First off: I would like to thank LSG for this awesome chapter; with the exception of some minor continuity edits, this is his work in its entirety. Next: I would like to thank PsychoSith for his incredible rendering of the Vhal'Dan Cataphract Zweihander/Beskar Breaker. I'm INCREDIBLY lucky for their awesome contributions!
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Blessings and Curses, Part IHis breath misted and he couldn’t suppress a shudder as the temperature suddenly dropped the moment the third set of Quadranium doors opened.
Zearic Vih’Torr, Secundus of Triad Isk thought he heard Alcyorr chuckle, but perhaps it was just the intense Thermal-Extractors that kept this Vault beneath The Den well below freezing. The white Cathar seemed to have no difficulty in the cold, nor did Maenowan Olyna Ve'Reen, Primus of Triad Isk, but then both had the advantage of possessing
fur beneath their formal robes.
Olyn glanced backward at her Secundus with a touch of concern on her Simian features, something Zearic had noted repeatedly during their "Infusion" training to say nothing of the last month's worth of healing. The Shifalan Primus was, but nature, a considerate and empathetic being, a maternal figure among the Cataphracts at large, but seemed to have a particular concern for her Secundus. At first he thought it was due to his grievous injuries but then thought
that perhaps it was her closeness to the late Kazic Ovarug.
Pressing forward they passed many side doors, lumens lighting only the section they were walking in at any given time, Zearic's spine tinging every now and then as if he were being watched from the darkness…nothing living but perhaps some kind of automated defense system or droid. The danger sense made him miss the weight of his Oblivion daggers, the nefarious weapons had become as familiar a part of his attire as his own saber now.
Zearic shook it off instead indulging his curiosity as to what might lie behind those doors that required such security and stasis like cold.
“Here,” Alcyorr, Triarch of the Cataphracts said as they reached a door of Mercurial silver, reliefs of Knights of old, scenes of battle and profiles of Triarchs of ancient times in an ever shifting mural created by micro-nanites that transfixed Zearic briefly.
“The Door is old, recovered from Istic Fortress on Galtea after the Civil War,” Alcyorr explained as the images shifted through again, Knights in battle against what appeared to be faceless phantoms of etched shadow replaced by the images of three beings, a Cathar male and female, and a human male with a thin face and kind but world weary features.
Alcyorr and Olyna recognized the three, Heart, Soul, and Pride of another generation of Cataphracts but their tale was for another time, the Triarch entering final credentials, a full body scan sweeping over him before the images faded, the nanites retreated and the doors opened.
“Enter the Armoury,” The Triarch declared gesturing Zearic forward, “And find the Blade that has awaited you.”
With a hard swallow of anxiety Zearic entered. He couldn’t remember being so nervous except when undertaking his own Trials. After all he had seen and done since then, this should be a simple task and yet…the spectre of failure hung heavy across him.
The Armoury was filled with large plinths and columns on or in which were suspended pieces of Legacy Cataphract armour and Beskar Breakers. While his newest personal Cataphract Armour was still being forged, he had been given the option to have a new Beskar Breaker crafted or attempt to take on a Legacy Blade that, like the crystal of a saber, was drawn to him.
He had opted for the latter, perhaps hoping the influence of a Cataphract of old etched into the duranium and Kortosis weave might counteract the haunted whispers of the Oblivion daggers. Yet what if none was drawn to him? What if the Blades of Old rejected him for the dilute blood of capricious demi gods...or worse the taint upon his soul of his own failures and stain of mistakes?
“Listen to the still voice,” Olyna advised as he stepped forward toward the rows of ancient blades, cradled on hand crafted transparidiamantium stands, small bronze plaques naming the blades beneath each.
Unsure what to do Zearic stared at the nearest and worked back, placing his hand over each listening to the Force, trying to intentionally feel the blade and how it felt about him… The first three showed…nothing…not a whisper; only on the fourth did relief come as he felt a surge of energy, boisterous, rebellious and cocksure. This was a blade he might have chosen as a young man: it promised excitement, adventure, youthful vigour.
He appreciated the sentiment but it was not for him.
The seventh was more his style, it exuded kindness and wisdom, a soulfulness brought about from enduring its previous owners own secret sufferings that were turned to empathy and conscience--
Caladbolg was the blades name--Vilhynn Soban, the first of its seven owners.
Olyna looked to Alcyorr expectantly as Zearic stood hand over that blade, images of a man of wise counsel, moderation and discernment earned through a hard life flowing into his mind.
Maker knew it was the kind of man Zearic
wanted to be… His face fell with hard remorse. He knew, for many reasons, it was not the man he
could be.
Two more blades of the dozen offered him glimpses, one first owned by one Ostooloruu "Midge" Wuurich of a stalwart warrior, willing to lay down his life for his Triad, his Order, indeed even beyond the grave itself! Another was crisp and focused, a military mind, not an ounce of nonsense, only the mission mattered to the former owner Jelan Ya'qul. Zearic appreciated Midge’s especially, but wanted to check every last one.
The last was an oddity, at the far end and in two pieces, a thick layer of transparidiamantium around it, the broken blade only had one previous owner and still bore dark red stains of dried blood that seemed to have inexplicably soaked
1 into the metal itself.
Holding his hand over it he felt the tremor immediately--not one image but two--one ferocious, animalistic, and merciless, bloody minded in its pursuit of protecting its own family, the other equally obdurate but sentient, considered, self sacrificing.
Balmung was its name, Maenowan Agemean Villados its one and only owner.
The Triarch and Primus felt the Force tremble as Zearic stood beside the blade, it had a reputation as being "cursed," for no one had wielded it since Villados had--in the ancient Cataphract Oral Tale of the Battles against the Shadow Lords--hurled her broken blade, sacrificing herself to allow the Venerable Nurhl Baz Rhadde who plunged the jagged blade into the neck of the "Beast" of the Oblivion Warriors for want of any other title.
The blood of the nefarious creature, thick with primal Force energies had tainted it immutably, offering potential wielders feral power.
This blade was broken as he had once been Zearic reflected, an amalgam of conflicting powers, tormented in itself, and yet unified in its ultimate goal: to be the sword and shield that stood between his Order, his family, and all who would harm them.
“This…” Zearic whispered, “This is my blade.”
<<<<>>>>
Some time after Zearic and Olyna left a vast silhouette stepped from the darker shadows of the Vault.
“
Hamask” the Triarch acknowledged the enormous armoured being, the Cathar unsurprised that the warrior had been watching, and equally unfazed none had sensed his presence.
Or’an Damaar nodded in return, the Tof exceeding the already large Cathar in every dimension: over 3 meters tall and vastly heavier even before the Armour that the
Hamask never removed.
“You have concerns?” Alcyorr asked turning to walk slowly out of the Vault.
“He will be closely watched,” was the taciturn Damaar’s reply. While Tof by species he was culturally Ferroan, having been found as an infant aboard a drifting Tof Caravel 40 years before by Ferroan explorers, the only living being on the vessel covered in Tof and Nagai dead from one of their innumerable interspecies conflicts deeper in the Unknown Regions. Raised by the Ferroans Damaar had, understandably always felt "apart" from his culture, a separateness that had perhaps drawn him to the role of
Hamask, to say nothing concerning of his life prior to the Cataphracts...
“I expected no less,” Alcyorr noted. Vih’Torr had been honest about the power the beings of Artemis Industries had over him, linked to the "renewal" he had undergone, and perhaps there was an element of "keeping ones enemies close" in Alcyorr's decision to raise him to Secundus.
“Olyna will continue her vigil,” Alcyorr went on, “But I expect you will maintain your own, as you do for all of us,” the Cathar's words were not a jibe but rather grim respect for the
Hamask role.
Over the millennia the function of the Hamask had shifted--as always it involved the embracing of Darkness in the service of Light, the precision use of extreme aggression, a dangerous path to walk--but in the wake of the Prakith Disputation and the…unedifying…events surrounding the Cataphracts of that era, a new function had been accrued to the
Hamask: that of Judge, Jury, and Executioner over the Cataphracts and the Vhal’Dan at large.
Which meant that Or’an Damaar alone had the authority, and indeed the macabre responsibility, to execute
any member of the Order he deemed to have--or likely to--commit treason or in any way represent an existential threat to the Order. His judgement and execution would not be questioned, reviewed, or overruled; he needed no permission and sought no forgiveness.
It was a bloody but necessary check on the power of every Vhal’Dan. To attain such a role was necessarily arduous, the training--physical, mental and emotional--of a
Hamask was horrific, they lived as one already dead, encased in a tomb that was their armour; naturally few over the centuries had ever even attempted to take the role, fewer still survived.
Damaar was the first in thirty years, and none too soon.
Often Alcyorr thought if a
Hamask had been present earlier, Gaetana’s devastating betrayal of the Order may have been avoided entirely.
Damaar had never yet had cause to make use of that "privilege;" Alcyorr had been concerned that Zearic may well be the first, hence his previous Kill Order.
Now? Alcyorr had seen much of the man, his dedication to the Order, to his Triad, the Cataphracts, his family, yet...
...Yet could one ever truly be certain?
They had reached the end of the long path through the Vaults to the turbolift back to the Den proper, passing the eight doors, four on either side, in which hid the Cataphracts secrets and shames, artifacts from as far back as Ruusan, as varied as dangerous holocrons, broken pieces of Oblivion weaponry, and a Cryo-stasis bound Votarious from the Zilior Era.
Objects too dangerous to use, too precious to destroy.
“I will await your judgement,
Hamask, if any,” The Triarch nodded once more to the Tof, Damaar sliding back into the Vaults where the monk-like warrior seemed to enjoy meditating upon objects of tainted provenance from the Order's history as if to better learn the signs to watch for in those he was warden of.
<<<<<>>>>>
Circling his opponent, he felt the aggressive fury of his intent, the Beskar Breaker in his hands an extension of his will. For the first time since he'd been assaulted, Zearic felt that he was finally fully healed, his body's muscle memory yearning for the violence of conflict: a beast was in his hands, raging to be set free. It tingled through his very blood with a call to spill that of his enemies. It didn’t understand rules or reason, the scent of Tribal blood was absent, that made everyone in the salle an enemy.
Zearic held the "Curse" of
Balmung from dragging him into its mindless frenzy even as he gripped it tight to his chest parrying a strong overhead blow from Secundus Arion Ma’trell.
Blamung and
Caladbolg crashed together once more with a white crackle, the hilts of Villados and Soban meeting in the training session for the first time in nearly 500 years.
Arion was a few years younger than Zearic, an affable Lorrdian assigned to triad Krenth who had only recently been inducted to the Cataphracts too. That
Caladbolg had chosen Arion told Zearic all he needed to know of the man, the blade Zearic had felt was one that sought out the best
of and the best
in Knights and made them better.
Arion smoothly rounded into another pass keeping Zearic on his toes to deflect--
Balmung’s other side helped with that--the beskar breaker was two faced, both noble and animal, Zearic needed to master or at least reconcile into a working relationship both aspects, as he had--well mostly--with his Oblivion Daggers. In their sheaths the
Tenebris and the
Nocte both scratched to be released, but he could "ignore" them now, the daggers were his "pets," not he theirs.
Knocking back Arion's pass, Zearic pushed forward anchoring his feet into the mat as the scattered Cataphracts around the edge of the Circle watched, all curious to see the two relative newcomers test their mettle in full armour, Breakers only, no Force powers, a test of swordsmanship, strength and guile.
Arion held against the push, their sabers crackling, the blue of
Blamung tainted by a dark rather than white core giving it a midnight hue,
Caladbolg pushed back glimmering silver of a pure soul, united in its purpose, the beskar breaker seemingly could not be more different.
With a grunt of exertion Arion broke the lock and tried a kick, Zearic dropping his elbow just in time to stymie it before they entered another fast round of blows and blocks, the harsh overhead lights reflecting off their new armour, the nanites occasionally trickling into the gouges the quarter power beskar breakers caused as they made a glancing hit, but as it had been for several minutes the men were deadlocked.
Arion was slightly shorted, but had longer limbs and typical Lorrdian dexterity with his fingers from the near human species their kinetic communication allowing him greater reach and the ability to switch his grip quickly. Zearic’s style had evolved, in response to both
Blamung and Nimmin Cha’s training: he interspersed solid Form sequences to draw back like the tide, then crashed in like a Tsunami with brutal thrashing flurries, melding his Water Warrior Training with the cynical murderous intent of the Inquisitors, and harnessing both the Curse and the Nobility inherent in
Balmung.
The balance of his art was still far from perfect, and Arion was taking the fighting to him, pressing Zearic toward the invisible edge of the raised ring on which they fought, air cushions surrounding in case anyone was hurled off.
Arion advanced, the silver
Caladbolg quick and deft in its strikes, Zearic taking step after step back in time with the half deflections, the Lorrdian’s eyes flicked to the chrono, a 13 minute bout already, he couldn’t keep going much longer at this pace without the Force, and he assumed neither could Zearic.
There he was wrong. Like the Tide, Zearic was pulling out only to rush back in: as his heel feathered the edge of the ring the Water Warrior snapped back, allowing himself to feel the rush of strength that came with aggression.
Vih’Tor smashed the next blow back hard, Arion went to flip his grip to a parry in a reverse Shien grip but Zearic's fury was too fast, bashing down on his shoulder, then kicking straight into the Lorridan's arm. A single side-step to get on Arion’s undefended side and Zearic unleashed a flurry of blows with a one handed grip, punching with his free hand, then side stepping again each time Arion tried to defend himself.
But Zearic wouldn’t let him; that was the Predators Way, the Murderers Way, he could almost hear Cha whispering "Stab him in the Back" and the Curse of
Balmung heartily agreed. Arion was fading without the Force, but Zearic was at his apex, keeping only the most tenuous hold on his ferocity as Arion skittered to the edge in retreat, a final kick to the gut as the Lorrdian fell sending him into the air cushions, the match bell sounding his victory.
His breath quickly returning to normal Zearic shut off the hungry blade and helped Arion up.
“Ehhh…a long hard match…” Arion puffed, “Think I need a few more of those to build up my stamina without the Force.”
The comment was innocuous, praise almost but it cut something in Zearic as he heard the applause from the half dozen observers die out, a handful discussing the tactics already eager for their own matches in the future.
Removing his helm Zearic offered a supportive smile but couldn’t conceal the discomfort form the observant Lorrdian.
“You all right Vih’Torr?” Arion asked rising up fully and picking his Breaker back up.
“Fine…just trying to hide the pain!” he jested hoping it was believable. “Damn that was a long hard match!”
<<<<>>>>
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1. As seen in LSG's outstanding
Chapter 48 — Oblivion Gray — Ultima Ratio — Part 8, >>>> Istic Fortress ‘Nurhls Den<<<<,
http://www.saberforum.com/index.php?topic=44181.msg796456#msg796456
