It was one of the rare moments of solitude she’d been granted. Arten off meditating, Tomuraan preparing for a trip with his padawan and Raiyden had left early in the evening to spend time with Xaishen.
So she was alone. She was in the practice room of her ship and the music played softly from the intercom system.
Her body was on the floor, legs folded beneath her, kneeling on the floor, head bowed. She kept her hands in her lap as she focused on breathing, slow and steady her heart a steady beat inside her chest with each rise and fall of breath.The loose fitting outfit she wore ensured that she could move quickly and easily, but she would not tangle herself up in her own clothing. The face wrap was of the same dyed cloth, bound tightly around her face.
The steel-like blade sat in front of her, the edge of it wicked sharp and she knew that Raiyden would likely not be pleased if he learned she was using live steel in a dance. But he wasn’t there to admonish her. The sword was of Miraluka make and had been given to her from her Master when the woman had learned she understood at least some of the traditional dances of their people. It was a wickedly curved blade with Miralukan designs inlaid in a blue-looking metal along the flat of the blade on bot sides, two holes on each end were ensured that when spun quickly would create a eerie whistling howling sound meant to unnerve enemies. The grip was made of a type of leather from one of the local animals of Alpheridies, the texture was slightly rough, meant for a good solid grip.
“You dance well enough to be a sword dancer Caer. So I’m giving this to you.” The thin whip cord muscled woman grinned at her, her outfit of leather, buckles and chains clinked softly. Master Sharise patted Caers shoulder. “Sister, we will see you dance at the next holiday festival and you’ll be the best if I have my way about it.”
Caer steepled her fingers before her, the first and middle finger rigid and upward pointing while the ring and pinky finger were bent towards the palm of her hands, her thumbs pointed towards her as they touched. The tempo of the song picked up and she counted the beats; one, two, three, four.
Her hand snapped out and grabbed the blade, her fingers of her right hand, sliding along the floor and then curling up around the grip. She raised the blade to the air with both hands as the music calmed for a moment, her body swaying to the sound. The muscles in her belly and chest tensed and relaxed as she moved, her leg muscles tightening as she rose to her feet.
The next moves were nothing short of precision and speed. On her feet she spun around in a quick fluid motion, the blade whistling with that eerie howl/moaning sound filling the air, oddly setting a tone for the music. Caer now understood why the music worked well. Her feet shuffled and stomped, bringing up one leg then setting it down before doing the same with the other, all the while her arms spinning and weaving, the blade cutting close to her face and hair, her torso. She spun around the room, the blade flashing in the ships light. All the while singing it’s own song. She ran the length of the practice room, the blade swinging side to side, using the wall to launch herself off of and then come to stand still.
She arched her back, her right arm bringing the blade down across and down he breasts to slide down her exposed belly, she let go of the blade and nearly bent in half backwards, the blade rested cold against her hot skin. She held the pose while the song paused, drum beats counting down until the melody struck up again. Once the melody picked up, her body undulated and the sword slide off and to her leg where when she straightened, she held it there, balancing before her hand grabbed it and she began anew, twirling her body faster and faster even as her hands traded the blade off, all the while spinning.
The howl rose to a scream.
The song rose to a crescendo with the howling sword until Caer dropped to the ground, legs parting in the splits.
The music stopped, the sword stilled, the woman holding it just so that her elbow was bent away from her body but her forearm was pointed flush with the upper arm in a sideways V shape. The blade pressed against her throat. The Miralukas heart pounded and her lungs screamed for air; yet she did not move.
The final drum beat hung in the air and then tapered off. Only then did the sword withdraw from her body and she lowered it to the ground. Her legs strained with holding the splits for so long, but she maintained the pose. Only after she had a moment she brought her legs under her and rolled to her feet.
Exhausted, she bent and reverently picked up the sword and hung it back on the wall. Bowing her head she whispered a prayer to Ashla to bless the blade before heading off to the showers and an empty bed.