Mother, Sweet Mother [CIS]

[Darth Metus]

G E O N O S I S​

Divine Alignment.

A lifetime ago, the Warlock had stood against the rampages of a Demon. On a far-flung world, on a forgotten battlefield, the man quarreled as a literal last line of defense. Victory was obtained, but it came at a terrifying cost. The man was crushed under rubble and thought deceased to those who had fought alongside him. Fortune would have it that, once he was fished from under the stones, life still resided in his body. Yet all sense and memory of what came before had eluded him.

Those who had made the rescue lauded him as Hashim - a word in their tongue meaning Hero. Yet, with no memory of his actual name, the title became who the Warlock was. It was then that his journey about the stars began. A journey that would ultimately see him become Lord Commander of the Knights Obsidian. As leader of the stalwart order, Hashim attempted to follow in the vision of his mentor - Elessar Talon. He did his best to understand the various corners of the organization, and to hold their best and brightest fully accountable for their shortcomings.

Yet, in this duty, Hashim was far too harsh. He was unable to see past the shadow of his mentor; and thus, he was made to clash with one [member="Alkor Centaris"]. Overall, Centaris had committed no crime save succumbing to his darker instincts on the field of battle. Allies were not harmed, but the enemy was butchered. The old way would have it that Alkor be meant to balance himself and to keep his Darkness in check. And the resulting clash over his refusal saw Hashim cast down from atop the Obsidian Spire.

Most assumed that the Lord Commander was deceased - and the Order did its absolute best to survive. Yet, it had taken a considerable fall for the Warlock to rise anew. Weeks of uncertainty passed before the Obsidian Headquarters found its doors flung wide open. They had come to know his face - yet when they called out the name Hashim! the Warlock did not answer. Finally whole after so long, the Lord Commander straightaway moved to the Council chambers - for there was much work to be done.

The Spirits would howl long before his summons. Those of the Knighthood who were attuned to the ancients - the Mandragora - would feel a disturbance as the Lord Commander took his throne. As he beckoned through the Force for their midst to muster within the chambers, uncertainty was paramount. What was it that the Warlock had in store for the organization? And why was it that the first he summoned were the Mandragora? Only hearkening to his call would provide the answer.

Spoiler: Tag

[member="Taramaz Laurs"]
[member="Vereshin"]
[member="Aisha"]
[member="Vytal Noctura"]
[member="Bedrovelse Hevn"]
[member="Celeste Cavataio"]
[member="Nix Scamandros"]
[member="Kasca Fen"]
[member="Fawn Alzi"]
[member="Veronika Fleischer"]
[member="Ashara Evanaris"]
[member="Pom Stych Tivé"]
[member="Ahron Rol"]
[member="Tireya Syvare"]
[member="Lunara Azure"]
[member="Tempest Yore"]
[member="Jorah zos Darnus"]
[member="Katrine Van-Derveld"]

 

[Vytal Noctura]

Vytal Noctura had sought for nearly the last half hour to listen to the concerns or even outright hostility resulting from recent events. She hoped to accept their frustration, anger, or fear and reassure them of a secure and stable future for them all. It was not only Witches and Warlocks, but Light and Dark Side Force Users that were welcome within their walls -- and the walls of their outposts. There was much work to be done to ensure the events of Shadow's Point never happened again, but it had not been the Vicelord himself that ordered the strike.

Or so she had been told, some countered. The Nightsister's eyes hardened at the confrontation. While she had come to understand some of the Offworlder ways, being questioned was not something she accepted. Having been asked a question, yes. Being put to the question, no. "We have our ways of confirming the truth, and we have found no lie in their word. If they meant to strike us, they would have--"

Her words ended abruptly as she turned her head at a disturbance that radiated outward from somewhere far from Ryloth. Who would have summoned them to such a place? Had they decided to replace Hashim without so much as announcing it, but leaving it to them to call upon the Mandragora to appear as though... Vytal's eyes turned back to the crowd. See saw what she had come to wonder herself in their eyes. But it could not be. The Confederacy would not be so foolish as to spurn their power. Not them. Another faction -- the Jedi in their pursuit of 'peace' -- perhaps, but not these Dark and power-hungry rulers. It was why the Nightsister was confident in their leadership despite being of another world and male. She understood them enough to know a frivolous abandonment would never happen.

"Sisters. Brothers. Have the word sent for our number at the Castle assemble and we will go together. Today we will get our answer, and it will be made plain to us all." For if they were not summoned to deal with what had befallen Hashim and the aftermath of Shadow's Point, Vytal would make sure they answered for it all the same. It was difficult enough allaying concerns that had risen from such betrayals of trust, and trust was not easily earned. The longer this drew on, the greater the disruption and the more likely the Crucible would get what they wanted.

Vytal tapped a talisman to reach her Fates, "Sisters have a fortified shuttle prepared for departure. We are bound for Geonosis."

Word was sent to [member="Pom Stych Tivé"] and [member="Jorah zos Darnus"] if they were at the Castle to join her at the shuttle. Fast as they could get there by magik, time would be needed for those furthest away to arrive. There was no need for an immediate response. If anything, perhaps a timely, but not too timely response was best under the circumstances. Those observing their actions would see while they answered, they did not do so too quickly as a slave might its master fearing reprisal.


The distance between Ryloth and Geonosis was, however, quite short. They took their time and waited a time for most to appear. What remained would catch up as time allowed. For the time being, the Mandragora could respond in suitable numbers to attend whatever was in store -- and if by some chance the fears were correct, in sufficient number to withdrawal and conjure a response.

Vytal looked over at others that left their own vessels or surfaced upon the platform by other methods. Her eyes were cast to those she knew, and scanned over those she did not at length. "We will hear what they have to say, before measuring our response," the Dathomiri woman declared. Perhaps with more authority than she should, but that had yet to dissuade the pale one from doing so any other time. Certainty. Confidence. Whatever lay before them they would weather.

She then strode toward the chamber to which they had been summoned.

 

[Pom Stych Tivé]

Chaos hummed its sweetest lullaby, as the Darkside of the Force exuded from the CIS core world. It called from the dark of night to Ryloth. Pom felt utmost peace as the spirit realm vibrated strongly in its frequency. It felt like Home, even so far out here, away from Dathomir. For the first time in ages she slept without so much as a worry weighted upon her mind.

In the early hours she rose to an ordinary day, as the spirits immediately with their lively whispering. She looked out over the system through Force Sigh and saw the change which radiated from Genosis. The Mistress Malcontent wondered, 'What, or who, do we have here?'

She grabbed one last Talisman and reached further out with her mind through the Darkside of the force which led straight to the Fanged God who smiled from his throne, freely granting his Spirit of Ichor, which filled the beautiful Emerald.

Vytal had taken to her planned discussion with the witchy residents, which Pomsty was never in attendance. Of course Darth Metus had not ordered the Mandragora's heads. But that the order was so easy to accept by the CIS Military…trust does not exist. Pomsty may hold a soft spot for the ole Warlock, but in all honesty he never makes time for her, even when he is standing right in front of her; and she does not give a rats arse about it either. The more he stays away, the freer she is with her time. As far as she is concerned, since her pardon was granted on her initial felony case, she can do as she pleases from this point forward.

She will be damned if she permits herself to harbor an allegiance to anyone except the Fanged God of Dathomir! Pomsty snickered at the thought, and she did not jump at [member="Vytal Noctura"]'s beckoning, nor whatever spirit or demon makes it's current demands known regarding her presence. She is curious for sure, but no respectable lady jumps at the snapping of any man's fingers, regardless of what possesses him!

The Nightsister dressed, donning the new Talisman created. She ascended the Castle halls and first took her breakfast. She held up the shuttle longer, as she enjoyed her third cup of hot tea before sauntering her way towards the external hangar, enjoying the flowering plant life along the way. "Shuttle. How quaint! Since when do we need a shuttle?" Vytal, always proper and levelheaded. Pomsty only hopes NOT also domesticated like some of the other members of the Mandragora!

 

[Jenmae Ophiro]

​

She'd seen it in the stars...​

​

Weeks spent in the sanctity of the Orrery has yielded to the young witch a number of small revelations, nothing of consequence at first... There were glimpses of minds that would change, planets succumbing to the ever growing influence of the Confederacy, some passing fancy with a smaller subset of the systems that would bring about some changes that were of small interest to the White Witch... But as the future loomed ever closer, the Dathomiri reject could see something else on the horizon - something that would be very important to her indeed.

Gathering her paramour, the specter set them on course for Genosis, and was nearly saddened that as they approached he would not be able to hear the Spirits as she did. It seemed like a lifetime for the Jenmae that existed in the present - but she could recall a night that felt similar to this. A night when she had been roused from her slumber by the Spirits, those beyond screaming for assistance - and when she'd discovered what had them so upset she'd seen fit to aide in their sorrows... Her life had been blissfully silent since then - or at least it had been until tonight.

The constant thrum of their anxiety was like music, low and without rhythm. The current of their worry flowed ceaselessly towards Genosis, and for a moment the white-haired siren wondered if the Vicelord might be able to hear it too... She'd seen what he could summon, and it was unlikely that this call would go ignored - though with what she'd heard during this interactions with the Fanged God, perhaps the Sith Lord had more important things to worry about than just the machinations of the Spirits...

Their travels found the Witch and her Wolf arriving on Genosis in short order, and with [member="Seren"] in tow the witch elder followed the flow of Spirits towards their destination - and towards one freshly renewed Lord Commander of the Knights Obsidian.

 

[Jorah zos Darnus]

R Y L O T H​

VURESHAKKAIRN CASTLE​

[ the witch-boy ]​

Ryloth's climate was not uncomfortable.

The temperature was warm, but not oppressive. Not at all the humid, tepid climate of his native swamp on Talay. As such, the young Dathomir felt comfortable at donning his tribal clothing in this place. A vibrantly colored sarong dressed the lower half of the boy's body, flaring over the tops of the youth's caligae-clad feet as he seemed to be performing a kind of meditative dance. His upper body exposed, the intricate spiderweb of black lines across the red flesh was visibly disturbed by the appearance of a mark upon his right shoulder.

The pact of the Doashim, the evidence of the boy's communion with the holy book of the Mandragora. The branding seemed to glow faintly with an eerie, eldritch energy that was also present in the manifestation of a fine, greenish mist that glowed faintly in the air. The wisps seemed to follow his motions, creating a hazy, emerald blur about his lithe, gangly figure as he worked through the motions of the ritual. It was a traditional war dance of the Shaol'mara.

Stepping out and to the side, the boy's arm reached out to grab a polearm that had been planted into the ground. It was a zhaboka, the bladed fighting staff of the Zabrak. Twirling the staff slowly, the boy rotated the weapon end of end, passing it behind his back from the left hand to the right and then bringing it around so that it was held out in front of him.

With both hands, he adjusted the grip so that his right hand held the zhaboka in the center. His left hand withdrawn, the boy tested the balance of the weapon by opening his remaining hand until the polearm was balanced only on two fingers. Then, closing his hand back around the shaft, the boy spun the staff around his hand with a quick rotation of his wrist.

Catching it with the left, he stopped the sudden rotation, dropping into a t-stance as he slid his hands along the polearm and stared down the length. Amber eyes peered at the edge of the blade extended out before him, inspecting it for any imperfections. Then, snapping upright, he shifted his stance and then dropped back into a t-stance in the opposing direction, and peered down the other end of the staff at the quality of the blade there.

"Tze'yide!"

At the spoken command, the training droids descended upon the youth. There were two active for this simulation, each armed with plastoid quarterstaffs. The sound of combat soon filled the courtyard, as the young Dathomiri became a whirling dervish of cloth and metal. The colorful sarong flaring about the youth's legs, as the zhaboka connected with the strikes from the droids.

A glancing blow caught the boy in the side of the head, taking him off step as a second strike connected solidly with his ribs. Lifted up into the air, the youth floundered for a moment to regain his footing. He could feel the darkness surge within him, tempting him with losing control. "Bisi varu, Gȃyita Ameeno."

Not today, Fanged God.

The zhaboka spun in the boy's grip as the two training droids came at him again. There was a flurry of motion and energy. And a single moment of clarity. Every warrior lived for that moment. Every hunter waited for it, because that moment was the moment to strike. Deflecting the strike of the first droid upward, the youth made a downward hook motion that knocked aside the incoming strike of the second droid. And set up the boy's counter strike. A powerful sweep of the boy's arm swung the zhaboka with a singular, brutal ferocity that yielded a shower of sparks.

The head of the second droid tumbled along the ground, it's metal body doubled over at the youth's feet. A surge of satisfaction seemed to ignite his blood on fire. His eyes alight with predatory bloodlust, the boy bared his teeth as he circled around to face his remaining opponent.

The two staves connected, glancing off one another as the droid and the boy seemed to test one another, dancing around, probing the defense of their opponent. The match intensified, the polearms locked as the two switched positions before breaking away from one another.

The bracelet on his arm -- the wristlink, they called it -- made a sound.

"Naite," the boy commanded, relaxing his stance even as his word halted the droid in its tracks. Rotating his arm so to inspect the strange, technological device, the youth was presented with a summons.

A summons from a Nightsister.

Jorah was still not familiar with the workings of many aspects of the greater galactic society. His had been a traditional Dathomiri village, where the woman had held all political power and the men minded the children and the kitchen. He did not understand this Confederacy led by a Vicelord. Why would a man hold power when there were clearly women capable of such? Was the Exarch he had heard of so weak that she would let a man rule?

This, the boy did not understand. But a summons from a Nightsister, that he understood well. And it was a summons that was to be answered immediately. "Tȃkoseya matal," the youth uttered, ending the simulation even as he broke into a sprint. He had only the zhaboka in his hand and the sarong on his backside, but that did not matter. He would not make Mistress Noctura to wait.

If, as the message had indicated, the Mistress was bound for Geonosis, then there would be Knights Obsidian there who would provide him with a change of clothing should such be necessary.

At sight of the shuttle, the boy felt gooseflesh creep through his body. One aspect of this travel to different worlds that he found a hard time adjusting to were these soulless carriages of metal. Communing with the spirits seemed difficult from within the sterile, controlled environments.

With the zhaboka casually slung across one arm, the horned boy gave a bow as he stepped inside of the shuttle.

"Ci dyn aek res lineba. Ti taildanȃt jekeyn, Aeat Noctura."
I have heard the call. A servant answers.

[member="Pom Stych Tivé"] | [member="Vytal Noctura"]​

 

[Seren]

Accompanying: [member="Jenmae Ophiro"]​

Where the Pallid one walked, her Wolf was sure to follow.

When first the bond between Jenmae and Seren began, the former pup was alive with questions. Some he dared not to utter, yet others he deemed harmless and pestered the woman with. He questioned their itinerary, questioned the motives behind some of their decisions. In those days, trust was something that was only just budding between the pair - and thus, Seren's desire for knowledge outweighed his devotion. In the present, those days felt like a literal eternity ago. Now, when the pallid witch rose and provided direction, the Wolf was her willing shadow.

There was never a question as to why she willed their direction forward. There was never an inquiry as to where. Seren trusted his bride completely, and thus filed into the vessel when she was roused by the Spirits. Jenmae did offer him the small favor of elaborating on what had been the source of their travel this day. Something was pulling them back to Geonosis - specifically the ancestral voices which occupied her mind exclusively. Seren had never been blessed as she to hear the spirits so clearly; and thus he trusted implicity.

When it was all said and done, the Wolf and the Witch found themselves joining their peers within the Obsidian headquarters. All eyes pointed forward - to where the Lord Commander awaited. The purpose of the meeting had yet to be revealed...yet, to travel all the way from Cularin...it had better be good.

 

[Darth Metus]

T'was not the rumble of starship engines...

From atop his "throne" the Lord Commander could hear the ebb and flow of the spirits. He could hear their hurried whispers. Bore witness to the messages they ferried from the beyond. Ah, so many children existed in the Galaxy of late. So many who willingly accepted their call. Yet, the old ways had yet to be honored. The Mandragora were many things. They were a reflection of the hallowed heritage which emerged from Dathomir. They were a descendant of that culture, permitted to exist by the grace of the ancestor.

And though many could hear the cacophony of ancestral voices, who dared to speak them? There had not been one since well before the Warlock had knelt before the former Dominus Prime. There had not been one for many, many months. The Spirits themselves, thankfully, were not cross with this development. Divine wrath had not been exacted upon the Mandragora for this reality - but it was a priority that needed to be addressed. For the Knighthood to exist accurately...for the body of Witches to be represented correctly, there had to be one voice.

One voice of the ancestors. One voice of the Mandragora. One who could speak so that all could understand.

Thus, the Lord Commander felt their coming. The Spirits howled in response to his presence - shrieked for the man who was broken had made himself whole. But moreover, the man who was not their own attempted to listen. Of all the corners of the Knighthood, the Warlock had attempted to learn of the Mandragora the most. He had tarried alongside them for operations before. Took the time to study alongside them. To learn who they were beyond the rumors and the veil of privacy. For, if he were to lead them, he had to understand them.

The first order of business was to cement this understanding. For but this day and this hour, his will and that of the ancestors would be aligned.

Slowly but surely, the Mandragora made their arrivals into the chambers. T'was not the rumble of starship engines which announced them, but the echoes of their presence in the Force. They would find the elaborately-garbed man ascending from his seat and approaching them - arms wide as if to receive an old friend. "Come." he began, motioning for them to join him at the monumental table in the heart of the chamber. A circle of seats they would find - for here, there was no head. Not yet.

He would tarry long enough for them to seat themselves before beginning. "You must have no end of questions." he began, addressing the elephant in the room. "The call today must be jarring. Rest assured, the circumstances that laid me low temporarily will never again repeat. We can, of course, delve deeper into this once the matter I've assembled you for has been completed." His hands clasped together with purpose, for the following question was deliberate.

"Who is it that speaks for you? Who is it that speaks for the Ancestors? Who is your tongue...who is your guide?"

[member="Vytal Noctura"] | [member="Pom Stych Tivé"] | [member="Jorah zos Darnus"] | [member="Jenmae Ophiro"] | [member="Seren"]​

 

[Pom Stych Tivé]

It was obvious the change Hashim had undergone. His presence felt like suffocation, and yet it was so very familiar and most welcoming to the darksider. Mistress Malcontent glanced towards, [member="Vytal Noctura"] briefly, Telepathically she reflected, 'He is possessed. Do we fix him?' If such could even be done! What witch would rather herself be ruled by the Spirits, or the Demons? For they all have their shot at independent life, and do not deserve to conquer a man. His life is his own, especially one in allegiance to herself.

He asked who speaks for each of them, to which this Mistress' eyes flicked to him and beheld him intently, wondering if his speech were a riddle, where everyone really should answer that they are the one in control of themselves! She said, "I do believe the same question must be posed to you, Lord Commander." He is possessed.

Then the Mistress answered him directly as she took her seat. "The Fanged God is the one whose speech I regard, as it is for all whom are children of Dathomir." Her Talisman, vibrant with the Spirit of Ichor hummed and it glowed brightly with life. She became aware that it identified with [member=Rience].

The Mistress' own spirits and demons which go out before her always, seemed lost among the many that orchestrated this ordeal.



[member="Jenmae Ophiro"]
[member=Seren]
[member="Jorah zos Darnus"]

 

[Jenmae Ophiro]

​

Well, well, well...​

​

Progress across the city was swift enough - especially when her Wolf knew better than to question her. If what the Spirits kept muttering about was true, this invitation was to be for the sisters alone, and it was unlikely that her companion would be a welcome addition to their number... But she trusted that he knew to follow where she lead, and the relationship, though now on much more even footing, still put her firmly before him in almost all aspects - so it would appear natural enough to any nightsister who was comfortable with Dathomiri culture.

Though the white haired siren was not known to those who guarded the entrances to the Council chambers, there was no doubt that the woman had been summoned, just as the others had - though it didn't hurt that with a glance from her darkened eyes their concerns seemed to melt away, forgotten in a cloud of perfume that she didn't wear...

The whisper of long robes across the chamber floor was the only sound the slight witch made as she approached the large round table, hands rising to push down a large hood that had shrouded much of her face from the harsh Genosian sun. Rich, brown eyes scanned the others amassed as she waited patiently for [member="Seren"] to pull out her chair, not so much as sparing him a glance as she lowered herself to sit. He had attended her long enough to know that the invitation to sit would not be extended to him, and instead she sat stiffly in the chair, knowing that he would remain at her back.

As [member="Rience"] commenced with the business that had brought them all together, Jenmae instead turned her attention to those who had come to attend. So these were the witches of the Confederacy... There was one of interest, at least. The petite woman whose complexion was the exact opposite of her own - raven hair and eyes piercing and white... [member="Pom Stych Tivé"] was like a dark cloud in storm that the Spirits around them presented. The White Witch ensured that she kept her gaze passive and continued around the circle to regard the others - but something about the girl was hard to ignore, that was certain.

 

[Vytal Noctura]

Back on Ryloth
When the young Nightbrother appeared, Vytal regarded him and his zhaboka for a moment. "Res Taildanȃt au malra meni jafidas," [The Servant's strength is welcome.] the Nightsister responded with a slight nod. He was still growing accustomed to the Offworlder ways and their galaxy; she could understand how he felt and what thoughts spun within his mind. Yet Jorah had endured and showed great promise.

Vytal turned from the cockpit to look at her Sister for a moment, yet said nothing of her tardiness. Instead, she turned back to the pilot, "Seal the shuttle and set course for Geonosis. Follow standard protocol upon arrival." There'd be no need to deviate from the established procedure in requesting permission to enter the atmosphere and land. They were, after all, expected.

"Raise the other vessels inbound from our offworld facilities," the Nightsister asked of another crew member, "ensure their representatives make haste. While we do not scurry for favor, neither are we late."

Later, on Geonosis
As they entered the room, the loud and open welcome into his chamber was mildly surprising. It seemed unusually...warm given the means of summoning. He even spoke of them having questions as though inviting them to engage socially and not remain anxious over some great upheaval or plight that afflicted one of their own. It was curious, but she would not berate the man for surely there was something of some import he had to impart. She had grown accustomed to some Offworlders waiting to circle around to the topic of conversation after indulging in pleasantries. It was not... unwelcome. So long as it was not the endless noise of the Viceroys.

After they had settled, and Hashim addressed the assembled count, her eyes roamed the man. His first assurance that what had transpired would not happening again was of good cheer. She certainly hoped those events would not.

Pomsty's thoughts came to her in that moment as well. Possessed? In a manner of speaking, she thought in reply. He may have been broken before. Perhaps now he was whole. Though the man he'd been then and the one he was now was different to a degree, only time would tell whether that was for good or ill.

Then at last, as the Nightsister's eye shifted to either side to regard more of the assembled specters that regarded the living or the material in turn, Hashim dropped the question that was prelude to 'business.' She had witnessed and heard this turn in conversation among Offworlders. A... 'transition,' they called it. Pom was then forthright in her response touting the Fanged God, whose worship she held zealously and with no small acclaim regardless of audience. Not that Vytal complained about strength of conviction. However, the question did not seem to challenge what one believed. There was an intent behind it. A... 'pregnant' thought that brought Hashim to lead in search of an answer. Perhaps, a test of sorts.

"Each of us is attuned to spirits or a 'Will' of a kind. We commune with them, and with one another. A discordant chorus of thought and will eager to see the world brought to balance or -- for some -- to ruin," Vytal responded calmly as her eyes shifted among those present in body and elsewise. "Who speaks for the material and the spiritual? Who speaks for the Mandragora: the seekers of knowledge, and listeners of the ancients? Who brings into focus the Will of Creation?" At last they settled with Hashim. "The Nightmother."

Tag: [member="Rience"] | [member="Pom Stych Tivé"] | [member="Jorah zos Darnus"] | [member="Jenmae Ophiro"] | [member="Seren"]​

 

[Veronika Fleischer]

The origins of the witches was hazy at best. If one were to trace its history, it could point to the direction of one particular Jedi Knight by the name of Allya. There were no records of her full name, or perhaps Allya was simply Allya. All the witches knew were that Allya was their ancestor who arrived to Dathomir and taught the natives how to use the Force. The natives called it magic and became the Witches of Dathomir, riding rancors to battle and turning into warriors. Just like how the Jedi splintered into the Sith, some witches preferred the calling of the dark side and became Nightsisters.

As the years passed, and the Witches of Dathomir seemed to have taken into new forms. There were whispers that the Witches of Dathomir had joined the Mandalorians, but later ceased to exist. Meanwhile, the spirits of Ryloth called out to a woman who went by the name of [member="Katrine Van-Derveld"]. A shapeshifter by nature, Katrine was selected to the Nightmother and was granted the ability to summon the spirits of Ryloth. With the creation of a witch grimoire, a new witch covenant was formed on Ryloth.

It was also Katrine who reached out to her and made an offer to join the Witches of Ryloth, an offer which she had accepted and came to acquire the ability to summon the bird spirit who became her advisor, her friend and her sidekick.

"Pfft, I am not your sidekick. I am more powerful than you know."

The bird spirit's voice rang in her mind. Jart was in a cheerful mood today, despite his annoyed tone. His companion giggled at her little joke at his expense, ignoring his protests and urged her mount to continue heading towards the direction of the calling. Someone was calling out to the witches from Geonosis. It was an unusual location considering that most of the time, the witches would be summoned to Ryloth.

"I know you are powerful, Jart. But you ain't helping me with the legwork with those wings of yours, unlike Doashim who has kindly offered."

The blonde witch patted the creature under her legs, which roared in laughter. The bird spirit sighed and chose not to reply back, preferring to put his attention to make sure that his pet witch was going to be alright. They had been away from the Witch Coven for a while and things have changed a lot. There was some sort of merge between the Witches and the Knights Obsidian, creating a new division that also shook up the way the witches operated.

Finally, the destination came into view and the blonde hopped off from her ride. She might not be the most powerful of the witches, but certainly one of the most famous. She made sure that her leather jacket was free from dust before entering into the chambers where she was summoned, stopping by briefly to take a few hologram videos with the guards along the corridor who recognised her. As she walked into the chambers, she could hear the discussion among the witches about their beliefs. Someone mentioned the Fanged God, while another spoke of the Nightmother.

"What do we have here? A drinking session?"

Her voice rang through the chamber as she stepped in, emerald eyes glancing around to see if she could recognise anyone familiar. There was a serious looking warlock who could use a better looking mask, a Dathomiri witch who thought tattoos were still cool, a young Dathomir who looked like he was too young to drink, a gothic witch in purple (always needed to have one, but there's two!), another goth in long white snowy hair and finally a wild looking man who looked like he needed a shave. She shot a look at [member="Vytal Noctura"]. Despite her appearance, there was something in common between them.

"The Nightmother. We have been lacking one for a while ever since Katrine went missing. I don't know of any Fanged God, but I know some spirits from Ryloth..."

Veronika Fleischer blinked again, trying to see if anyone from the group knew about the spiritual pacts that the witches used to perform with the grimoire. One would touch the book and form a pact with either Jart, Doashim or Lylek. Had things changed so much that the summoning rituals were no longer performed? If so, perhaps there was no need for the grimoire any longer.

"Don't tell them about the grimoire yet. We have no idea if they are friendly."

The bird reminded Veronika to be cautious, whispering in her mind in a serious tone.

Tag: [member="Rience"] | [member="Jenmae Ophiro"] | [member="Pom Stych Tivé"] | [member="Jorah zos Darnus"] | [member="Seren"]

 

[Jorah zos Darnus]

The shuttle from Ryloth to Geonosis had been an opportunity to acquaint himself with [member="Pom Stych Tivé"] , a Nightsister he knew not. Save for that she seemed to have received the same summons as he had.

The tribal youth stood toward the back. He knew not why he was made witness to these events, but [member="Vytal Noctura"] had summoned him and so it would seem that the Nightsister felt there was value in his presence among them.

He would not question the Nightsister's judgment.

As the Nightsisters he had accompanied took their seats, he made no move to join them. Instead, the boy maintained a respectful distance behind Noctura's chair. Close enough to answer, were she to beckon. Far enough to not intrude on any private conversation she may want to have with the one called Pom.

One hand behind his back, the other held the zhaboka at military ready, being in a modified parade rest position. He might just as well been a standard bearer for Vytal and Pom, positioned as he was both behind and between them. As there had seemed no objection to the traditional Mistwalker attire, he was still attired in the sarong and caligae.

Amber eyes moved ever so slightly, taking in the peripheral of his vision so not to turn his head. There were other women present. All warriors whom he was unfamiliar with. Their presence marked them as powerful. The boy felt the spirits touch, including upon the one who seemed to have called this meeting. Jorah did not know this person. Save for that he was male, and thus the boy was immediately skeptical.

The mark of the Doashim burned upon his shoulder, a strange irritation that seemed to have begun about the same time that they had landed upon Geonosis. Perhaps it was a sign that the spirit of the Doashim hunted among them.

[member="Rience"] | [member="Veronika Fleischer"] | [member="Jenmae Ophiro"] | [member="Seren"]​

 

[Darth Metus]

For some, there was silence.

Once the Mandragora had settled into their seats, the Lord Commander had issued a question. On the surface, his line of inquiries were simple enough - but they carried a weight which would inspire each Witch to look within a mirror. Just who was it that guided the individual? The Collective? As the seconds rolled ever forward, the one called Pom was the first to speak up. In the beginning, she quipped that such a question was better posed to him first. To which he simply responded: "My guide is the mantle of Lord Commander. Fulfillment of my oaths to the Knighthood - to each of you - is what orders my steps."

The hour was not correct for the divulgence of his own personal philosophies. For the purpose Rience had in mind formed and fell from the lips of [member="Vytal Noctura"]. The Nightmother. For as long as the Lord Commander had been apart of the Knights Obsidian, the role vital to the culture of the Mandragora had been absent. It was said that, once, a woman by the name of Katrine held the mantle. But she had since vanished from the mortal plane. Rience had no doubt in his mind that attempts were made to ascertain the whereabouts of the missing Witch. But, if those so gifted by the will of the ancestors had not recovered their leader - then it was not meant for her to be found.

Time moved ever forward.

Before speaking, the Lord Commander opened his hands and directed one towards Vytal and the other towards [member="Veronika Fleischer"]. Both had uttered the word of the hour, and thus the curtain started to rise. "The Nightmother." he began. "From what I know of your ways, it is this individual who speaks on behalf of the countless spirits. It is she who guides the Mandragora. And for too long, this pivotal presence has been absent from your midst." His offhand lowered to the table. His dominant fist came to rest upon his chest.

"When Elessar before me was broken, it was not an easy task for the torch to be passed on. Yet, in order for the congregation to survive and to thrive, leadership must be secured. I have called you here, Mandragora, to light and pass the torch anew. The time has come to choose a new Nightmother. Name the one who will speak for your spirits, your ancestors, and your gods..."

[member="Pom Stych Tivé"] | [member="Vytal Noctura"] | [member="Jenmae Ophiro"] | [member="Seren"] | [member="Jorah zos Darnus"] | [member="Veronika Fleischer"]​

 

[Pom Stych Tivé]

As [member=Rience] spoke the Mistress Malcontent tossed her gaze to [member="Vytal Noctura"] sharply. She knew not the one who was even speaking! How can they allow him to decide their fate, when they have yet to comprehend what has transpired within him? She sighed heavily as her eyes fell to the tabletop. The appointment would be tarnished. People would question it.

Pom Stych Tivé could not sit still and let this go on. She was next to her Lord Commander, and she suddenly reached out her hand to Rience not in malice, but with intent, and unafraid. It was bold, and what she did next was even more bold. Her pale eyes locked upon his once again, searching him. Through Telepathy to honor his privacy, she spoke directly into his mind.‘You will please permit me, Lord Commander. I think you fathom what it is that I must know,’ for the sake of future assurance is at hand.

If he honors her and takes her hand, she will join her Soul to his for a brief moment. She shall be honoring him in return in a way that proves her loyalty to him, not to destroy him. For the Soul of this man is the commander of spirits and over his own demons. It simply is not the other way around. And yet the Hashim whom she knew before looks not out through his own eyes. Her intention is to find the voice of the one she remembers inside this body, to uncover Hashim for a brief moment. She needs to have him tell her that his current evolution is indeed his will, and he is in no danger or conflict in his bond with this demon.

If Rience complies, she shall truly see him for who he has become, and she shall in turn manifest herself to him respectfully, have her intentions laid bare to him for the plucking. She owes this to Hashim, regardless of the intimacy it entails, for he is one among no others who have taken time to try and understand the ways of the witch. He deserves her protection. She will not deny him her protection simply because he does not request it from her, if he even is capable to beseech her at all.

One way or another, she will see who or what exists, and it will take place right here and now.

If Hashim is at rest with his fate, which is a commonality among dark beings, then she will forever understand that his word today is Just, and none shall rightly quarrel over his decisions now or in the future. She shall defend him as whole, to the last.

But on the other hand...

If Hashim is ill at rest with his predicament of duality and it is forced upon him, or she cannot locate his Soul to form a connection with him, this Sorceress is obligated to protect him and fight for his freedom even if it brings about her demise. The Soul is in charge of the spirits and over the demons inhabiting their human realm, she will not abandon her Lord Commender to his fate. Even if she dies, Hashim will be freed of his affliction, for the demons must obey, and Pomsty is no pushover for a Sorceress!

Her Talisman vibrates as the Spirit of Ichor stirs within. Her Fanged God stands at the ready to fortify her bidding. The Nightsisters' heart pounded away inside her chest.

The tone of her voice delivered her seldom stirred tenderness as she finalized her request of him, and her eyes soften considerably, betraying her profound emotion. ‘I must.’ It is true she must; for who is she if she cannot extend the services of her most basic of natures to assist her Lord Commander? ‘My Lord, for the sake of longevity of union among our organizations and to quell all future discourse, be seen and heard. I stand behind the will of my friend Hashim.’ It is Hashim himself who received his divine calling to be elevated Lord Commander over the CIS. If he took his demons willingly, so shall he be forever revered. His Mistress Pom Stych Tivé intends him no insult that she should voice to him, her justifiable concern over his Soul.

‘Please.’ Her visage fell void, for wether Rience accepts or rejects the concern of his Sorceress is at hand.

Shall the Lord Commander humor his Nightsister by placing in her his trust, or only see the negative and thereby extend her his ire, that he might choose to fortify the division long endured by this Mistress Malcontent? For of her essence, far more than power rages with her focus.






[member="Jenmae Ophiro"]
[member=Seren]
[member="Jorah zos Darnus"]
[member="Veronika Fleischer"]

 

[Vytal Noctura]

The doors admitted another, and they soon made a cheerful remark. Not at all the sort Vytal had expected given the severity of being summoned in such a manner -- one Vytal herself was unaccustomed toward despite her encounters with those of high station. She did not turn to look at the woman that entered, and little repositioning was needed to do so in short order. The Nightsister regarded [member="Veronika Fleischer"] out of the corner of one eye as she echoed the role of the Nightmother.

That the woman knew not of the Fanged God was as water off a stone. It had never been the Nightsisters' desire to spread his name throughout the galaxy. Perhaps in their own way they preferred being His chosen, and His alone. Hopefully she did not offend her god in this, but Vytal neither sought to proselytize nor hide his presence. Now was not the time to introduce the woman to the concept, however.

Vytal's eyes turned back to bore into the man that led the Knights Obsidian. The one that had offered for the Nightmother to 'advise' the Lords of the Confederacy. That word had not sat well with Vytal at the time nor did it now, but it was perhaps more than their hierarchy might otherwise tolerate. It was, if nothing else, a means to rise further and to ensure the needs of those pursuing mystical matters were addressed. Power was not what the Nightsister sought -- though she'd not decline it. Influence, however, yielded resources. Both the Mandragora and herself could use such resources in their endeavors.

A shift in Vytal's eyes brought Pom into focus, however, despite the question Rience put to the table. Her Sister seemed discontent with matters and had proceeded to reach out to the Lord Commander most literally. The matter of Hashim/Rience's condition seemed to dwell heavily with the Witch of Dathomir. As for herself, Vytal had been content to determine his agenda before worrying herself with the change in demeanor the man wore. Change there might be, but the man obviously had a similar flare as to what was displayed on Monastery.

Dark lips thinned as the moment turned to revelation or rebuke. The Nightsister could call upon the Fanged God herself, only such would not go unnoticed. Jart. As someone that learned an art of domination herself, Vytal knew this one of the three Ryloth spirits the best of her studies. She may not wish it, but grant Pom protection. Vytal did not believe Rience would dare lash out here, but when you confronted someone over being possessed you prepared for the worst. Possession by a dark spirit could earn a swift death if they felt their cover at risk. Fortunately -- young as he was -- they did have a Nightbrother present, which brought a strange sense of familiar comfort. One that had taken to Doashim rather than the Fanged God, true, but the Mandragora were not isolationists. Communing with one spirit above most others did not mean you could not commune with others. Otherwise Vytal would have revolted the second she stepped inside the Castle.

Both hands were set calmly atop the table. Her eyes regarded the Commander carefully. "The Nightmother stands not only for the spirits, but for those that follow her. She will bridge the gaps between those of Magick and those of the Force. Educate and unite the people with the world that goes unnoticed everyday. Offer her aid to those that suffer mental or spiritual malady. To guide and protect the Mandragora foremost, but not alone." The Nightsister extended her hand palm up toward Hashim/Rience. "Do we walk together in this, Lord Commander?"

Might the words be lost if Pom's actions went askew? Perhaps. Nevertheless, probing a possible possession in dead silence never worked out well. Vytal had hopes things would turn out for the best, however, and sought to keep their conversation moving as well.

Tag: [member="Rience"] | [member="Pom Stych Tivé"] | [member="Jorah zos Darnus"] | [member="Jenmae Ophiro"] | [member="Seren"]​

 

[Jorah zos Darnus]

The gravitas of conversation sent a chill through the boy.

He would have felt out of place even if not for the role of Nightmother to have been brought forth. That it had only reinforced what the boy already knew. That being, such discourse was beyond him. He was only a maleling and not really knowledgeable about such affairs.

Yet, he was here. For what purpose, he did not know. Only that [member="Vytal Noctura"] seemed to have some purpose for it, a fact that he would not question.

The Nightsister had the right of it. The Nightmother was more than a spiritual advisor, more than the mere word leader could convey. The Nightmother was the Mandragora and the Mandragora was the Nightmother. It was much the same as the Shaol'maka of the Mistwalker Clan.

To be in the presence of those who would determine the next Nightmother...

Truly, he lived in interesting times. This was either epiphany or mutiny. Which, no mortal could have said. The spirits, themselves, would judge the intentions of those spoke for them.

A fact that the boy drew solace in, his faith maintaining a stoic resolve as the youth continued to stand his silent vigil an arm's length behind Vytal's chair. Waiting to be called upon or dismissed.

 

[Darth Metus]

The Lord Commander had thought it a distraction.

Tasked with the stewardship of so many lives, Rience had placed his personal affairs on the backburner. Righting the void which had dominated the Mandragora host was a far greater priority than the matter of his return - at least in his mind. The man was satisfied with focusing upon that at hand, rather than what all had transpired between he and Alkor Centaris. However. Even though the spirits themselves thundered upon the moment of their summons, the matter of his mortality was of paramount concern to one.

She placed her hand upon him, touching him as if he were a dear friend. The voice which whispered in his mind was that same accented tongue he had come to associate with the woman. He did not take the plea as an offense. He did not take her desire for certainty to be wrong. The leader in him wanted to devote time to the task at hand. But...they had gone so long without their Nightmother, what more would a few moments hurt? Besides, Rience had devoted time to understand the Mandragora. To strive and hear who they were. To care. To be one they could trust.

Thus, as a sigh fell from his lips, his fingers coiled about her forearm.

Thus, the Nightsister would see.

She would bear witness to the truths which he then spoke aloud for her peers to perceive. Where she would witness history unfolding as flashes before her mind's eye, they would only hear the thunder of his voice. She would see no malicious possession. No oppression. No darkness or malady which contorted the Hashim she had known. But the truth was simple and rooted in pure memory.

I did not know until facing Alkor Centaris that Hashim was not a name...but a title. On a distant world, I fought a battle and nearly lost my life. My comrades died, yet I remained alive underneath the rubble. The people we served plucked me from the stones and cried out 'Hashim! Hashim!' It was the mantle of a hero. Yet, all before that moment...was empty. I could not recall anything - not the battle, not my allies, not even my name. My life began anew from that battle and I eventually found my way here. I served as Elessar's apprentice. I served the Knighthood and became your Lord Commander.

Facing Alkor righted the wrong of my mind. I can see beyond the rubble. Rience is the name of my birth.

There was naught else to say or witness. The totality of who Rience is was laid bare for the Nightsister to see. And with thus uttered, his focus returned to the matter at hand. His fingers released the arm of the woman and returned to the face of [member="Vytal Noctura"]. Her words regarding the nature of the Nightmother were agreeable, and thus the man nodded as she raised her hand towards him. "We walk together in this." he said. "Now...This is a decision that I have no bearing on, nor will I guide. It is up to the Mandragora and the Spirits to choose who shall carry the torch."

"I say again...who do you name?"

[member="Pom Stych Tivé"] | [member="Vytal Noctura"] | [member="Jenmae Ophiro"] | [member="Seren"] | [member="Jorah zos Darnus"] | [member="Veronika Fleischer"]​

 

[Pom Stych Tivé]

She saw. She experienced. She was asked of nothing in return. She accepted his disclosure. Vytal had been correct, he had been broken before. His acceptance of her request pleased her. “We are here for just a purpose as you sought assistance. That you did not come to us...such a disservice.” Surely the thought would have crossed his mind to seek them out to solve his amnesia, had he truly trusted them. Or maybe he had beseeched someone, but the one he chose was insufficient to assist him satisfactorily. When she was finished sharing with him, she withdrew her hand and closed her Telepathic connection to him and listened to his concerns.

Whose spirits arose for such an occasion that this military minded individual demanded a matter of witches be solved this moment?? Who do these spirits serve? Not the Mandragora! He spoke of demanding a Nightmother be elected directly as if she would simply be someone he could converse with regarding matters that affect him and his precious CIS.

Nobody speaks for this Mistress Malcontent. Nobody.

A Nightmother is a dark priestess. She is specific to the Nightsisters of Dathomir. What of the voice of the Lightsiders among them? Who would they call to represent them, their dogma being so vastly opposite?

Pom only intimately knew her sister Vytal among the entire Mandragora coven. She did not know well the others, what their inherent gifts are, their alignment, and aspirations. She cast her gaze about the table and such a demand by their supreme military leader felt like an immediate affront.

Nobody present in their current evolution is as awesome or gifted as the Dathomiri Nightmother. A High Priestess any can achieve, certainly, but nobody wielded the supreme power of the Nightmother without sacrificing her mind and her own Will to that of the ethereal Legion of demons...or Angels should she be aligned to the Light.

Pomsty’s brow furrowed for the sacrifice to warrant such transformation isn’t simply asked for buy witches and Sorceresses sitting around a conference table. It’s a sacred ritual which takes nearly a week to accomplish. One that requires the participation of all capable minds, an unbearable amount of magic, and near death to the one so exalted.

The rift of misunderstanding is ever growing between the Mandragora and everyone else among the CIS! And the Mandragora are ever so patient as the members of the CIS who increase the divide never apologize for any despicable thing they suffer unto the witches. At least for Rience, he tries. Worse, nobody else among the CIS does seem to at all.

She cast a gaze of exasperation towards Vytal and the others. She knew not the spirits that encircled the room but understood they knew not of her ways, by the terms of which they spoke in vain. Nightmother is not selected by foreign spirits, especially those who knew not the witches more intimately than they knew themselves; Mom or the Fanged God would select her in the altar room when they damn well please to! And if she were born to the Light, then the Winged Goddess in league with any other god so serving would select her!

Damnit! I was pulled away from my work for this? Her Talisman vibrated of the Spirit of Ichor within.






[member="Rience"]
[member="Vytal Noctura"]
[member="Jenmae Ophiro"]
[member="Jorah zos Darnus"]
[member="Seren"]
[member="Veronika Fleischer"]

 

[Vytal Noctura]

Vytal's eyes lingered on Rience's for a time after he spoke. They shifted to the right and strayed over those that sat there. They shifted to the left and those that sat there. Her lips twisted downward as the silence stretched onward. Was it right? Was it wrong? Would the Book of Power, or Shadow, or Law present a ritual thusly? To be called together in an effort to put forward a Nightmother to guide, to lead, to council. Was this the way?

The Nightsister felt the spirits present. They too were silent. Was it in wait for one to speak? For those present to shout a name? Or was it disapproval?

Teeth clenched behind sealed lips. Muscles rippled under taunt, pale flesh.

You showed me into your presence, when I was lost. You gave me your hand, when I fell. Your will when you spoke. It is not yours alone that sounds in the void, and you did not command me to act one way or another; but all these things you did, you did with purpose. If there is purpose, I have the will, and I will do what I must for me, for my Sisters.

Vytal's right hand pressed upon the table as she stood from the chair about the table. Hear me. Her left hand rose and clenched into a fist over her heart. There was a door that rarely opened. It stood cracked open where a Light from Beyond the Veil cast its glow over the world before her; but it never budged when set upon. Only a handful of times had it widened; times she only vaguely recalled, as when Hevn nearly lost himself long ago in the hanger. If this was the time and the place, if it was not his will, but her own, then it would heed her. It would heed her.

Hear me.

The walls of the room fell away as Vytal's eyes were engulfed in a green flame. Her fingers tightened over her heart as she thrust her spiritual being against the door and inch by inch forced it open. With every ounce of strength she reached out far beyond the chamber. Beyond the towers of Galboh City. Beyond Geonosis. Ryloth. Kashyyk. Dathomir. Neither space nor time held sway when it came to the chorus of voices that permeated every level of Creation. Their will. Their dreams. Their fears. Their hopes. If it was a Nightmother that would be chosen here for this time, then they would have an audience worthy of that selection. And if the Fanged God disagreed with his willful daughter's demand she would struggle with all her might to bridge the gap just the same; but she did not believe this to be so.

"We have not spoken, and already you have lost your tongues." Vytal's voice took on a similar echo as it had on Kinyen, only with greater intensity. "We do not come because we are called. We assemble because too many speak for one, yet not another. To pick and choose with of our voices to hear. Whose power to accept. We are many, yet we are treated as few. Who here speaks for us?" The fires of her eyes scanned those present. "Who dares?"

Tag: [member="Rience"] | [member="Pom Stych Tivé"] | [member="Jorah zos Darnus"] | [member="Jenmae Ophiro"] | [member="Seren"]​

 

[Seren]

Location: The Witches' Moot
Accompanying: [member="Jenmae Ophiro"]
Nearby: [member="Rience"], [member="Vytal Noctura"], [member="Jorah zos Darnus"], [member="Veronika Fleischer"]

Nightmother.

When the dominant power within the Southern Systems was young, the mantle of Nightmother was held by its first. The woman who had fallen from the stars led for some time - but when the Mandragora needed her most, she vanished. Her more radical children sought to bring her back by any means necessary and thus hunted those of close blood. They thought, perhaps, by magick and by blood, they could lure their wayward mother back to the fold. Yet Seren, the Nightmother's sibling, knew better. He, too, had fallen from the stars. He, too, had been abandoned. And if things had been different, the Wolf might have warned them about the woman they followed.

In his youthful days, Seren had looked upon the Mandragora with a seething hatred for the sins of the radical few. He hated Katrine for abandoning him in the first place - for leaving him to suffer at the hands of their sire while she ran off playing Nightmother and Lover. He hated the Mandragora for being privy to her newfound lifestyle. Yet, as time moved ever forward, wisdom replaced youthful passions. Where the Wolf once hated the southern covens, he understood that their existence was responsible for the greatest joy of his life. For if he was not hunted, he would not have been saved.

The pallid witch at his side would not have entered his life.

Perhaps it was this reality which encouraged him to do away with his norm. Seren did not profess himself a member of the Mandragora as the others - but he was raised in the shadow of the same spirits. He knew their ways. He used their magicks. In all but name, he walked the same path. Thus, as the emerald fire took the one called Vytal, the Wolf rose from his own seat. For but a moment, his offhand grazed the arm of his pallid bride before his gaze turned upon the wrathful form of [member="Vytal Noctura"]. "I am not blind." he began, pointing a single digit at the woman.

"And it is clear to me who speaks - it is you. You, who calls instead of commands. You, who listened first. You, who made no claim to the power or mantle. Who speaks for the Mandragora? She who allows her tongue to be used." He then looked upon the form of his partner [member="Jenmae Ophiro"], asking: "Wouldn't you agree?"