making the executioner's blade

[02:57] The Cat asks, "Alright, well! Let me show you what we're working with, I guess?"
[02:58] Noel Serpente says, "Yeah. You keep sayin' sword that talks to you and wants blood but never showed me."
[03:00] The sword is kept in a leather-bound scabbard, similar to the type of material that Nyatasha wears. The Cat barely grips it, holding it not by the hilt, but the leather of the sword's case, fingertips delicately resting against it, claws holding onto it more than anything.

As if the Cat were almost afraid to even hold the damn thing.

Slowly, one hand reaches down to encase the hilt of the weapon. Fingers grip tight, and there's an instant shudders amidst Nyatasha's form. When it is drawn, there's a palpable aura of sheer dread that emanates from its form- Worse than the one the cat normally gives off, at the very least.

The blade itself is ancient, rusted and dull.. Though it shines with a purple gleam, the same color as the Ebonblooded tends to decorate with.

Fitting, in a way.

"It smells like blood, if you get close. The actual ore, that is- Occult, and blood. I was thinking.. I dunno, maybe we can do something with it? 'Cause it's whispering for me to kill people. And I really like doing that."

The Cat's eye twitches, and their free hand moves down to gently pat against the sword.

"shh no its okay we don't kill this one. no, no, soon, i promise."
(The Cat)
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[03:17] Back into the fray she goes. The annoying heat she had endured once more blasts her face with an irritating swelter.

But regardless, here she was.

Eyes bask upon the offered fragment as a jade eye linger upon its extended figure. A shank of an item, a blade left in the dark. It definitely looks the part in Nyatasha's explanation, and yet, it merely held an eerie silence.

"Y'know we can just, like, reinforce this and make it a full blown workable weapon... yeah?" Just a suggestion. Of course, the process would still be arduous, yet coining up the path to it did not need to be complicated.

She glances upon the dormant Dragonforge. Though it had not regained its luster to create items akin to that of Foster's gigantic spiked wrecking ball, it was still tools and an anvil workable to someone like her.

What a better way to get more acquainted to such a beautiful set?

"Maybe bask it in the same lava that comes from the forge itself too..." Eyes swivel to the pool of molten magma. Viscous liquid deemed blessed by the dragons. What a better way to acclimate a soon-to-be sacrificial sword unto them than baptizing it in a thing like that? "I still have that special mythril y'had me hold too."
(Noel Serpente)
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[03:22] "I'm aware."

It's a surprisingly solemn, gentle response from the cat to the proposal of simply reinforcing it. The weapon, still barely held onto by the cat's fingertips upon the blade, is held aloft, before the both of them. It sheens purple, glowers with eerie, evil intent. A weapon designed for only murder; And the Cat had obliged it.

"..But since it's going to be used to slaughter people anyway, potentially countless innocent lives, I was thinking- Why not give it what it wants? Blood, murder, all of that jazz.. And then, offer those sort of things up for Naysien?"

Such a thing was surely possible, was it not? A weapon forged, bound, and drawn upon the power of a near deity-like creature? The cat had heard of several weapons forged in Osrona that stole the power of the stars for their performances, so why not linking it to a dragon?

..The sheer occultic presence on the blade, thehorrific whispers and whatever spirit may or may not be bound to it would perhaps make that difficult, though.

"I'm willing to do with it whatever you think is best, however. Even if its just reinforcing the blade- Though I'd be careful with it. Like I said, the ore used to forge it is.. Bloody. It smells like flesh, Noel, and believe me, I've smelled dead flesh before."

The sword, between them, shivers within the Cat's hand. Palpable evil and dread pour from it in waves, and the cat's crimson gaze narrows upon it, as if still listening to it even now.

"..Just tell me what you need me to do."
(The Cat)
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[03:38] "The fuck you doin' smelling dead flesh for? That ain't sanitary." Her tone may have been jesting, yet perhaps true opinions are laden behind all the snarkiness.

Regardless, she could not work metal without heat. And if her suggestion prayed any chance of blessing this with Naysien's own...

"Okay, here's what we're gonna do, yeah?" Until now, she had chosen not to hold the sword. Perhaps out of discomfort, or maybe the happenstance had simply kept her from wielding it herself at this moment. "I'll gonna try to channel her blessing through this lava pool. What you're gonna do is simply dip the sword for as long as y'can and bring it over to the anvil for me to hammer."

Slowly, her items are set aside, keeping only the flowing dress she wears on her. "Make sure you're holding tight to the sword when we get to the anvil. Gotta keep its pressure up."

And thus, begins her praises.

Hands outstretch as the nimble chronomancer initiates her dance. Motions similar to that of contemporary dances flicker upon her figure. And yet, the ancient motions and praises acclimated to that of the Ebon Dragon conjoin in her movements.

By the sheer sight of such an act, one could see that perhaps this might be a culturally taught dance upon the few gifted enough within Naysien's sect: The Flight of Reprisal.

For but a meme few moments, the candles within the room flickers. The magma that Noel had dances over fades, reigniting from a bright orange to a murky black. What was once the magma that held on to Garljing's own visage now was but a temporary stage for his daughter.

If there was any sign for the cat to do something, it was now.
(Noel Serpente)
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[03:38] Noel Serpente says, "*I'm gonna try"
[03:46] Given the Grand Executioner's title, perhaps it would have been weirder for the cat to not know what corpses and decaying flesh smelled like. T'was not too long ago that they were covered head to toe in viscera and gore and corpse bile, after all.

There's no immediate response to Noel, other than a swift nod, and a shifting of their hands as they realize.. They'd need an actual, proper grip upon the weapon. Slowly, their claws release the grip against the hilt of the sword.. And their fingers move about, encircling it entirely.

There's a hesitation of doubt on the cat's face as, quite clearly, the sword whispers to them yet again. Less of a whisper, and more of a dull scream, just as it had done the night of the sacrifice. They step forwards, casting off to the side just far enough to watch the Flight of Reprisal.

They'd never actually been entirely eager of the more intricate details of their religion, the dances, the scriptures; The Cat knew merely two things, and did them very well. Violence; Murder.

The candles flicker, and the magma within the area behind the forge shifts in shade. There's a brief moment of hesitation, a real curiosity as the Cat's eyes go wide- They had seen blessings before, watched as Ferris recovered from lethal wounds, heard the stories of Foster coming back from the dead, and yet..

..This was tangible, real, and specifically just for the two of them.

Shaking it off, the cat twists forwards, the sword moving about in their hand on its own. There's a brief moment as they cast a glance towards Noel, their hand gripping more tightly around the sword's pommel- As if they were moments away from striking, from attacking their own Ebonblooded sister..

Before the sword is delved, deep, into the magma. Their free hand moves, grasping about their other- To lose grip now would cause them to lose the entire process, after all. Held tight, the sheer heat of the magma very quickly almost overwhelms and becomes far too much for them- Not a drakanite, used to the cold, it was something sheer, raw, dangerous. It bubbles, it hisses, and for just a second, the Cat remembers an emotion they thought long forgotten-

Fear. A fear of death, imminent, and facing down into the murky black magma. They hesitate, choking a breath, hard to actually swallow from the lava- And despite not knowing how long they'd actually kept it in the immense heat, be it a mere few seconds or what felt like minutes, hours, it is finally withdrawn..

Fingers burning, sweat rolling down their form, it's twisted through the air with use of the cat's wind magic, guiding it forwards and sending the heat searing away instead of coming back and splashing upon both of the Ebonblooded..

Before the ancient, dull blade is slammed down upon the anvil, still held in both hands, the cat's expression flat and empty.

"...Time to do this, Noel."
(The Cat)
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[04:03] Whence metal meets magma, the sizzling burn of those impure according to Naysien's will are consumed by the heat. Much like how holy water removes impurities, the magma eradicates all form of devilish worship, be it a helspawn, Nyx, or anything in between.

By the time it was pulled free? All that remain was the ever present presence of Naysien. The blade now blessed to be one that kills in her honor.

In the midst of the Cat's own time pondering over the sudden lingering thoughts and emotions one thought to be long gone, Noel had already positioned herself by the anvil-turned-altar. With tools in hand, all she had a moment to do was glance over that the feline's state.

She had hoped to ask if everything was alright, and yet they had answered to push on before he could even open her lips.

"Alright, yeah." Agreeance was the best she could offer.

A good second would be the beginning song of work. Clang, clang, clang would the hammer slowly bend and straighten the dysfunctional blade.

"Hold it steady," she'd request, keeping upon the edge of the sword as hammers and whetstones would slowly, but surely, curl the weapon into something much more useable.

In moments, the shape begins to form; albeit, the entire thing looked more like the base of a weapon's billet than a final product... for now.
(Noel Serpente)
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[04:09] The heat did not fade from the sword, despite the Cat's wind-heavy presence. It encircled their hands, lingering about almost akin to gloves in order to stave off the blackened magma that dripped from the sword, rested against the Svartalvil.

The emotion was quickly faded away- Pushed to the back, dark recesses of Nyatasha's mind. Instead, they focus entirely upon the anvil, on holding the sword steady as Noel begins their work.

They'd never been one to help with any sort of work like this. Indeed, most of their time was spent lounging upon their throne or coiling about the snow and pouncing on unsuspecting mice and rabbits..

But in this moment, their entire focus and energy is placed on holding the weapon steady. Their entire body flexes, the bloodflow to their hands locked tight through their own magic to stop reflexive shifts or spasms. The cat's pink hair, slick with sweat, hangs from their normally all encompassing hood..

..The face of a young girl, determined, severe, and with only one goal in mind;

To use this weapon to offer souls to Naysien's might.

There is no audible response to Noel; Merely, a short, curt nod of their head and a gritting of their teeth as they await for more to come.
(The Cat)
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[04:19] Hours pass and the Dragonforge's anvil soon makes note of its true work. The once unusable weapon given by the hands of a suicidal man now lie in a state of pristineness. If one were to compare the blade before with the blade now, mayhaps they'd even argue they are not the same weapon.

Truly, the combined presence of a vagabond artificer's hands and the grace of Naysien channeled through the Dragonforge would soon result in a finalizing moment.

Long had Noel allowed the Cat to sit, idle, and watch the cooling sword for the remainder of her process. After all, she had worked with mythril far too many times and this was not the first she had worked upon the Samurai Mythril they had plundered from a bounty that had passed.

The guard and grip would have been perfect for the mythril's make, and slowly does the Serpente make moves to accomplish them piece by piece. For so that she may simply assemble it all once they begin to form the final product.
(Noel Serpente)
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[04:27] Idle, as the Cat merely watched. They sat, perched in a wayward corner, lounged forwards like a real cat might have been. Lingering by the heat after a short stint outside, their head cants back and forth as they watch Noel work..

Slowly, however, Nyatasha twists themselves up to a stand. In the moment, as Noel was busy working upon the grip, perhaps they wouldn't even notice as the Cat wanders up to the cooling chamber.. And peers down, within, upon the newly formed weapon.

Their hood, long since pulled away to reveal a delicate, unmarred face and a mess of pink hair. Their gaze, still manic, their expression long faded to something neutral, gazed within as if compelled, entirely.. As if under a spell, a mind altering effect.

The whispers had gone, for some time, but now- The whispers had come back, and the voice was different.

It was the voice that Lianne had spoken in during the ritual some months back.

A hand reaches to their side, to unclasp a small carving knife from their side. Noel might even recognize the thing, as it was the one they had first used during their initial sacrifice in the Coat. It's silver lined, steel, but ultimately unremarkable aside from the handle.. Which has a display of a serpentine, ebony dragon lined within.

Quenched, cooling, but not entirely done yet, the Cat twists their head to the side, hefts a singular hand upwards. In a brief moment of sheer and utter clarity, they raise the weapon up towards their finger's nub, where they had removed it long ago in defiance of Drakmer and the fireblooded..

..And slit the old wound open yet again, letting blood drip and pour from the wound. To most, it would have ceased pulsing blood instantly, but for a blood magi, it continues, pouring downwards for seconds, minutes- The Cat loses track.

And, just as quickly as it had started, the bloodflow ceases, and the wound begins to close.

"..Eleven heretics, dead bythat blade. My blood, the Grand Executioner's own, from a show of strength to one far more capable than I. The Dragonforge, an incredible relic for the servants of Dragons.." The Cat- No, Nyatasha- grins, wide, towards Noel, even in their midst of forming the samurai mithril.

"..And the best Forgemaster this place has ever seen. We're going to make history here, Noel. One weapon at a time."
(The Cat)
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[04:39] Continuing on would the blacksmith work the Samurai Mythril down to the very edge of the intended shape. A guard able to withstand blow yet offer the lightness of an agile weapon, able to let the blade sing and end lives with a single swipe.

Her meandering alone had left her distracted enough that she does not initially notice the Cat's sudden slinking of blood unto the blade.

For this long had she simply pushed aside the 'whispers' as a mere delusion.

"What was that? I couldn't heard you over the hamme- WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" Her head initially moved in a slow manner, yet it jerks into a swivel when she had realized what had Nyatasha done whilst her back was turned.

Still, the pieces for the guard is clung upon her fingertips. Yet perhaps even she didn't know how to react to this.

Not that she hadn't seen a blood offering before. It was moreso the fact that she just wasn't expecting to see that when she turned around.

Swiftly, the tightly presses her temple. What's done is done. The Cat had offered her own essence to the weapon. Perhaps as an act of piety, perhaps the sword truly is sentient, or perhaps she had just gone farther off the deep end than Noel had thought was humanly possible.

Regardless, she steps over, intrigued. "We're already makin' history y'know?" Perhaps they were, had it been Osrona marching upon their doorstep being a sign on its own.

Eventually would the smith attack the final pieces of the guard. Only in the silent moments would she ask, "No, seriously, the hack were you doin' just then? A blood offerin'? A test run?"
(Noel Serpente)
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[04:47] "What?"

The Cat seemed.. Unphased. Incredulous, perhaps, that Noel would find what they were doing bizarre or distasteful. They were in the profession of blood and viscera, and so, it only seemed natural-

And the whispers that filtered through their mind urged them forth, causing the already weakened mental of Nyatasha to simply flutter from whim to whim.

The blood, now dried upon their finger, fades away. They step back as Noel moves forth, to connect the pieces together, Nyatasha leaning forwards all the while to watch the process. They're silent, offering only a curt, short nod to them making history.

They were, of course. Anyone with eyes could see that, couldn't they?

"I figured it should be simple," The Cat started speaking, with a hint of minute annoyance to their tone, as if it should have been obvious. "I'm the executioner, and I've offered thirty souls to our Goddess. Eleven alone, with this blade. I'm the stronger magi than they are, so my blood, it should overpower them, right? That puts me in charge, clearly."

It.. Made sense in their mind. In reality, perhaps it was merely an offering of peity or a demand of the Black Goddess to test their worth. Perhaps the sword was still lingering with accursed, occult whispers.. Or perhaps there was some sense to what the Cat was saying.

"..I heard her voice, and it seemed like a good idea. It's still useable, right? I didn't make it explode or anything, so mission accomplished?"

They stare at the blade, watching as Noel attaches the final pieces together.. The only question was; Was it complete, or did they require something else?
(The Cat)
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[05:02] "No, no. I don't think you can make a sword explode by feeding it blood," she says with full assurance. "What, if you turn your back for a second and then turn around to something wild you don't flinch?" A rhetorical question.

Yet, she could not fault her for it. Their culture had run on blood, death, and vengeance for after all.

"But... I guess I see where you're gettin' at." Perhaps she really was hearing voices. And now she wondered if what had spoken to her... had ben Naysien all this time.

Could it be that this piece had always held something revered to her, only activated further whence they blessed such a thing upon the blackened magma called upon by one of her priestesses?

Perhaps.

Regardless, the final pieces of the sword held little to no effort needed for someone who had grown exceedingly adept at the craft.

In a single two step backing would Noel's hands rise up. A sign that, finally, the sword had been done.
(Noel Serpente)