Korriban's Open Terrain

Even when he focused and tried to clear his mind, Zechar could not remember how he'd come to this tiny hut on the desert plain, or where he'd gotten all this equipment. He had the shattered pieces of his old swords, a forge, some scraps of steel and leather, and an old, old book. Rather, he had the pages of the old, old book, rebound in a simple metal casing with the translations set opposite. He couldn't recall why it was in physical form rather than on a datapad, but he liked it. He liked the feel of the ancient parchment under his fingertips, liked to admire the way the characters were shaped. Even in the haze that clouded his brain, Zechar could appreciate that. Yet any time he tried to think back, or ahead, think of anything outside his present, his mind was pushed back, to his singular goal: Make the sword. He had to make himself a new weapon. The lightsaber was not enough, he needed a blade, something to cut flesh and draw blood and crush bone.

So he worked. The huge man took the scraps, the pieces of his old life, of who he had been: he took the sword fragments and threw them in the fire. They melted and were unmade, filling a crucible with their liquid bones. Zechar spent a long time with those bones, tending them, shaping them, nurturing them and making them become what he wanted of them.

From the two destroyed, there would be one created. This was Zechar's intent, to focus the whirlwind of his mind and bend it down into the molds filling under his hands, and from his own will, raise another. Already he felt the spirits dancing in the subtle flames of melted metal, and he could taste them in his mouth with every deep breath.

Steel, you will serve me.

The flames danced, searing at his scaled fingertips and bringing a hissing grin to Zechar's lips. The Exile began his work.

The two destroyed, the one created.

Three long molds were filled from the steel crucible, and three long swordblades took shape. Each was much longer than faithful Vedic had ever been; perhaps even twice as long as Eclure, that witch. It would be long enough to outreach other blades and pierce the enemy beyond. For other men it would be a gigantic sword, but for a man of Zechar's stature, it was simply a longsword built to an appropriate scale.

Fangs gleamed in the red light of the forge, as the Exile tended his burgeoning creation. The steel hissed and boiled as Zechar stretched his scaled right arm over the molds. Snarling with pain, he plucked three scales from his arm and dropped one into each pool of white-hot steel, letting the blood flow freely to meld with the nascent weapon. He roared and growled as agony throbbed in his twisted limb, clenching his teeth to snarl, "Steel… you are blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh."

The steel flared in response, and through the pain a fierce joy bloomed in the Exile's heart. It was awakening. The blade was awakening.

The time began to swirl together, becoming a hot, smoky, bloody haze in Zechar's mind. He would remember quenching the three blades, riveting them together, heating them again, pounding and twisting and working them into a tight braid. This braid was twisted, tightened, then began to weld together from sheer tension. All the way, Zechar wove his magic into the weapon, speaking into the blade, sweating into the metal, bleeding into the heat… making his magic.

He hissed, words punctuated by savage gasps as he worked the metal. "Steel, what is your task?" A single word bloomed in his mind: Slaughter. Snarling happily, Zechar finished the twist and quenched the metal before heating it again and preparing to fold it.

"Steel, why will you kill?" The reply came again, sharp and eager, a hiss in his mind. Desire.

One fold, another fold, and another, until Zechar began to lose count - maybe five, six? No, seven folds. A good number. The steel was beginning to growl, to call out to him - singing. Singing a black song of wrath, ruin, and split blood. The sword was shaping.

The blade was folded, tempered, edges beaten and shaped into danger. It was polished, refined, made ready, made suitable for the Exile's hand - and then, those last few touches. Leather and electrum on the hilt, detailed pieces - the niceties.

At last, Zechar stepped back and looked at the weapon waiting on his bench. A wicked, witching weapon, lengthy and powerful. A good fit for Zechar's monstrous hands. He picked it up, pleased at its weight, the dangerous, deadly heft of it. It swung readily, and the steel hummed as Zechar asked his final question, completing the tool in his hands:

"Sword, what is your name?"

A moment's pause.

Then the sword shook in his hands and a laughing snarl filled his head.

Astares.

It was only the next day when Zechar slung Astares over his back, lift fire to his now-useless hovel, and started walking out, out from the desert. A new day had dawned, and he intended to make it a black and bloody day.

*The black Kom'rk ship enters the atmosphere, and starts to descend slowly, when it reaches the surface, it hovered a moment as the wings fold into landing position and gently sets down into the dirt, the pilot, a young woman, shuts down most systems, and then gets up from the pilots chair and gathers her helm, she slips it onto her head, and walks to the boarding ramp. She was about to let it down when she stops and turns towards her rancors chamber, actually the troop bay of the fighter/transport. She instead lowers that ramp, and ushers the large bull rancor out. They step down the ramp together and she smiles as it stops a ships length away from the ramp.*

Go on, you deserve the exercise. We have been cooped up far too long my friend. Just don't venture too far, just in case you are needed, even in this desolate place.

*She watched for a moment as the Rancor charges off, she doubted anything would come up, but even on a planet like this bad things could happen. She herself was going to just sit, and meditate and bask in the power this planet emanated, they would carry on their way soon enough. It wasn't like they were in much of a hurry lately. She wished they were, this wandering aimlessly grew boring, perhaps she could just find a jedi to annoy, even though her aging Master told her she need-ant do so. She crossed one leg in front of the other, and sits into a cross-legged style, closing her green eyes and letting herself ride the current of power, exploring with her mind its tide, not hiding her presence but pushing it outwards further and further from where she sat..*

*Te'oma and her rancor moved along, they get nearer and nearer to a crashed ship, she frowns and tilts he rhead as she rides along. It looked to her like it had been there for a while. She gets within walking distance and jumps off of the Bull Rancor and tells it to stay there, most people didn't have calm responses to them. She walks closer keeping one hand on her weapon just in case she needed it.*

Hello?