I R O N M A I D E N
The Ark drifted above Geonosis like an eclipse of divine intent, its radiant engines dimmed to a simmer, its gilded hull a cathedral of light that blotted out the sun. Below, the red sands trembled beneath its shadow. The ancient Geonosian arena, once a monument to the spectacle of war, now lay cloaked beneath the shadow of something greater. The floating city of gods, the celestial fortress known as The Ark of Ha'rangir.
Its silhouette devoured the desert horizon, its voice a chorus of distant forges and chanting hymns that rolled like thunder across the wastes. To the citizens below, it was half miracle, half omen, a Mandalorian superstructure poised between heaven and annihilation. And to those who ruled the gladiatorial pits of Geonosis, it was something far more dangerous: competition.
Yet, to their collective bewilderment, the Warpriest of Mandalore had not come to wage war.
She had come to sponsor one.
Dima Prime descended into the Geonosian arena flanked by her Iron Clergy, a procession of burnished steel and crimson robes, their presence part sanctum, part invasion. The air was thick with incense and the musk of warriors. As she passed, the handlers bowed, the slaves knelt, and the overseers pretended not to shake.
It was strange to see a creature like her in such a place. Her height, her glimmering scales, the way her segmented mask reflected the light of The Ark, she was not merely a guest, but a living effigy of her god's hungering will. Her tail swept idly across the sand as her claws clicked against the stone corridors.
The gladiatorial floor was alive with sound, clashing metal, cheers, the deep thrum of a thousand hearts pounding beneath the red glow. Yet as Dima entered, all noise dimmed, and for a brief, chilling moment, even the beasts in their cages went silent.
She smiled behind her mask. Ah, reverence...or fear. Either will do.
"Grand Warpriest of Clan Prime," one of the Geonosian producers croaked, wings twitching nervously as he bowed low. "Your… your Ark is quite the sight. Half my audience nearly fainted when its shadow touched the sands. I take it you're not here to destroy my business?"
Dima's laughter was low and radiant, a sound that rippled through the holding pens like molten gold.
"Destroy?" she purred, her voice carrying the honeyed edge of something ancient. "No, no… I am here to refine it. The games you host, the battles you breed, they are quaint. But the Ark's coliseum is nearing completion, and the gods demand a spectacle that bleeds beauty. I came to extend...partnership."
Her claws brushed over a tray of fresh helmets, polished bronze and steel. She picked one up, turned it over in her palm, then dropped it carelessly onto the floor with a dull clang.
"Your craft lacks divinity. But your stock..." she turned her many-eyed gaze toward the gladiators in their cells, "shows promise."
Escorted into the training halls, Dima's shadow fell over the champions of Geonosis. Dozens of battle-scarred men and women stood in formation, some proud, some trembling, others simply exhausted. The scent of sweat, blood, and fear mixed with the perfumes of her clergy.
She walked among them like a queen among statues, four arms gesturing as she studied their forms with unsettling precision. When one particularly tall Twi'lek caught her eye, she reached out without hesitation and seized his jaw, tilting his head side to side. Her claws traced his neck, then his biceps, before she scoffed softly.
"Mm...good," she murmured, "but not glorious."
Her priests scribbled notes, marking candidates for transference.
A robed cleric approached, bowing deeply. "Warpriest Prime, the delegates and sponsors await aboard the Ark. Our business here is nearly concluded. You need only select your tributes."
Dima's ears flicked as she let the Twi'lek go. Her claws folded together in contemplation, her many eyes scanning the room of trembling gladiators. She moved among them, pointing, this one, that one, no, not him, yes! Until her chosen stood apart. Warriors of rare form and unbroken spirit.
Her champions stepped forward in exchange, towering Mandalorians draped in shimmering ceremonial armor, their helmets etched with the sigils of The Iron Choir. The trade was made in silence, the shifting of power as smooth as the turn of a blade.
When all was done, Dima turned to the Geonosian producer and clasped his hand, her claws cold as steel.
"Oh, it's been a pleasure, truly," she cooed, her tail flicking lazily behind her. "You'll have to attend the grand opening of the Divine Games. I promise you, it will make this pit look like a child's playpen."
As the priests began to brand her new gladiators with her sigil, a glowing mark of molten gold that shimmered with divine energy. She tilted her head, her tone suddenly shifting from cordial to curious.
"Now," she said, lowering her voice, "you're not hiding your finest from me, are you? These ones are good, yes, but I've an eye for perfection. The spark of the divine. You'd tell me if there were champions you keep locked away for private use, wouldn't you?"
Her grin stretched just slightly too wide for comfort, her teeth glinting like temple daggers.
The producer swallowed hard. "O-of course, Warpriest, of course not."
She leaned closer, whispering sweetly.
"Good. Because if you are..." her claws lightly traced the side of his neck. "I will find them anyway."
With that, she turned and pulled the Gjallerhorn from her hip and removed her mask to blow into it's horn. And then, a spotlight of energy shined upon them from The Ark as the tractor beam focused it's lens on the Iron Clergy and her newly drafted stock. And ever so slowly they levitated off the ground, and all were suddenly pulled into the skies. The newly marked gladiators following behind her like lambs toward divinity.
High above, the Ark's forges flared, bathing the clouds in molten gold. Its colossal form began to stir once more, engines igniting with the hymns of her clergy echoing through the void.
And as the city-ship drifted higher, the Geonosian sun was swallowed again, leaving only shadow, smoke, and the faint, lingering scent of sanctified blood.
