Arming Trydian

[Paroxysm]

A score of forges and anvils, a half-dozen troughs of water, the sound of the billows and metal hitting metal, sparks flying every which direction, and thick, black smoke clouding the ceiling, flowing out of windows and chimneys and doorways.

What a sight, Pendaran thought.

This was where the Unseelie smiths, regardless of specialization, gathered, and the average quality of their works was nothing less than grand. The workshop that Pendaran had asked Trydian to meet him at was a guildhall and a factory; its size was enormous and its facilities top of the line. There existed no better a place to forge Trydian’s weapon, Pendaran was sure.

The king was no stranger to the shop, however; he had come on several occasions and forged his own sword here, too, near where he now stood, in fact, and that alone gave him a place here; it was why none of the masters saw fit to favor, approach, question, or otherwise acknowledge his presence.

That was not to say that they were not curious or that a great deal many of them were not anxiously watching from the corner of their eyes. Indeed, everyone wanted to know Pendaran’s purpose and what kind of item he would forge, whether or not he would enchant it or etch some incomprehensible and arcane symbol onto its surface.

Whenever the king took to the forge, he always taught them something new.

[Trydian]

Trydian waited for the King patiently, amidst the nature of the forge. His nostrils burned from the scent of sweat and mineral, his mood quickly disintegrating. Had it not been the promise of forging his own blade, he wouldn't have stepped foot in the guildhall. Unlike his Uncle and father, he had no interest in crafting weapons of grandeur, or even of common use. Trydian had already possessed an impressive weapon, but its elements had done little, to stir something in his mind and soul. From that experience alone, he knew that he would have to forge his own blade and find peace with it.

Feeling the vial in his pocket, he realized he did the action out of nerves. While he appeared calm, the ache in his arm, reminded him of the confrontation with Thorin. Had he been more prepared, he doubted that Thorin would have been so quick to attack. With that thought, he wondered for the well being of Sebilla, knowing that their bond and relationship was inevitably severed.

It was better for her, but it was a melancholy thought he didn't want to revisit. Perhaps in the greater scheme of things, she could delve deeper into her gift and become her own weapon. Whatever her fate, he knew that they wouldn't be tied by blood, soul, or mere relationship again.

He watched for some sign of the King, often looking for some stray sign of Sebilla or Thorin. His paranoia often riddled his brain and wrecked his nerves. Keeping to himself, he wondered if he shouldn't search for the man.

[Paroxysm]

After a proper pleasing of his aesthetics, inspecting the works and talking to the smiths, Pendaran spotted and made his way over to Trydian; he noted Trydian's demeanor and general lack of enthusiasm.

"Not your thing?" He observed aloud. "Shame," Pendaran gestured for Trydian to follow and began to make his way to what would be their workspace, "There is nothing quite as therapeutic as creating something with your own two hands."

This was one of those times when the saying 'to each their own' came to mind, Pendaran supposed. Still, they would not be here for too awfully long. Indeed, after a brief moment or two, Pendaran lead Trydian to a partitioned off area of the guildhall, ducked into an opening, and then came to a stop facing the back of a large, cloven-footed man steadily working.

When the man noticed the king and Trydian, he stopped what he was doing and, without hesitation, gathered up the sword he had been tending and held it out to Pendaran, who took it and inspected it, and then held it out for Trydian’s appraisal.

Despite how well made it was, the sword was plain and completely opposite of what one would expect from a Fae smith, let alone a master craftsman, and because of its plainness, it was ugly. There was nothing special about the sword, no exotic design or enchantment, and, for all it was worth, the smith might as well have handed Pendaran and Trydian a sword blank, a template.

This, of course, was exactly what he had done.

“This is your sword, Trydian,” Pendaran said completely serious in spite of how the sword looked and its lack of presence, and its lack of soul.

[Trydian]

Trydian listened to King Pendaran. The man was at least decent enough, as one could be toward their prisoner's. Trydian rarely said a word, unless he were spoken to directly. Since his confrontation with his uncle, his personalty had quickly withdrawn. Without a connection to Sebilla, he might as well have been soulless himself, but that did not mean that he was without pride. Trydian hardly had things handed to him so readily, so he took the gesture as a greater insult, than its original intention.

Shaking his head, he showed his disapproval by not reaching out for the sword. “No...that is his sword. I will create my sword by my hands.” He stood still waiting for word from King Pendaran. Trydian possessed his father's stubbornness, more-so than the other Xanathi children. Without realizing, he often mocked his father's mannerism.

“Teach me how to forge a sword...or do you only know how to collect them?” Trydian challenged King Pendaran, wondering if he overstepped his place. These days, he had less fear with each passing hour. Considering all of the recent trauma, he wondered if his ego hadn't saved his sanity more than once.

[Paroxysm]

Pendaran smiled in amusement at Trydian's lack of respect and then dropped the expression entirely; he looked at Trydian with the same cold, chilling look he had given Mikal when the demonic phantom had spat on the king's good sense and hospitality.

"I am not your sister,“ Pendaran said with a smooth, easy tone, “and if you speak to me that way again, I will break you until you are so far gone that you resemble a whimpering hound begging for attention and approval.”

While Pendaran could give a man some leeway when they were alone, he would not tolerate being outright disrespected, and to do it in public was a good way to get yourself killed or twisted so horribly that you wished you were dead.

“Not my sword,” the smith interjected, fearing, he, too, would be caught up in Trydian’s punishment. “I don’t use swords, I just make them, and for you, I made this. My greatest work,” he emphasized those last words by pushing out his chest and slamming his fist against it. He was quite proud of what he had crafted.

“Anyways,” Pendaran looked to the smith and shrugged, “Teach you? How little you must think of this smith‘s craft,” Pendaran laughed, “That you would expect to learn it so quick and produce anything worth using. Even if you could learn to forge a weapon of merit in so short a time, you would not have the experience to truly make a weapon that was as yours as you seem to want it to be,” Pendaran explained, though he was not about to fully educate Trydian on the subject, “and your perceptions of the craft would be colored by whoever taught you. You would use their techniques, not yours.”

Trydian would have, at most, been a student of some master swordsmith, and it would show in anything he produced for the next dozen years. Pendaran did not think Trydian would be happy with that at all.

“Here,” Pendaran said the word as an order, not a suggestion, not a friendly ‘hey, hold this,’ but an order and Gods help Trydian if he started acting like an unruly child, “We will finish this sword as quickly as possible. I have other things to do too.”

Provided Trydian relented and finally took the sword, he would feel a sharp and sudden pull on something inside of him, something that was not at all physically connected to him, but there all the same.

The sword may have been trying to eating him.

[Trydian]

Trydian smirked, but it was more of a private expression. He didn't dare let King Pendaran witness his absolute delight in getting under his skin. Taking the sword, he looked toward King Pendaran with a stoic expression, as if he still didn't understand the process of forging. His father and uncle might have appreciated such a grandeur forge, but he was hardly enthused at the thought of making his own weapon. Trydian only wanted to create his own sword, so that he was connected to it like another limb. Too many used swords had been given to him, or ones found on corpses. They had not held something with him and they were too easily replaced, or passed on to a new owner.

This particular blade felt different and even held a darker substance attached to it. It was a strange sensation when he held it, but his mind couldn't fully wrap around the meaning. The sword still needed work and he would be more than willing to finish its creation.

“I wish to imbue it...granted, the blood is plain and lacks special quality- it's for my own sentiment.” Trydian explained, feeling only a little embarrassment, at still having his sister's blood vial. He disregarded the lecture from King Pendaran, knowing that he may very well die in the upcoming battle. There was little pride left in the demon, so King Pendaran's words would not take root on his conscience.

[Paroxysm]

The king inspected Trydian and then rolled his shoulders in another shrug. If Trydian wanted to . . . imbue . . . the sword for sentimental reasons, far be it for Pendaran to argue.

"As you wish," Pendaran said, "but be quick about it and steel yourself for what's to come," he suggested.

What Trydian wanted done was something Pendaran was not familiar with and thus, he offered no help; it would be up to Trydian to imbue the sword with Sebilla's blood, if that was what he wanted. When Trydian was ready, however, he would find that Pendaran had wandered away to a nearby corner of the partitioned off area, the sword smith standing near by his king, and the two were talking as Pendaran labored over something etched into the floor.

Closer inspection would reveal that Pendaran was putting the finishing touches on a large circle - a magic circle, as it were - and adding fine details with a dedicated, meticulous touch.

The circle was large, capable of holding two or three men comfortably, and it consisted of two parts, both perfectly designed: There was the outer circle, which was generic and simple; and then there was the inner circle, which had complex designs in its middle and overlapping along its edge. A series of thick, hand-carved symbols was inscribed over the inner circle in a triangular diagram that had its ‘points’ ending just within the space between the two circles. In the center of the triangle was another symbol, this one almost appearing to be calligraphy, as it was all done in one stroke; it had rough edges, sharp inclines and sudden declines, and it brimmed with power.

Whenever Trydian was done indulging his sentimentalities, the king and the circle both awaited him.

[Trydian]

The blood smelled sweet, the scent wafting from the crimson vial. Luckily, Trydian was more occupied with the process, than the actual contents in the vial. If he had been in any other mood, the scent might have consumed his thoughts. Uncorking the vial, he smeared the blade with the blood. He made sure to cover the steel completely on both sides, making sure that it soaked the blade evenly. It was an intimate endeavor, but the moment quickly passed into the actual process of imbuing the weapon.

Trydian noticed the circle immediately, or rather his senses did. The area was practically charged with energy, which was very hard for a demon to ignore. He followed the King almost reluctantly and stepped into the circle with his blade. Was it worth going through this for common blood? Trydian's mind continued to convince him of its value.

“I'm ready...” Trydian said, trying to be calm about the matter. He was a young demon, experiencing this magic for the first time. The blood that had been spilled, had been the last pure substance of his sister. While the King might find it a waste of time, his mind wouldn't rest until the procedure was completed.

Standing with King Pendaran, he held the blade tightly from his nerves.

[Paroxysm]

Once Trydian entered the circle, the first thing he would be to note, was that there was an elastic resistance to his entering, and, once he ploughed through that resistance, it would rebound with an audible snap and then immediately hardened until it became an invisible wall. Leaving the circle was no longer an option.

“Perhaps,” Pendaran said doubtfully, “But we will see.”

Exhaling his breath, Pendaran pointed a finger at Trydian and called to something; he grabbed a hold Trydian’s soul with his senses, which was Pendaran’s by bargain, and he separated a portion of it from the demon. What the Unseelie king had cut from Trydian’s soul began to visibly appear in the air, seeping from an invisible wound around Trydian; it was not a pleasant thing to look at, truth be told, and it reflected Trydian’s nature, the good and bad parts of the demon.

It was not pure, but Pendaran had seen darker.

With a beckoning move of his hand and finger, Pendaran pulled the piece of Trydian closer to himself, altering it until it was perfectly round, a slight ripple and wave running across its surface, and as it came to rest beside Pendaran, the Unseelie king made a similar gesture to the weapon Trydian held, which would similarly seek to leave the demon and make its way over to Pendaran.

“Like my weapon,” Pendaran explained, “I can make this sword a part of you,” he said, “I can augment it with your powers and bind it to you, and it can be shaped by your thoughts,” to emphasize Pendaran rapped a knuckle across the surface of the blade and, like the fragmented soul, the metal’s surface rippled just slightly, as though malleable and compliant to touch.

“There are drawbacks, however, and if you die, linked as you are with the blade, it will be rendered inert, and . . . If it’s broken, the shock could kill you,” Pendaran said with a smile, but his eyes were hard and cold, and it was clear that by could he meant would.

He would save Trydian the details, but, fortunately, it would take considerable effort to break this sword. Short of a Lesser God or one of their children, not many were going to find the strength and resolve required.

“The bonding is painful,” Pendaran admitted, “but the power gained is proportional to that pain. If you wish, you can back away now, because there is no stopping once we have begun.”

Between augmenting Trydian’s weapon with raw, demonic power and inscribing semi-powerful runes into the surface of the blade, Pendaran was sure Trydian could come within reach of his uncle and father. The sword would be another part of Trydian, by the end of it, and it would have the same otherwordly, supernatural powers as the demon, though they would be subdued and less potent. The runes, on the other hand, would not be nearly as overt, but, instead, they would call on the cunning, subtle powers of winter.

Pendaran could lessen the distance between Trydian and his family, but, in the end, all the Unseelie king was doing was giving the demon a boost in strength. Vylrath and Thorin Xanathi were still his seniors in combat and war, and Pendaran could not give Trydian twenty or thirty years of experience. It would be up to the boy to think and employ his powers creatively.

[Trydian]

Trydian listened to King Pendaran, knowing that this would just be another form of imprisonment. If he no longer fought for Sebilla, what was he fighting for? His soul? There was little left for him to lose. Trydian chuckled when the King explained that the bond would be painful. He could handle that type of pain. It was a though that didn't need convincing or reassurance. Trydian only wanted Sebilla to see him.

He didn't leave the circle. In fact, he made sure that his feet created a stronger stance, with whatever King Pendaran was planning for him. “I don't care about the consequences...just finish it.” Trydian was losing himself in a different sense. With Sebilla, he no longer thought about his own life in jeopardy. Trydian was willingly changing himself for her, even giving a part of his soul up to accomplish such a feat.

The demon could handle pain, especially for that type of power. His body tensed, waiting for some sign that the ritual was beginning.

[Paroxysm]

"And that is a problem," Pendaran advised, "The consequences are always important."

With another strike of his knuckles, Pendaran sent a larger, stronger ripple vibrating along the surface of Trydian’s would-be sword, and, in one giant fluid-like wave of metallic silver, metal violently stirred and splashed, and, before long, it began settling down until it left a perfect, circular indention in the middle of the weapon.

Without so much as a moment’s pause, Pendaran directed the nebulous energy he had extracted from Trydian to move closer to the sword, stopping it only when it began to produce tendrils of black intertwined with violet and scarlet, and, with an unseen pressure, both the sword and the piece of Trydian began to exert a silent pull on one another.

Sparing a quick glance at Trydian, Pendaran’s lips quivered into a smile that was more sneer than anything.

And then Trydian was submerged in hot, molten metal.

It was not physical, of course, but the half-demon would be hard pressed to tell the difference. As fierce strokes of energy stabbed into the sword, coursing up and down its length, spreading out like a spider’s web at the weapon’s center, Trydian would have first-hand experience at what it was like to have something impose itself on one’s nervous system.

Giving Trydian another mocking smile, Pendaran struck the surface of the blade again which, given the current situation, would feel not unlike being struck by lightning. Several times in a row.

Amused, Pendaran ran a finger across the surface of the sword and asked, “How do you feel?”

[Trydian]

Trydian instantly regretted the decision. There were consequences...painful consequences. His body felt like it had been dipped in a flame. He could feel himself splitting spiritually, the pain coursing through his veins and stopping in his chest. When he breathed, he only felt fire. Trydian cried out from the shock, but his mind went blank from the intensity.

How did he feel? I feel stupid for making this decision. But Trydian didn't say that thought out loud, instead he tried pulling himself up to admire the new sword. It was a nice distraction, but not a realistic one.

Trydian didn't know what he was capable of now. As a full demon, he had almost unlimited strength and an undeniable confidence. Now with the change, he was beginning to doubt this decision. The King seemed to enjoy making bargains- almost a little too much. There would be something lost, or jeopardized to gain what you desire.

He was glad his sister wasn't here to witness everything. Trydian was sure that she would throw herself against him or the King to stop it. Shaking his head, he knew he felt like shit, but he wasn't about to admit that.

“I feel strange...what am I capable of now? It feels too new.”