Private Convergence of The Cursed

[Warpriest Prime]

​

ᚺᛖᛁᛚ ᛊᛖ ᚺᛁᚾ ᛖᛁᚾᛁ ᛊᚨᚾᛁ ᚷᚢᚦ

Vytal Noctura ​

The skies above Dathomir churned like an open wound, seething with black clouds that flashed with silent lightning. The shadowed world had always kept its distance from Mandalore's domain, its witches whispered of in fearful tones, their rituals dismissed as heresy by those who feared what they could not understand. Yet Domina Prime, Warpriest of the Iron Creed, did not fear them. She saw them.

Where others saw witches and monsters, Dima saw kin.
Cousins cast into exile. Daughters of the same storm.

It was they who had shown her the secrets of spirit and metal, of blood and flame. It was their whispers that had guided her hand as she reforged her mortal shell into living Beskar, every plate etched with runes and sigils drawn from their spellcraft. The divine blade she carried—The Witchfang of Ha'rangir—had been birthed through their black alchemy and tempered in her prayers.

Now, as the great city-ship The Ark loomed above Dathomir's endless night, its radiant underbelly carved a wound of light across the planet's sky. A dichotomy of holiness and heresy, iron radiance against crimson storm.

Within the command sanctum, Dima stood before the viewport, the holy scripture of her clan gripped within her lower claws, its ancient pages breathing with the rhythm of the engines. Behind her lay the offerings she had prepared, a collection of crystalized eggs, glowing with soft inner fire. These were the unborn Dovahdrakes, creatures of divine war, bred in the molten foundries of Prime. Their light pulsed gently, alive with promise.

With a flick of her wrist, the command was given. The Ark's tractor arrays roared to life, and a massive beam of energy split the heavens, turning night to day. The surface below was bathed in ghostly luminescence as Dima stepped forward into the hangar's open maw.

"Let the children of war commune with their cousins of shadow," she murmured.

Then she fell. Ams spread, cloak unfurling like the wings of a descending angel. The tractor beam caught her mid-descent, slowing her fall into a measured, ceremonial drift. Around her, the eggs followed in perfect formation, hundreds of luminous orbs suspended in the light as if stars themselves were returning to the world that birthed the night.

The Ark above hummed with celestial reverence, casting her down in a procession of light and faith.

When her boots touched the soil, the light dimmed, and only the whispering winds of Dathomir answered. She stood still amid the quiet, the sacred tome in her lower hands opening of its own accord. Her voice rose in chant, a hymn in the language of gods and ghosts. The runes carved into her Beskar flared alive, each glowing symbol thrumming with unholy light.

From the empty air, her holy blade emerged, called forth by her incantation, a blade not drawn but summoned, burning with spectral fire. Its hum sang through the void like a heartbeat, a siren call.

And in the forests, something stirred.

The witches of Dathomir had heard her song.

Domina smiled beneath her visor. "Let the kin of flame and night break bread once more, O cousins mine~"

 

[Vytal Noctura]

D A T H O M I R

Equipment: The Blood of Dathomir Armor | Nightmother's Ward | Artifacts Ring

​

"See the bond between the spirit and the body? How it is divided and sinks into the animus of the living?" Vytal whispered softly into the ear of a Sister that sat with their eyes wide open. Spiritual possession was real even if offworlders couldn't bring themselves to accept it. And Vytal had tried to help them accept it. The Nightsisters, however, understood. Well, the young would once women like Vytal taught them. It was important they understood how things worked so they avoided their pitfalls.

Emerald eyes peered at the sentient being they'd brought to the center of the Circle. The focus of attention. It was no small thing to unravel the hooks a spirit of the Nether could sink into another. If someone wasn't terrified of just how easily control was lost they weren't paying attention.

Her eyes slid to the side as another woman entered with a silent bow. It was time, then.

Vytal lightly laid a hand upon the shoulder of her Sister before a nod was given for another to take over the instruction. They'd been expecting a visitor, and they had just arrived in orbit.

"Have any Covens shown signs they weren't convinced?" she asked after they'd slipped out of the ritual hall at Sanctum Inferis Arce. Domina Prime was not one to worry much over the trifling matters of social politics. How the arrival of The Ark in orbit of Dathomir could be viewed as an invasion by the Mandalorian Empire by those that had yet to be convinced of the warrior culture's good intentions.

Fortunately, Vytal had always listened to what the spirits of the Nether had to say, and today they'd been particularly animated. Word had been sent out ahead of time for whatever Covens happened to be nearest Domina's arrival not to attack. Their 'true' intentions would be uncovered by Vytal. Toward that end, however, if Domina tried to bring The Ark any closer to the planet or started unloading a large number of people... Well, the Nethermother hoped the animated woman had learned not to needlessly test the mettle of Witches.

The Sister said a few hadn't directly responded, but at least no unusual rituals had been performed of late. Good enough, Vytal thought.

Glyphs began to glow along a wide archway as Vytal drew near. With a flare of green fire, the landing where Dima had set foot appeared framed by stone. Vytal wasted no time as she stepped through and appeared out in the wilds of Dathomir where flora or fauna alike might hungrily dine on the unaware.

"Domina Prime," the crimson-scaled pale native of Dathomir called out, "what brings such a fervent believer of Kad Ha'rangir to our dark shores? Have you come to sing and feast about one of our fires beneath our red sun?" Since her return to Dathomir, Vytal had embraced the moniker of Nethermother instead of that of Nightmother or Greatmother; with how often she tended to matters away from home -- even in the Nether itself -- she'd not wanted to leave even one Coven without their leader. The title also set her apart in that capacity as well. Better that than 'Warden' which the Mandalorians used to refer to her position as liaison between worlds.

Warpriest Prime​

 

[Warpriest Prime]

​

ᚺᛖᛁᛚ ᛊᛖ ᚺᛁᚾ ᛖᛁᚾᛁ ᛊᚨᚾᛁ ᚷᚢᚦ

Vytal Noctura​

The radiance of colors clashed in the gloom as the Nethermother stepped from the woods. The black-barked trees and crimson mist shivered under the pull of unseen gravity, the divine light of The Ark cutting a wound through Dathomir's endless night.

The Warpriest stood at the heart of it, a monolith of Beskar and prayer. The beam that had ferried her from the heavens now split the dark around her, her silhouette burning like a living sigil of her god.

At her knees lay the circle of Dovahdrake eggs, set neatly around the cratered sword whose light thrummed like a living heart. The Warpriest's four arms moved with ceremonial precision, arranging each relic as if constructing a temple upon the soil of shadow. When her name was spoken — Domina Prime — the towering figure stilled. Her helm turned, then bowed, lowering to the ground in reverence.

She did not speak immediately. Instead, her claws traced the cracked, smoking earth beside her blade. Her voice, when it came, carried the strange timbre of reverence and madness intertwined, like a sermon whispered by a storm.

"Funnily enough," she murmured, her voice a curious melody against the thrum of the beam, "I don't think I can truly sing."

Her clawed hand gestured to the crystalline weapon embedded in the dirt, a relic born of both witchcraft and Beskar, of both hymn and curse.

"But the blade sings. It sings where I cannot. I hear it... humming. Like a whisper through my marrow. A song from the void that I am too mortal to hear."

She ran her claws along its mirrored surface, the runes carved by Nightsister hands glowing faintly beneath her touch. Then her tone softened, becoming something dangerously close to gratitude.

"I came to thank you," she said, her head lifting toward the shadowed Witch. "Your covens gave it voice. You gave me voice. The song, the soul...OUR soul~"

Her words faltered as another presence stirred in her mind. A second tone mingled with hers, low and dissonant, a faint echo of Furyia's imprisoned essence. It lingered in the air like smoke before being devoured by Domina's will.

"Her soul~" she finished, softly. "Bound to mine. And she tries to consume me still, but..."

A cruel smile rippled beneath her mask.

"Faith burns hotter than corruption."

The earth pulsed faintly as the beam above them dimmed to a warm, amber glow. The runes across her armor flared, and she rose to her full, daunting height, the balance between devotion and defiance incarnate.

"So I came bearing gifts," she said, gesturing toward the eggs whose crystalline shells shimmered with inner light. "The ichor that binds me now binds them, and I offer them to my kin."

She reached up, unclasping her mask and setting it upon her hip, revealing the cluster of eyes beneath, all bright, molten, and inhuman. When she looked upon Vytal, there was no hostility there. Only wonder.

"We are kin, aren't we?" she asked softly, lifting one of the luminous eggs aloft, the reflection of Dathomir's red sun glinting off its shell. "Iron and ichor. Blood and flame. Both born of war, both abandoned by peace."

The egg pulsed, faintly echoing the rhythm of her heart.

"Tell me, sister..." she whispered, voice deepening, reverent and dangerous. "Will the shadows accept my light?"

 

[Vytal Noctura]

Equipment: The Blood of Dathomir Armor | Nightmother's Ward | Artifacts Ring

​

Vytal's emerald eyes slid from the fervent feminine creature that bathed in the light before a crystalline blade. Dima spoke of the weapon whispering to her from the void. There was no denying that. As her steps slowly drew them closer, she spied familiar runes along the length that the woman's claws brushed.

Crimson gauntlets crossed above the pale Witch that listened to what Dima had to say. Even when the blade crooned for control, Vytal watched the devout woman carry on. Faith, she claimed, gave her power. Fair enough. Vytal could hardly say otherwise given her origins, and the things she had seen since that day.

All but a head taller, Vytal watched the woman rise. Her physique and appendages did not stir the Nightsister. Formidable as Dima was, she was not there to wage war. At least that did not appear to be her intent. Even with the removal of her mask, she stood still and met the burning gaze of the huntress. No, not war. In truth, she seemed smitten at standing there and that alone could disarm a Witch. So many set foot on their home expecting or demanding to be treated as some honored guest when they only sought to take what knowledge they would for paltry offerings. Dima seemed enamored with more.

"You cannot be abandoned by something you never sought." The Witch of Dathomir held out her hands toward Domina Prime. "Welcome home, Sister."

"A dangerous blade you have in your possession. Your faith must burn especially bright to hold it at bay." A strong will, no doubt. Vytal spent much time teaching young ones not to carelessly engage with spirits lest they be forever damned. To simply overpower one with a purpose honed sharpener than any sword was by far a rare talent.

"Will you join us, Sister, or do you wish to linger here a time and speak?" Vytal gestured toward the gate of the Sanctum. She wouldn't rush Dima, but if she desired to commune with her kin of Dathomir then there was no need to delay her introduction. "We would be honored to accept your light." Having had a dragon as a companion once on Ryloth, it would be most interesting to learn the nature of the beast within Dima's eggs.

Warpriest Prime​

 

[Warpriest Prime]

​

ᚺᛖᛁᛚ ᛊᛖ ᚺᛁᚾ ᛖᛁᚾᛁ ᛊᚨᚾᛁ ᚷᚢᚦ

Vytal Noctura​

Dima remained kneeling in the soil of Dathomir, the black mist curling around her like incense at an altar. Her reflection stared back at her from the blade's mirror-bright edge, five eyes burning like azure suns, and she whispered quiet prayers between breaths as if the steel itself demanded confession.

When Vytal spoke, her words rippled through Dima like thunder rolling through sacred halls.

"You cannot be abandoned by something you never sought."

The warpriest tilted her head, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and ache. Never sought? For so long, she had believed herself forsaken, cast from the faith, stripped of soul and clan. To hear otherwise left her briefly undone.

Her ears drooped low, tail coiling protectively about her as she dared to look up at the Witch. "But...they called me Dar'manda," she murmured. "Said I was without soul. Empty." Her claws tightened against the ground. "I sought it. I bled for it. And now I have it, my soul, my song. I am whole."

The sound that escaped her next was half laugh, half growl, and wholly strange. "Monstrous maybe...but not a monster."

When Vytal extended her hands, Dima hesitated, those claws were made for war, not worship. But slowly, reverently, she reached out. One massive taloned hand encased the Nightsister's slender one, careful as if touching glass. With a low hum, she pulled herself upright, towering yet oddly bashful before her kin.

At the comment about her weapon, Dima's chest swelled with pride. She tore the blade from the soil in a single graceful motion, hoisting it upright so its ghostly flame illuminated them both.

"Oh yes!" she cried, her voice booming like temple bells. "It is the altar upon which I commune with my god! My faith must burn brighter than its flame!"

The sword sang faintly, runes flaring in approval, or perhaps hunger.

Then, remembering herself, she slung the weapon across her back and scrambled to gather the cluster of glowing eggs she had brought as tribute. The faint hum of draconic life pulsed against her armor as she awkwardly followed Vytal's lead.

"O–oh! We're comin'!" she barked, juggling the eggs in her arms as her tail swung wide in excitement, narrowly missing one of the temple pillars.

She trotted behind the Nightmother, steps heavy but almost...bouncy, like a war machine trying to learn grace. Her voice, bright and unguarded, cut through the mist.

"So, uhhhhh-" she began, ears twitching as she peeked around Vytal's shoulder, "Are all Nightsisters this pretty? Or is that like...a magic thing?"

Her grin flashed, sharp and earnest, as the mist of Dathomir seemed to chuckle with her.

 

[Vytal Noctura]

​

Vytal watched the fierce creature-woman as she silently thrashed about with restraint. She grappled with matters of the soul, Domina had said. Those massive hands, her towering height, there was no doubting her physical capabilities. Spirituality, however, had nothing to do with that. Nor did mentality or emotion. Fortunately, Domina was not still only preoccupied with the body -- savagely tearing apart the masses. It was difficult to blame something so young; a monster given adult form from its onset (or near enough) and the ability to murder tens or hundreds with ease. What motivation did such a thing have to grow elsewise? Yet, Domina had managed in her own way. There was still room left to grow, however.

On that note, Domina crowd about the faith of her god. The Nethermother regarded Domina for a moment. A dubious stare was leveled at the weapon in her grasp. It might not be the god, but it might be stoking the fervor in one. Vytal had dealt with deities before. They could be terrifying creatures; but not all gods were true. It might be worthwhile to learn more about the one that had captured Domina's attention.

Domina seemed interested to be among Sisters, which suited Vytal. Companionship helped weather the rigors of life.

A snort followed the woman's question about physical attractiveness. "On Dathomir, we do not have the luxury of idleness." There were women -- and men -- sporting injury of varying degrees even to the extent of the grotesque; but most such injuries resulted in death. Disabilities made you a liability and a burden to your coven. Many would rather sacrifice themselves than be treated and languish in a bed. Theirs was an unforgiving world, and a characteristic few had any thought of changing. It focused the mind and the heart to know your place in the grand scheme of things. Somewhere life hung in the balance with every step. "Perhaps more Outsiders should live as we do, and they might be half as pretty."

"Domina," Vytal looked over at the woman as she cradled the eggs in her arms without complaint, "what you said earlier... I have heard it many times. Dar'manda. Apart from the Oversoul. Soulless. Damned. Nearly every time tis words uttered by fools. They know nothing of what they speak." An emerald eye studied Domina for a moment. "Tis something that troubles you?" Did the thought tax Domina? Did she seek a remedy or a means to refute it? The weapon that 'sung' to her... The pale Witch was concerned for how fragile that connection was if that was what Domina relied so heavily.

Warpriest Prime​

 

[Warpriest Prime]

​

ᚺᛖᛁᛚ ᛊᛖ ᚺᛁᚾ ᛖᛁᚾᛁ ᛊᚨᚾᛁ ᚷᚢᚦ

Vytal Noctura​

The wind of Dathomir sighed through the crimson trees, a whispering sound that might've been the breath of the planet itself. The faint hum of unseen spirits carried through the roots and the black soil as Dima trudged beside the Nethermother, her talons pressing deep impressions into the mud. The eggs she carried pulsed faintly with warmth, their shells veined with dim veins of light.

The Warpriest's voice came low at first, caught somewhere between confession and exhaustion. Her tusked jaw trembled slightly as she spoke, not with fear, but with the weight of something she had rarely dared to speak aloud.

"The first time someone called me that..."

She trailed off, nostrils flaring. Her breath came out as a fog in the cold Dathomirian air.

"I remember crying. i cried lots and lots. I didn't even understand the word then, not really. Just that it hurt. That it was something that meant I wasn't like them. I remember asking why. Why would kin call me that?"

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, though she forced a smile after — a smile full of jagged teeth and self-mockery.

"Now? I don't cry as much. Just sometimes. Quietly. So no one hears."

The massive xeno looked down at the eggs in her arms, delicate things that glowed faintly against her violet flesh. The way she held them was almost motherly, like one afraid they might slip away if she loosened her grip.

"I learned a long time ago that our god doesn't listen to crying. He doesn't answer begging. He only hears songs. Songs made of steel, and fury, and the sound of worlds burning. If I scream through the blade, He listens."

Her eyes, those many shimmering orbs lifted to the sky, where the twin moons hung pale and unblinking.

"So I sing. Every time I take to the field, I sing. Every time I forge, or fight, or bleed. That's my song to Him. That's how I know I still have a soul, because He hears me."

She turned to Vytal then, and the glint of something ancient flickered in her gaze. Faith, yes, but also loneliness buried so deep it had learned to laugh instead of weep.

"They used to say I was Dar'manda. Soulless. Forgotten by the Manda. Maybe they're right."

A deep growl rumbled from her throat, not in rage, but in defiance.

"But even if I am soulless, I will make them remember my song. Even if I'm damned, I'll be the loudest damned thing the stars have ever heard."

She looked back toward the twisted horizon of Dathomir, the endless forest that stretched into shadow, alive with the murmurs of spirits and witches long past. Her tone softened again, contemplative.

"You witches...you listen to the wind and the blood. You understand the things others call madness. Maybe that's why I came here. Not to prove my soul. But to see if the void inside me can still echo."

Then she smiled, small, crooked, full of that strange mixture of grief and pride that defined her.

"And if it can't... well," she added with a low chuckle, "then I'll just fill it with more song."

She tilted her head toward the Nethermother, a flicker of warmth in her many eyes.

"Tell me, Vytal... does your Mother hear crying? Or only the sound of her daughters when they fight?"

 

[Vytal Noctura]

​

Vytal regarded the tall, female creature and her eggs. It was not expected to hear Domina engaged in crying. She was unique in the galaxy; it was difficult to know what to expect from something without comparison. To find out that she was hardly any different than any other Dathomori woman was... enlightening.

Once Domina finished, the pale woman stopped and turned to regard the multi-limbed woman and her razor-sharp teeth. "There are countless spirits around you every day. They hear you, but they do not always understand." They could talk for hours about the spirits, the Nether, the cycle of life and rebirth and how spirits fit into it. "Clan Mothers always hear the crying of their daughters. If it is our 'gods' you ask, many Sisters believe in the Fanged God and Winged Goddess. At times, our strongest even converse with them. Unlike the Mandalorians we do not do this in battle or with blood shed. More often do we speak with the spirits of our Ancestors that remain with us. They may hear our cries. Offer us their wisdom of the Ages. We find comfort knowing their will endures."

"I do not mistake you for a thing, Domina. You are no droid. If you wish to commune with us to discover your true self, I will see that you are welcome on Dathomir." Vytal's black lips curled upward. "And if you wish to sit about the fire, converse and singing with your Sisters, and even crying with them know they -- and I -- will be there for you. How else can we survive the trials if not supporting one another?" Strength and weakness were not decided by how brave a face a person put on. The Clan Mothers wore such masks to give strength to their Daughters, but if something truly painful befell them none would think less of their grief.

This 'god' Domina favored, Vytal would like to learn more of it. Now wasn't the time to grill her on intellectual curiosity though. She spoke of being genuinely distressed and wounded by others. Well, there were reasons Nightsisters looked down upon Offworlders -- often for the wrong reasons, but Vytal couldn't blame them for their scorn at such a communal-less civilization.

Emerald eyes fell back to the eyes. "Would you like me to carry a few of the precious eggs you bring to Dathomir?" Domina held them with care, but she held quite a few. A little gesture to demonstrate thoughtfulness about the other woman.

Warpriest Prime​

 

[Warpriest Prime]

​

ᚺᛖᛁᛚ ᛊᛖ ᚺᛁᚾ ᛖᛁᚾᛁ ᛊᚨᚾᛁ ᚷᚢᚦ

Vytal Noctura ​

Dima's movements were big, deliberate things. Like the roll of some great beast trying its best to tiptoe. Each step was heavy, echoing softly through the hollow wood as she tried to keep pace with the pale witch beside her. The eggs in her arms shifted with every motion, and though she cradled them as delicately as her size would allow, it was an awkward dance between reverence and sheer bulk.

Her many eyes, bright, flickering like azure lanterns, turned to Vytal as the Night Mother spoke of gods and spirits and the whispers that linger between the living and the dead. Dima listened as though hearing music from another world, her ears twitching faintly as she drank in the words.

The Fanged God. The Winged Goddess. Spirits that did not punish grief, but comforted it. It was...beautiful.

Dima's breath caught for a moment as her mind wandered, back to the cold forges and blood altars of her own faith, where tears were weakness and grief was just another offering to the fire. Her god Ha'rangir, did not cradle sorrow, he consumed it. He did not listen to cries; he demanded that those who wept turn their pain into war songs.

But these witches...their gods heard them. And did not curse them for it.

The Warpriest's tail swayed once, uncertain, as she let out a small hum, something like the noise a forge makes when it cools too fast. "That's...nice," she murmured after a pause, her voice quieter than usual, lower and almost hoarse. "Your gods sound kind. I like that they listen. Mine-" her lips twitched into something between a grin and a wince, "-he only hears steel and the screams of dying stars. It's...not the same kind of conversation."

When Vytal spoke again, gently, telling her she saw her. Dima froze mid-step. The words hit her like a blow to the chest, not painful, but stunning in their weight. Her tail curled tight, and her four arms adjusted the eggs instinctively, as if holding them gave her something to cling to.

Her head dipped. Those fanged lips parted slightly, searching for the right words, but only a faint, trembling laugh came first.

"No one...has ever offered me that before," she admitted finally, voice small and fragile in a way that seemed almost impossible for someone her size. "A-are you...sure? You mean it?"

Her gaze shifted, nervous, uncertain whether to meet Vytal's eyes or hide from them. For once, there was no fire in her tone, no feral mirth or zealot's grin. Just the quiet confusion of someone who'd been worshipped, feared, obeyed, but never comforted.

She bit her lip, one fang pricking it slightly, and looked away. "I don't really... know what to do when someone's nice like that. I'm used to everyone being weird around me. Or wanting something~"

When the witch offered to carry some of the eggs, Dima hesitated only a moment before stepping closer, her massive shadow falling over Vytal. Carefully, reverently, she transferred four of the smooth shells into the witch's hands, her claws brushing briefly against her pale skin. The touch lingered, just for a heartbeat.

"You're...different," Dima said softly. "Not scared. Not pretending to be polite." She managed a small, crooked smile, all tusks and awkward warmth. "I wish more people were like you. Maybe then I'd...have more friends. Or at least someone who loves me, even if i cry, or if i spill blood."

The Warpriest looked away again, embarrassed by her own words. The eggs shimmered faintly between their hands, and for a fleeting moment, the air around them felt still, as though even the spirits Vytal had spoken of were listening.

 

[Vytal Noctura]

​

Vytal turned to look at Domina when they spoke of deities. "Not all of them." The pale Witch offered a cool smile. "And not always the way you wish." The deities of Nightsisters were not the coddling type either. The ancestors were more accommodating, and there were many spirits to speak with. What you took away from such interactions largely depended on you as a conjurer, and what some would call luck. It would be wrong for Domina to come away believing their spirits were caring entities. Misconceptions like that led to... complications.

The large and powerful woman's gait was broken when Vytal offered her a place to sit by the fire. At the sound and sight of Domina's pause, her pale companion's own progress halted. It took but a moment for Domina to gather her thoughts and explain what had stricken her. "A Nightsister never extends an invitation they do not mean."

It was not customary to see such uncertainty on such predatory features. Obviously there was more to the fiercesome presence than people might ascribe to her. A sentiment Domina herself soon echoed. 'Weird.' 'Wanting.' "They are much the same way with Nightsisters, or any woman that speaks of being of Dathomir. We are... curiosities to them. Myths brought to life. They fear what they do not understand, or believe it lesser for not living as they do. Fools all." Sometimes it was true if they came to Dathomir of their own accord. It was where Vytal had developed her deep dislike of Sith Lords whom she viewed as only desiring the knowledge of Witches for their own empowerment.

Domina accepted Vytal's offer and found herself in care of four of the eggs. Emerald eyes rose from the bundle up to Domina as the woman's touch lingered. Vytal could dismiss her difference as being born from dealing with many... unexpected forms of life. She had dealt with spirits far longer than many other Sisters, whose education usually introduced such power later in life when they were ready. Foolishly, Vytal had plunged into that world before she had been ready; which was precisely why she warned any witch under her care of the perils that came with being too greedy in such matters.

That, however, seemed too... indifferent to what Domina experienced. "Even those 'welcome' by Humans may feel as we do. They can be more tolerated than accepted in the galaxy. And we are not so commonplace among them. Once, I sought to help them understand. The Witches of Ryloth continue this effort, but without the Confederacy their efforts have slowed." It wasn't their fault. Even with enough resources it had been an arduous task befitting divine punishment. "You will find acceptance here. Friends, in time. Our laws are not difficult to follow." None would care if Domina spilt blood so long as it was not that of a Sister. And then most would only care if it was a Sister of a Clan they called family. No people were perfect.

"Come, Domina, our Sisters await. We will sit about the fire, drink, eat, and speak openly to one another." A smile graced Vytal's black lips. The Sanctum loomed before them now. It would not be long for them to find refuge in the mountain hold lit by the fires within. Noise did not pour from it as it would offworld cities, but it was not deathly silent either; a keen ear could catch sound of the living within. There would be surprise, but with introductions Vytal would see the tall, imposing figure welcome among them.

Warpriest Prime​

 

[Warpriest Prime]

​

ᚺᛖᛁᛚ ᛊᛖ ᚺᛁᚾ ᛖᛁᚾᛁ ᛊᚨᚾᛁ ᚷᚢᚦ

Vytal Noctura​

Dima's head tilted slightly as she listened to the witch's words, her many eyes blinking one after the other in quiet fascination. Every sound of Vytal's calm, knowing voice seemed to spark something inside her, a strange mixture of awe and wild curiosity. She adjusted the bundle of eggs in her arms, careful as one could be for a creature whose claws could rend through durasteel, and gave a little toothy grin that was somewhere between reverence and excitement.

"Oh, so they're like that, are they?" she mused, tail giving an eager flick behind her. "Your gods sound more like mine than I thought. Stern. Quiet. But... they still listen. That's more than Ha'rangir does most days." She snorted, the sound sharp but playful, smoke and heat curling with each word. "Still, if yours whisper instead of scream, maybe they're the kinder sort after all, hm?"

When Vytal extended that invitation to sit by the fire, the massive Warpriest actually stumbled. The clack of her talons against the stone echoed softly as she froze, expression flickering through a storm of confusion, gratitude, and disbelief. For a heartbeat, her throat worked soundlessly before she found the words.

"You really mean it, don't you?" she asked, voice quieter now, warm but trembling at the edges. Her lips pulled into an uncertain smile, all tusks and sincerity. "A whole fire…with me at it? Ha, you're either the bravest witch I've ever met, or the kindest." Her laughter was small, genuine, the kind that seemed to shake something ancient loose from inside her.

As Vytal spoke of the galaxy's fools and their fear of what they didn't understand, Dima's grin grew wide, a flash of fanged teeth glinting beneath the shadows of her horns. "Ahh, that sounds exactly like them! They see something strange and all they do is stare, whisper, and then run. Pathetic, really. The ones who stay? They either worship you or want to cut you open to see how you work." She huffed, curling her tail protectively around the eggs. "No one ever just…talks to me like this."

When she finally handed Vytal a few of the eggs, her claws brushed lightly against the witch's pale fingers, a delicate, fleeting contact that felt far more meaningful than she intended. Her expression softened, eyes glowing faintly as she murmured, "Careful, they're gifts for my new sisters. Don't worry, they won't bite...probably~" She smirked, though her voice had a lilt of tenderness beneath the jest.

As the Sanctum came into view, the light from within reflected off her scales, painting her in hues of red and gold. Dima's excitement was palpable, she bounced slightly on her heels, glancing between the looming mountain hall and her new companion. "You really think they'll welcome me? All of this?" She looked back at the quiet fires beyond, her grin growing wider, brighter. "Ha! Then what are we waiting for, sister? Lead the way! If they've got food and drink, you might never get rid of me!"

She laughed loud and unrestrained, a joyous, booming sound that filled the cavern air and made the firelight seem to dance a little brighter. The predator's grace was still there in every movement, but so too was the spark of something gentler. Something alive, eager, and achingly sincere.

 

[Vytal Noctura]

​

Brave? Perhaps. More often than not circumstances demanded action; there wasn't time to turn her back and run. There were always Sisters -- of Dathomir or otherwise -- and at times Brothers that would perish if she did any less. Sometimes, it was simply foolhardy yet necessary to throw herself into the fire.

Emerald eyes peered down at the eggs as Domina carefully handed a few over. Surprisingly tender. A bit over protective. It wasn't her first time, but the Witch refrained from commenting aloud. Not because Vytal was known for keeping silent, but there was a line between speaking frankly and being waspish, and Domina was in an unexpectedly delicate emotional place at the moment.

"That is fine. I have been bitten by eggs before," was all the Nethermother said on the matter.

As they drew near the Sanctum, Domina started to grow excited. "T'will. Just be careful of the young ones. They are being taught how to hunt dangerous creatures and they may be... over zealous to prove themselves mature before their time." Having been a foolishly young Nightsister once, Vytal could expect not everyone would see the person from the 'monster' -- especially if hunting a 'worthy' monster would graduate them to adulthood early. They would only be disappointed trying to tackle Domina, but that wouldn't mean someone might not try if Domina encouraged them -- or failed to discourage them at any rate.

As for the adults... Well, they'd largely trust Vytal hadn't brought back a literal monster. Nightsisters dealt with the strange more than most, but that didn't mean they were absolved of their tribalism. If anything, Covens of Dathomir were extremely tribal in nature. They'd come around. That was something she sought wherever she called home. Getting them to accept Men, however, was going to be... long in coming. Not all things could change quickly.

Towering doors swung open to admit the pair of women as they approached. There would be stares, of course, as they wondered where Domina had come from and for what purpose. No weapons were drawn, however, with a look at Vytal's pale features.

"Perhaps you will teach some of the young ones how to hunt. We prefer the old ways. Spears. Bows. Blades. They require a fit body, which enables a fit mind." Only those unable to be physically active might show signs of being heavier than others, but Dathomir was not a world that permitted idleness. Even mystics could no dawdle when an ancient horror emerged. "I think everyone would enjoy watching that; but that can also be another time. There is no need to wage battle before you exchange names and stories." Vytal didn't want Domina thinking she couldn't just talk, after all; but if she sought to be active that opportunity was there for it.

"This is a sanctuary I created to be neutral from Coven politics. Somewhere to share knowledge, and where I could share why I believe these Mandalorians are worthy allies to support and not turn a blind eye to their struggle. They do not resist out of a desire to avoid battle," Vytal clarified, "only that they do not fight in someone else's war for no purpose." Nightsisters could fight. When they chose. They were all used to being isolationists, however, which made it a difficult prospect. Fortunately, not as impossible as it might have once been.

Warpriest Prime​

 

[Warpriest Prime]

​

ᚺᛖᛁᛚ ᛊᛖ ᚺᛁᚾ ᛖᛁᚾᛁ ᛊᚨᚾᛁ ᚷᚢᚦ

Vytal Noctura​

Dima's ears perked at the mention of the Nightsister younglings and how they might be...more than motivated to spring a trap on the strange xeno in their midst. Her tail began to sway with an unmistakable spark of amusement. If she was honest, the idea thrilled her far more than it frightened her. Not because she craved violence, but because she saw herself in those eager little huntresses. Wild, ambitious, constantly biting off more than they could chew just to prove they could. It reminded her painfully, fondly, of her own early days in the Enclave as a foundling. She had been a feral gremlin child who couldn't read, barely spoke coherently, and still picked fights with Sith lords three times her age simply because they were there. She had been built with only one obvious purpose in mind, and she excelled at very little outside of that divine, destructive calling.

"Oh yeah? That sounds great!" she chimed, nudging Vytal with her elbow. "If any of them manage to wound me it could really make their day, yes? They can brag to their friends that they landed a blow on Prime." The tease held no malice, only nostalgia and an honest excitement she no longer bothered to hide.

Her massive tail flicked again as Vytal led her toward the center of the sanctum, guiding her deeper into the hidden refuge of the coven. The towering doors swung open, and immediately dozens of sharp eyes settled upon them. The room fell hushed...not for Vytal, whom they recognized, but for the monstrous stranger who walked at her side. And Dima, entirely oblivious to the intimidating silhouette she cast, lifted a hand and wiggled her fingers in a dainty little wave like a schoolgirl attempting her first curtsey. The gesture looked absurd on a towering war-beast draped in strange alloys and alien anatomy, yet it was delivered with such genuine sweetness that a few of the witches blinked in confusion rather than retreat.

When Vytal mentioned the idea of Dima teaching some of the young ones the art of the hunt, something bright and eager lit within her. She clapped her lower hands together with a reverberating crack, her five eyes glittering behind her mask. "I can do that, yes! It's like...totally the only thing I'm good at, I'm told," she declared proudly. "Spears, swords, shields, bows, javelins, oh, but if I'm being honest..." She leaned in conspiratorially, cupping her claws around her mouth as though sharing a grave secret. "I like to wrestle my beast into submission when I hunt. Absolute thrill." Her voice purred with delight, and the flick of her tail suggested she was imagining it already. Several of the nearby witches exchanged wary glances, unsure whether to be intrigued or deeply concerned.

Vytal, unfailingly patient, though clearly strained, continued explaining the purpose of the sanctuary. She spoke of neutrality, of shared knowledge, of the delicate political balance that allowed this haven to remain beyond the reach of feuding covens. Dima listened, nodding solemnly at first...only to entirely misinterpret the intent. She tilted her head back and forth in thoughtful consideration before responding. "Yeeeeeah, I understand. People try to force Dima into conflicts and battles all the time. Real lame ones, too! Sooooo boring. And they always want me to pick a side in some dull little fight that doesn't even have a good beast or prophecy or blood feud attached. Ugh. I can't blame you. It's so hard to find a worthy war these days." She finished with an exaggerated pout, tail thumping once in mild irritation as she related, in her own uniquely skewed way, to the supposed plight of the Nightsisters.

Her misunderstanding earned her a long, silent stare from others. one that hovered somewhere between resignation and amusement, but Dima stood there proud as ever, convinced she had hit the philosophical nail squarely on the head.

 

[Vytal Noctura]

​

Vytal didn't believe Dima was only good at killing or teaching others to kill. Obviously, the Xeno was passionate about such things and possessed talent in the art. Neither of which had anything to do with what the woman was capable of given the opportunity. Not everything was compatible with a life built around battle, however; encouraging her to explore other things might take time.

And ceaseless effort to hold her attention.

"They are strong, but do not expect the young to wrestle beasts into submission, Dima." The pale Witch was concerned in her zealotry Dima might try to teach them how to do what she did. Few adult Nightsisters could come close to the Xeno's physical capabilities; young ones certainly couldn't. "We teach them how to commune with spirits and use their power only after they have ingrained the physical disciplines into their souls."

After a beat, Vytal looked over at the tail-swaying woman. "But if tis something you enjoy, perhaps you could wrestle a wild Rancor while you are here." Half of it was a genuine offer if Dima desired it; the other half was an interest to learn if there was a limit to the zeal. Did even Dima recognize the danger a wild, adult Rancor posed? Or was it merely on her level, and something she could stand against openly? Vytal would spare the domesticated Nightsister Covens-held Rancors Dima's 'tender' mercies, of course.

As they drew near the heart of the Sanctum, Vytal whispered briefly to another woman to prepare a place for the eggs Dima had brought. They were not for consumption, but honor. The two of them could hardly hold them all night or for however long it took them to hatch. Well, at least the Nethermother couldn't as she only possed two arms, which would make it difficult to interact with her guest.

Emerald eyes slid back easily to Dima, who was in the middle of proclaiming a difficult in finding battle worthy of something as capable as herself. In Vytal's perfect world there'd be no war at all between Sisters. But if not a struggle between one another then with whom? An intriguing problem to grapple with. One in which she had an analogue in the Mandalorians and their Shamanistic order. No easy answers.

"Not so difficult," the Witch replied with a cool smile on her dark lips. "Though I hesitate to show it to you. I think you might become too enamored with how endless it truly is. A place where time and physical law hold no sway. Where you -- your very being -- is the weapon that shapes the world around you and the nature of the conflict." Vytal took a moment to sweep the crowd with her eyes for the young listening closely. "It is not a place for the inexperienced or timid. There are threats there no armor or shield can hold back, and can leave a person a husk of their former selves."

"Planar War aside," her attention turned back to Dima specifically, "what is it you look for in a 'worthy' war?"

Warpriest Prime​