor, one of the only two survivors of the civil war that ravaged Muunilinst all those eight hundred years prior. That memory suffused his current state of mind, eager to harness the same sort of killing power.

A Jen'jidai is not a Sith. More than anything, power is not the end, but the means by which to come to that end. To call the weapon [member="Atheus"] was about to forge a "Sith" sword might well be a misnomer, but the properties were undeniably the same. The very darkness that permeated the room screamed out litanies of that Sith tradition, a departure from the ancient Dark Jedi that his former brothers strove to fashion their order after. Alkor's blade was fit for a daemon, but it would be his.

If that made him a monster, he supposed the title would be forced upon him yet again. He embraced it, rather than turning away. Only by accepting this weapon for what it was would he ever become its master, and not the inverse. Sith swords were oft times alive on some level. Sentience was doubly true for blades inherently connected to the Force. A blade that drank the blood of a Master of the Force was bound to awaken to some of their talents.

What would this sword see through his eyes?

What legacy would it write with his hands?

How much blood would it taste before it thirsted no more?

Alkor began to shed his cloak as the room heated to a staggering new height. A forge was a place for shifting and twisting metal. Human skin did not fare nearly so well in contrast. The only thing that separated the two men from normal men was their mastery over the Force itself. The very darkness that they commanded sank into every crevasse in the room, and it flowed in them as well. So long as their concentration held, Atheus confirmed, they would have no need of the protective gear that Mandalorian smiths or others might employ. That was the difference between a Sith alchemist's work and a proper blacksmith's. There was a risk factor involved.

Atheus had said as much. In order to receive, one must give. The exchange must be equal.

 

[Garza]

Leading Alkor down the halls of the ship once own by my master, Nickolas Imura, I opened the door to the forge. The large door opening upwards to allow space for various sizes of carts or tools to be wheeled in and out if necessary. The forge was all but cold at this time. Removing my coat, I placed it off to the side. There was a candle that was lit in the corner. With a flick of my hand, it flew over to the furnace. Igniting it in a flame that was fed with fuel of the force, and of coal. The flames were tall and crackling like a crowd of people snapping their fingers. I smiled lightly as I also began to power up the machines. Using the plugins of electricity upon the powerhammer in the corner of the room, and just opposite of the forge itself, The anvil was just off to the side. With another hiding behind the powerhammer should I have to have a second one. Quence tanks of all kinds were along one wall. Even a CNC plasma mill was on the completely other side of the room.

A lathe for the more intricate work on the pommel and guards or even the shaft of swords or weapons could be shaped here. Even with other various milling tools, and powertools. The simplest was the one I picked up. A hammer. Forged to look very simple with its wooden shaft, the head curved and formed in such a way to deliver powerful and yet at the same time, precise blows to metal in the forging process.

"I need you to open yourself to the force. To create the weapon, I need your essence. I will draw upon it. Fighting me will only make the process harder."

He knew what I meant. I needed his connection as though he were forging the weapon himself. If he wanted as deep of a connection as I had with my own sword, then I would act as a proxy for the man. I was the hammer. I was the force creating the weapon. Alkor was the smith. Generating that force to which I could be used at the greatest efficiency.

Gathering all the materials I needed,

"When closer to time, I will need your blood. you will take this blade, and draw it from yourself. Into the basin. Then utter the words I speak."

I began to read from a script of ancient text. Held within a tome older than many of the factions, and older than the Gulag plague. I read from it's mesmerizing words. Bringing every one of them into a perfect ring of my voice. Finally I was nearing the end, and with the last words spoken,

'...And so I give of myself, that you may take of my enemies."

Placing the text down, I then mentioned to Alkor's chest.

"To create anything, you must sacrifice something. You grew in strength of the force, at the sacrifice of your past life. You grew to the being you are now, at the sacrifice of your blood, sweat and tears. Thus you must do so again. Do it with all of your being. Nothing less will suffice."

Turning around, We began.

[member="Alkor Centaris"],

 

[Alkor Centaris]

He had stepped out onto the familiar ship with a pensive expression. Alkor recalled it from his brief stint in Nikias' Brotherhood of the Crimson Lotus. This vessel had been owned by Nick Imura, another Dark Jedi and craftsman who the fallen Jen'jidai had learned to respect from simply holding one of his weapons in hand. When he watched Imura work, that respect had only become stronger. Atheus had knowledge of his brother at arms, that much was certain. Alkor wanted to know what had happened to the Kro Varian, but he would not ask. So soon after landing, it seemed... socially unacceptable?

No. Alkor did not know [member="Atheus"] well enough to pry into personal matters. He had only recently commissioned the man to make a weapon for him, and he would not try the enigma's patience with time wasting queries. His resolve was fierce, as it always was. Atheus explained in shorthand the sort of process that crafting a blade with alchemy would require, but he also said that he would expound on details when Alkor arrived.

Nestled just outside of a hyperlane between Kuat and Balmorra, the ship was a short trip from Balmorran Arms' HQ. Alkor had specified the meeting place in the interest of relative privacy. People rarely left the hyperlanes to linger in open space.

"I thank you for agreeing to forge this weapon for me," the Corellian exile spoke in response to Atheus' words, his upper body lowering in a slight bow. He recalled the man's words from their combat in the Tournament of the Five Dunes. It could be no one else. If someone was to forge a sword for Alkor, it would be one who he had respect for, and who understood his walk through life at some level.

Surely a man who he had fought against was more than equal to the task.

"I apologize for not making accommodations for you on Balmorra," he added briefly. "The facilities are fit for forging weapons, but I doubted that you would like the attention of the less... enthusiastic members of staff. Their past few years have been riddled with the pox of Sith, and they do not enjoy those who meddle in the dark arts. Present company somewhat excluded, of course, I would still like to refrain from acts that would cause discontent in their workplace."

He did not have to explain that he was not a frequent visitor to his own company. Atheus would most likely understand that fact implicitly.

They continued to walk, though Atheus did not see the need to respond to his words. Alkor knew they were wasted anyway. This was a matter of business. As they moved through the corridor, Alkor recalled the layout, and even the forge where he had been before and assisted Imura with the shaving down of Phrikite ore.

That had to be their destination.

 

[Garza]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XhFeZa6kzAw&list=PLmZm7lR76MKhGzZNe2oLQq6XS7RyOtmUx&index=27&shuffle=6923​

I stayed silent as the man exited his shuttle to my ship. Having inherited it from my previous master, I found it quite suitable for my needs. Changing up a few things since it's change to my hands. I was left with all the tools and items of the trade at my disposal. Having a message sent to me a while back from the man who had given me a few injuries I was kept as a reminder that he was always there, and he was always taunting me with his bladework, I bowed slightly as the man introduced himself. Keeping it rather formal, I didn't speak. He was here for a sword, And I was here to make it.

I wasn't going to give him cookies, or make food for him. It was work, and work alone. I might provide hospitality later after the process, as it would be draining upon the man, but we weren't here for a party. Alkor made his pleasantries, as I motioned for him to walk past the ship in the hangar, and make his way towards the other side of the ship. Walking past many of my men who ran the ship, and maintained it in my absence.

"Welcome. I do not wish to jack off at present. Let's get this done."

Walking down the various halls, He was sure to remember them. I knew the records of this man now. After meeting him, I had found files that Nick had on various people around the galaxy. Including my past King, and my current king of my homeland. Alkor was one. He mentioned how the man respected him for his master craft of work.

Lets hope I can earn the same with my own work. However this time, instead of spinning phrik, we will be forging a sword fit for the daemon that is [member="Alkor Centaris"].

 

[Alkor Centaris]

"Evening," Alkor said as he stepped off his ship and onto the larger vessel. There was no day in space, but the galaxy followed a standard time that designated sleep patterns during lengthy travels. Or at least, what various government bodies agreed ought to be normal sleep patterns. It was nearly 25:50 and neither of the men seemed interested in sleep. Their eyes locked only for a moment, memories of the battlefield prominent in both gazes. Those sentiments would be integral for what was to come.

He did not speak again; not immediately, at least. He would wait for [member="Atheus"] to respond before he gave any more words, and he would follow the rules of propriety as he did so. There was no reason to show disrespect to someone who's assistance he valued, and it would tarnish the relationship writ with blood and born on the killing field. These were the only sort of bonds Alkor knew how to forge, and intrinsic to them more than anything was a festering contempt that neither would truly abolish.

That hate was what gave them a drive to become stronger, and to surpass their former selves. Alkor would cut down any enemy on his quest to stand at the top, and Atheus would inevitably follow that same path. Perhaps the other man had a reason for living beyond that, or something that would satiate the bloodlust that Centaris had seen from him, but that vicious nature was already firmly rooted.

Alkor was glad for that. So few men knew the hells that he had seen, and even less of those men still had the stomach to hold a blade. Of those who did, many had already died off. Demons and monsters were a rare breed, and endangered in terms of specie. Alkor and Atheus were among the very last left in all the galaxy. Sith were fighters, Jedi were defenders of the peace, but men like Alkor and Atheus...

These men were violence incarnate.