W A R W I T C H

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASHEMY?















L O C A T I O N: Death Star III
G E A R: Starfang | Warpriest Beskar'gam
The corridors of the Death Star burned blue.
Azure fire danced along the walls as Starfang screamed its song, carving molten gashes through durasteel bulkheads and bodies alike. The air was thick with the smell of blood, scorched plastoid, and something almost holy, like incense carried on the heat of ruin. The Warpriest moved with the fluidity of a storm given flesh, her four arms a blur of metal and sinew. Every swing of the crystal blade birthed a nova of light, cutting blast doors, walls, and men into one seamless ruin.
Stormtroopers broke before her like waves against a cliff.
Her laughter carried over the chaos, sharp and musical. "Heard and felt, as is the way~" she purred through the reverb of her helmet's vox. Every motion was a psalm, every strike a stanza in a hymn to Ha'rangir. Yet, despite the carnage, few truly died. Those who fell and lived found themselves seized by wrists or throats, dragged screaming through the corridors of their own steel citadel as if ripped from the soil by a divine gardener uprooting weeds.
Each breath came heavy through her modulator, her armor hissing with exertion. Starfang hummed in her grip, a thin spectral whine like a choir trapped in glass. When it bit bone or found flesh, it sang, but the unworthy made its voice dull, their blood an impurity that spoiled the melody.
"I have to know...we must know~" she whispered, gazing into the mirrored starlight of her blade as blaster fire danced down the hallway.
Bolts struck her, once, twice, thrice. Sparking off her beskar with angry red bursts. She flinched only in reflex, but her advance never faltered. Instead, she snatched a trooper mid-step, her claws curling around his wrist, and spun. The movement was almost graceful, a dancer's twirl made monstrous. With one mighty heave she threw him down the corridor, his armored body crashing into the squad ahead with the sound of collapsing pins.
The hallway fell silent save for the hiss of melted walls. The surviving troopers staggered to their knees, fumbling for weapons, then hesitating. Dima's shadow filled the hall, four-armed and massive, the azure flame of her blade painting her helm in ghostlight.
"What is this melody?" she crooned, not to them, but to the sword.
One of the soldiers twitched toward a fallen blaster. Dima's boot sent it skittering back to his feet. "Pick it up..." she murmured, voice low and almost tender. "Go on. Pick it up."
They froze. Fear overtook duty. No training prepared them for this—this thing that moved like scripture written in violence. One by one, they lifted their hands instead. Dima watched. She judged. She sighed.
"Ahh, figures," she groaned, rolling her shoulders and removing her mask with a hiss of escaping air. "You had a chance to be immortal. Now you're just boring."
With that, she turned away, her disappointment more dangerous than her rage. The spared troopers scattered as she pried open the next sealed blast door with her bare claws, metal shrieking like a dying animal as she forced it apart. Beyond, a new squad waited, wide-eyed as the survivors squeezed past them, shouting warnings of the thing in the halls.
The thing arrived.
She stood framed in the torn doorway, breathing heavy, her armor blackened and slick with drink and blood. From her belt she drew the Gjallerhorn, its carved Mythosaur tusk glinting faintly in the light. With a deep tilt of her head she drank, dark ale spilling over her lips and down her chin in a sacred act of overindulgence. The Warpriest of Mandalore roared between gulps:
"By the gods, this place is dry!"
She wiped her mouth with the back of her gauntlet, tossed her head, and dragged Starfang once more across the deck, carving a luminous trench of molten azure in her wake.
A stormtrooper, a brave fool, charged her with a shock-baton.
"Kark off," she snarled, catching him mid-swing. His face met her gauntlet. "MOVE IT OR GET MOVED ON!"
She crushed him to the floor, then smashed the back of his helmet with the Gjallerhorn, using the sacred chalice as a club. "Divine instrument, meet divine idiot," she muttered, before taking another long, ecstatic drink.
More troops gathered at the corridor's far end. But now they knew. The last squad's panicked words had spread-
Don't shoot.
Don't run.
Just...don't.
They stood frozen, weapons trembling. Dima exhaled, long and disappointed. "You could at least make this glorious for both of us~"
Then, with a casual shrug, she rolled her neck, and stepped forward into the blue haze, muttering to her sword as if to a lover:
"Come on then, Starfang. Let's find someone worthy."
The azure fire swallowed her silhouette as she vanished deeper into the Death Star's heart.
Seeking her next hymn, her next victim, her next melody.