Now she had two projects. The imbuement would be relatively easy, though the weight trick would have to be worked on. She might even be able to modify it further so that it became stronger as the combat wore on, drawing in from the pain and emotions of battle to fuel it. That wasn't requested but it'd make the armor applicable to the House if she did that.
Then there was her plague. Really, she leaned back in her chair, inhaling the soft scent of greenery, she could think of it as three projects. One to convince Vukal that she was perfectly fine acting as a relatively free agent, a proper sword for a Pureblood. She'd noted the absence of a Sith blade in the estate, the peculiar call for and thirst for battle that they had. Their abilities as a focus made them exceptionally useful, and their steeped history made them desirable. Hard to craft properly, but she'd had good teachers and excellent resources.
Then her plague, her new one. She'd decided the first was perfected in its current state but the second she wanted to spread easier, tied to manipulations of the Force itself. Controlled infection vectors. She still was determined to keep her plagues limited to the battlefield, keep them contained. She would not want to unleash a perpetual plague, one that evaded her control and left the battlefield.
She studied the slave she'd called up, her requisition for resources more quickly approved after her success with her first disease.
But first.... the project to convince Krassk she was perfectly fine acting as a relatively free agent. She'd listened as he described the battle to take the estate, comparing him with the other Purebloods she knew, and come to the conclusion he was, well, almost a traditionalist. It simply surprised her that he hadn't found himself a proper blade sooner.
Of course thinking back to that visit also reminded her of the banter exchanged with Drakkan, and the truce they'd settled on. In an effort to not end up on Drakkan's bad side she'd keep her peace and promise - and she would stay out of the man's way, him and his clan, as much as possible. It'd be the best way to ensure nothing was, as he'd put it, taken personally. She did sigh though, knowing that much of the conversation was likely listened to and wondering just what the Darth was going to make of it. Wouldn't that be fun to find out?
It all fell back to illusions, she decided as she ordered the slave to kneel, and keeping them. She had begun to start thinking of herself as Sith and in doing so she realized how many illusions about herself she held, how many opposing actions she embodied. Dagger moved quickly in her hand, the slave jerking then falling to the side, blood spilling to fill the inscribed channels on the floor and beginning to softly pulse as the Force rose to her call. She had been a healer.
She knelt down and with a gesture of her hand and the slave's corpse lifted, moved delicately from the glyphs drawn on the floor and settled into a forming pile. The last slave needed knelt now, a flicker of fear in their eyes as they saw their fate but not struggling, not begging, not pleasing - this one must welcome death as much as they feared it; she put a hand to the side of their face, steadying them, feeling the tremble in their limbs, before she gutted this one letting blood and body spill out with delicate strokes of her knife.
She still could be a healer in service to the Empire but it wouldn't give her the expression of her passions. Now that she was embracing them she was letting them slowly erode her few remaining principles, accepting the changes as gracefully as she could. And Krassk - damn the Pureblood. She held her hands above the glowing blood, liquid forming and slowly shifting, hardening around into a wickedly shaped blade. Violence and hatred, a thirst for blood - it cried out as she wove and forced the creation to harden. It started to sing and she continued to weave the Force around the blood-coloured blade, adding in runes and glyphs in the old tongue - adding poison and havoc, emotions and pain into the very essence of the etched sword.
It was hours, many hours later, when she reached a hand out to grasp the blade. It felt heavy in her hand, but everything did after such a long creation. The blade glinted, green and red, green at the edges with a tang of poison she could feel in the Force, red for the blood runes which glowed dully and pulsed, Force drawn up into the blade and gathering it sluggishly.
The blade fell to the ground as she sat down slowly, feeling exhaustion settle into her body as heavily as a drug. She knew the blade as well as any creator knew their creation, hand brushing down the blade's flat surface to awaken the glyphs. She wondered how well Krassk would know what she'd made.
She wondered how well it'd sing for him in battle, drawn to the combat. She wondered if it would be enough or if it'd be considered just the start.
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