as if you’re waiting for something. bsky.

“My place,” Saren echoes from behind bared teeth. “Let us speak of hammers, then. Where,” Saren began, his voice a low growl that cut through the sterile air, “does the maker’s credit end, and the weapon’s merit begin?”
Origen paused his departure around the desk, his back still to Saren, a gesture of supreme condescension. “When the weapon forgets who forged it.”
“Never,” Saren bit, taking a half-step forward, reclaiming a sliver of the space Origen had taken. “But a hammer only strikes the steel. It does not grant the metal its temper. It does not endure the quenching in the cold void, nor does it learn the shape of the blade it must become.”