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Darth Nyrys

Cathar

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Heat boiled the air around Shiro as he gazed upon the fallen forms in disgust. Pathetic, weak, insignificant, pitiful. His gaze shifted back to the sea where Hayley had disappeared to, his blood boiled with wrath. Sweat dripped from his brow as he gazed upon its expanse. If he was too weak as an Apprentice, yet too strong to be a Soldier, then where did he truly stand? The thought plagued him devilishly. And then it spoke...

 

As he stood there watching the corpses fade into the passage of halted time, his gaze fixated and settled upon the floating black mass. What kind of creature was this, to tear its self into his reality to speak to him, an endless starry night amidst the boiling beach scenery? It reeked of darkness and reveled in his soul's awakening, speaking to his mind like a mirrored sibling as it pulled at his heart. He could feel its crawl beneath his skin as its voice fell upon familiar yet hungered ears.

 

Apprentice of Pride

 

So it did know Shiro, what laid in his heart and mind, knowing what he truly bore beneath his mortal visage? Shiro grinned, his crimson and golden gaze piercing the veil it hid behind. It wanted him to grow, the harness its power in combination, to delve in the deepest pits of his soul and find the fire within. Shiro knew the desire all too well. For Shiro wanted the same. He wanted to know and taste the true power he could possess, he wanted to know who he truly was.

 

The heat around him was bothersome and irritating, making it harder to focus upon himself. But Shiro did as it asked, and turned himself inward to find this power of pride and wrath, a deadly combination of balance to say the least. Pain rought anger, anger rought power. But it was wild, untamed, feverish: Wrath. But Pride was a different beast. It was glory, honed and tactical: Like a blade. But how could the two combine to make such power? Shiro opened his eyes as they stung against the sweat that slid down his brow. And for a moment, it reminded him of a forge, pounding away hour after hour to make a singular blade strong and sturdy.

 

That's it!

 

Pride and Wrath, Wrath and Pride, a blade worthy of forging in the midst of battle, a deadly combination of the most powerful of sins. Was this truly his power waiting to be rought into fruition? Would this be the blade that would forge him anew? His gaze shifted toward the blackened creature as if questioning, but instead turned inward to his heart. This was it. Wrath may have been wild and untamed, but with the tactical honing of Pride, it would be a double edge sword with untapped power. It would be the culmination of pure darkness. It would be Shiro and it would be marvelous. 

 

Shiro crossed his legs and opened himself up, finding the Force flowing through his surroundings. With a smirk adorning his face, he grasped at it and ensnared it, calling it to him and bending its will. With a deep breath and chilling exhale, he began...


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As the apprentice worked, Awenydd burned within the ocean, an unending fire of pain and destruction. Powers of destruction were at their heart an ouroboros, providing to in turn consume. The ocean’s waves above had taken a green edge, white squalls forcing them to peak and crash with thunder. She felt wrath above, cloaked in pride, even as her mind was absorbed by pain.

 

The force would answer her apprentice’s desire. A blade would form as he forged into it the warrior’s path.

 

From the waves, the Sith Lord crawled. Her flesh was scalded, boiling, charred. The skin wept from her left arm in trails of smoking rot. She stared at her apprentice with eyes that were wholly different then when she had entered the ocean; they held a maniacal fire within them. The white of her eyes had turned a charcoal black. The irises were as crimson as the Maw Nebula. Her pupils were as dark as the heart of the Maw. She was laughing.

 

Bright laughter that tinkled through the crashing waves. A laughter that would warm the heart of even a stranger.

 

“Come now. Finish you blade, we have a long walk to find a ship.”

 

((OOC: Pour your everything, every lesson, your very essence as a warrior into this sword of yours. It'll come in handy in the fights to come.))


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Wrath was like a storm, unrelenting, wild, and powerful. It was ample in it destruction, leaving nothingness in its wake. For Shiro, it had been his awakening. It was the flowing current ever pushing toward the mouth of the ocean, blackened and deep. But it was a simply introduction, incapable of being steered without aid. It simply swept him toward his destination, his fate. And when he accessed it, opened himself up to it, it simply took him forward in time blindly and unstoppable to the point of injury. 

 

But Pride was the oar, capable of steering Shiro even amidst the raging storm. It was the Captain of the Sea, undeterred in his war against nature. It was logic in chaos. Where Wrath would sweep him, Pride would give control. It was the perfect combination of a perfect storm, powerful and yet honed, strength with sight. Shiro could see it even as he contemplated the potential of the blade. The Force he grasped at was its Forge, and he, the Blacksmith. Yet, what would be the material?

 

Shiro opened his gaze upon the bubbling brooke, then shifted it toward the boiling sea, scanning along the darkened beach head. The bodies along it no longer existed, nor did the materials that they adorned. A few links of wood swayed in the crashing waves further down the shore as the sea boiled with his Master. But as his gaze shifted back toward the brooke, something familiar caught his eye.

 

His shoulder ached with grotesque pain as the memory replayed its self, the darkened maw reaching up from the bloodied sands as it swallowed flesh and bone from its socket, a worthy sacrifice made in what appeared to be vain. Yet now, the ivory form sat with inches sticking from its grave, flesh and bone boiling separate from the heat the sea emitted, the flesh leathered across the cooked meat as it dripped into the sand from bone. Shiro grinned as he Rose and made his way over, pulling his former arm from its placement and laying it before him.

 

Gathering his blade from the sheath near his ankle, Shiro sliced away flesh and meat, stripping the white ivory bone from it. Was this the purpose of his sacrifice before he became one of them? He didn't possess the time nor care to question, something within driving him forward. Laying strips of hide to the side, he continued until only the white ivory remained laying before him and a weapon began forming in his mind at the sight of the bones, most notably the Humurus and Scapula bones. And so he set forth to forging what he envisioned.

 

The Humurus would make a great handle, whether for this weapon or any other, a true extension of himself like his arm once was. The Scapula was more brunt than he liked, but with a few chisels of his blade, it's own edge began to form. But muscle and ligament were boiled and cooked away, leaving the joining almost improbable until he gazed at the hide he had stripped away. His blade in hand, Shiro began to carve away at the bone until the Scapula could fit solidly into the Humurus and the hide grown strong enough in the boiling waters to rejoin together. And as the last of the hide was tied tightly together with his teeth and hand, Cathar would inexplicably resound in his creation.

 

"Bone of my bone, forged in the fashion of those who destroyed, may my Wrath and Pride be heard."

 

The voice echoed in his head as his Maater emerged from the Sea and her cackle brough his gaze up from the ivory to meet her own horrific form. Shiro smiled with a nod, and turned his focus inward and to the blade, letting his memories imprint themselves upon his creation. Wrath brought forth his childhood, his slavery, his pain. And Pride brought forth his escape, his rise in the Arena, and now his rise as a Sith Apprentice. As each of these memories and emotion flowed through Shiro and into the Blade, it echoed and mirrored his own intent. And as he stood, the axe seemed to drip with power visually.

 

With each swing and test of the blade, power flowed forth from it, the darkness within seeping and splattering from its form into the direction of its aim like blood. Satisfied, Shiro sheathed the blade on his hip and made his way toward his Master, the Pride evident in his eyes and his silence.


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