Private Pilgrimage of Iron

[Warpriest Prime]

I'm Kind of a Misfit, I Don't Hide My Religion
Probably Going To Hell Cause I Told The Gods I'm A Witness

Tytos Saxon​

The Ark of Ha'rangir drifted through the void like a cathedral cast from the bones of a dying star. Its hollowed halls thrummed with the low hymn of engines and forges alike, their resonant chorus echoing endlessly through the iron arteries of the city ship.

In the Hall of Blades, the air shimmered with reflected firelight. Polished walls of burnished durasteel gleamed beneath the orange glow of forge-lanterns. Here, no paintings or tapestries hung. No portraits of lords, no marble busts of saints. Only weapons, the truest art her kin had ever known.

Rows upon rows of them: blades and polearms, axes with hafts of obsidian steel, spears whose heads had once pierced the hulls of enemy dreadnaughts. Each weapon carried its own tale, etched in runes or scars, a history not of bloodshed alone, but of purpose.

Dima stood among them, four arms moving with quiet precision. Her claws brushed lovingly over the edge of a war-spear, then to the graceful curve of a scimitar forged from the heart of a fallen Starfort. Each blade was polished until it sang beneath her touch.

To others, it might have seemed like menial work, the labor of a caretaker. But to her, this was devotion. Every weapon was a prayer made manifest, every reflection upon the steel another mirror for her soul.

When she lifted a new sword to the light, a freshly-forged longsaber with a grip wrapped in crimson hide. She held it up as one might cradle a newborn. Turning it this way and that, she squinted thoughtfully, then placed it between two ancient vibroblades that had hung since before House Primes recorded memory.

"There," she murmured, adjusting it a hair's width until the light caught it just right. "You belong here. Among your kin."

For a long moment she stood still, simply breathing. The scent of metal and oil, the warmth of the forge's glow.

This was peace. Her kind of peace.

Then came the echo of boots.

A magistrate in gray robes approached, hesitating at the threshold before bowing. "Warpriest Prime," the man intoned, his voice reverent. "Pilgrims have arrived at the city gates. They seek the blessing of Ha'rangir...and your audience."

Dima blinked, her eyes widening with immediate delight. Then, with a grin that could melt the edge off any sword, she threw her upper hands into the air in celebration.

"Ohhh, good, good!" she boomed, her voice ringing through the Hall. "The faithful come home once more!"

The magistrate barely had time to brace himself before her lower hands clapped down on his shoulders, shaking him like an overexcited sibling. "Truly excellent! Come, come! We must receive them properly!"

With a hearty thwack, she slapped his back so hard he nearly pitched forward. The echo of the blow rang off the steel walls like a gunshot.

"Ah-! Yes, my Lady!" he sputtered, regaining his footing as she had already begun striding toward the exit, cloak billowing like a storm front behind her.

The great corridors of the Iron Citadel opened before her as she made her way through the Ark's heart. Pilgrims and smiths alike nodded as she passed, not in fear, but in shared fervor. They could feel it, the same fire that moved through her veins, the divine pulse that beat in every hammer's strike.

The halls widened into the city-streets of the Ark itself, a colossal warren of hangars, forges, and shrine-temples built into the ship's very ribs. Through the vaulted windows, the light of nearby stars streamed like stained glass.

At the far end of the thoroughfare, the Grand Hangar yawned open to the void, its massive bay doors glimmering with shield-light. Beyond them, the pilgrims' transport ships descended like glowing embers against the black.

Dima spread her arms wide in welcome, her cloak unfurling like the wings of some celestial beast.

"Come then!" she called out, her voice echoing through vox-channels and into the very walls. "Sons and daughters of The Faith, children of god's flame. come! Step upon holy steel and be reborn in its glow!"

The magistrates at her side looked up at her, awed by the sight. A warlord made priest, a destroyer turned shepherd, her laughter rolling like thunder as the faithful ships touched down.

To others, it might have seemed ceremony. But to her, this was joy. This was faith.

Warpriest Prime of The Ark would receive her kin, and show them what holy labor had wrought in the gods' name.

 

[Tytos Saxon]

S H A M A N​

Tag: Warpriest Prime

The galaxy was changed. Planetshift had not only affected the physical, but the metaphysical as well. The planes of the Netherworld were changed, and Tytos had been absent from the galaxy. Yet fate had once more brought him from one plane to this one, and once more the White Wolf prowed the galaxy. Why, and where, he could not tell. What more, not only had hyperlanes shifted, but the Mando'ade as well. The power dynamics that Tytos had known were changed. The Mando'ade once more rallied under a Mand'alor, who ruled once more from Mandalore, under the banner of a resurgent Mandalorian Empire.

The story of the Galaxy was a sick cycle. Only the one true way of the Manda offered freedom from its chains. How few knew of it?

As he'd made his way covertly across the Mandalorian sector, his attention had been drawn by the mass droves of pilgrims flocking to a location he did not know: the Ark of Ha'rangir. The Mandokarla order considered the Mandalorian pantheon as superstition, at best manifestations of the the Manda, but no true being. Actual worship of deity was rare, practically unheard of since Mand'alor the Indomitable's decree making warfare itself the center of Mandalorian cult worship. Yet change was rife in the galaxy. Tytos joined the hordes to see for himself what had been wrought in the void.

The enormity of the ark-ship astonished him; its size was near incoprehensible by galactic standards. Either technology or dark arts he was unaware of were at its source.

As he disembarked with the other pilgrims, he looked at the warrens without end of hangars, of forges, of temples built within temples. And above allof it, the booming echo of a voice that rang familiar:

"Come then!" she called out, her voice echoing through vox-channels and into the very walls. "Sons and daughters of The Faith, children of god's flame. come! Step upon holy steel and be reborn in its glow!"

Tytos had observed the Enclave enough to know the unmistakeable cry of a unique Mandalorian. What had the Domina become?

 

[Warpriest Prime]

I'm Kind of a Misfit, I Don't Hide My Religion
Probably Going To Hell Cause I Told The Gods I'm A Witness

Tytos Saxon​

It had not been so long ago that the name Domina Prime stirred only mockery in the mouths of her kin. Once, she had been nothing more than a feral stray of the Enclave. An untempered creature born of violence and hunger, chasing the thrill of the hunt and the joy of the clash. A beast draped in armor, too wild, too strange, too other to ever be called a daughter of Mandalore. She had been ostracized, pitied, feared...and yet she endured. For what none could strip from her, no jeer, no curse, no wound, was her love. Her love for the creed, for the culture, for the raw, incandescent glory of the game.

And so the outcast became the oracle.

In the golden dawn of The Ark, when the pilgrims came in droves, drawn by visions, by rumors, by longing. They found not a monster at the gate, but a saint wrapped in violet and gold. The Grand Warpriest of the Forge, the Alor of House Prime, the Divine Servant of Ha'rangir. Her form towering and radiant, her many eyes alight with the sacred fire of her god.

Once, she had been the storm that broke worlds. Now, she was the voice that called them home.

Upon the steps of the Iron Citadel, she welcomed them, her words rich as molten metal, her tone a benediction carved from the heart of war itself.

"Brothers. Sisters. Lost sons and radiant daughters of the forge, be not afraid of your fire. It was He who lit it."

She spoke to them not as a ruler, but as a mother might speak to her children returned from battle. Her love for them was not gentle, but fierce, consuming. A love that armed, that sharpened, that demanded becoming. She showered them in gold and glory, not for vanity, but for remembrance. That they might never forget the worth of their spirit. Feasts were laid, weapons were anointed, and the walls themselves gleamed with relics of their faith: blades of ancestors, banners of fallen crusades, and effigies of the gods wrought from star-forged steel.

Some looked upon this grandeur with suspicion. Others wept openly, for in this sanctum of flame and song they saw what had long been denied them: belonging. A place where all Mando'ade, warrior and pilgrim, crusader and pacifist might gather beneath the same divine fire and call it home.

And when the murmurs quieted, when awe and disbelief had given way to reverence, Domina lifted her mask toward the gathered throng, her voice rolling like distant thunder through the vaulted halls of The Ark.

"We are, all of us, stardust," she intoned, each syllable echoing with the weight of scripture. "Held together by love. if only for an instant. Let us make that instant eternal."

And in that moment, beneath the banners of the gods and the hum of the forges, even the White Wolf might have felt it, the pull of something ancient and holy, older than Mandalore, older than war itself.

The call of home. Because home was not a place to the nomads of their ancestors. It was where your people were~