W A R P R I E S T
The pleasure gardens of the Ark of Ha'rangir were unlike anything else in the galaxy, a radiant abyss of sensual decadence buried deep beneath the monastery's hallowed towers. Here, molten gold ran in streams alongside crimson wine, and flowers the size of speeders glimmered under lamps forged from crystallized plasma. The air was thick with perfume and incense, a haze of desire and power that clung to the lungs like velvet smoke.
Here, the cries of ecstasy and worship blended seamlessly with hymns of devotion. For in House Prime's theology, there was no divide between faith and pleasure, only forms of submission to divine will. Power was the truest prayer, indulgence the purest worship.
And at the heart of this opulent temple of temptation, sprawled upon a throne made of fused bone and gold, lounged Dima Prime, the Grand Warpriest herself.
The throne was vast enough to seat a rancor, sculpted into the shape of a half-reclined goddess, and Dima mirrored its form with regal laziness. Her massive frame, armored only in silken wraps of deep violet and black, glimmered beneath the bioluminescent canopy. The scent of crushed berries and starwine clung to her skin. A cascade of silver-threaded hair tumbled down her shoulders as a Twi'lek girl, dressed in translucent silks and adorned with jeweled chains, carefully braided it strand by strand. The twi'lek's lekku twitched nervously each time Dima hummed or shifted, her great segmented tail lazily dragging across the marble floor with a low, rhythmic scrape.
Beside the Warpriest stood a towering man, his body oiled and gleaming under the torchlight, a living statue of muscle and sweat. He wore only a gilded sash around his hips to keep him decent, and the faintest smirk, and his entire role was simple: exist beautifully. Dima's upper hands draped lazily across her throne, a goblet of fermented honey-wine in one, while her lower arms rested comfortably as another servant, a delicate, androgynous boy who looked every bit the stolen scion of some noble house knelt beside her. His trembling fingers filed and polished her azure claws with painstaking reverence, every motion guided by fear and fascination.
Each of her four arms had its own attendant, and she delighted in their symmetry, a living testament to her dominion over both the conquered and the willing.
Before her stretched the stage of indulgence, a platform of onyx surrounded by pools of luminescent water and overgrown vines that glittered like silver veins. From the pools rose music, alien instruments strummed by half-dressed musicians, their rhythm deep and primal, the pulse of heartbeats made melody. Upon the stage, a courtesan danced, her form a blur of motion and silk, her every step dripping with divine sensuality. She was not just performing; she was praying, her art an offering to the god of destruction and rebirth.
Dima reclined further into her throne, the joints of her armor creaking softly as she raised her cup to her segmented lips. Her laughter was low, resonant, the kind of sound that rippled through the air like thunder. She plucked a grape from a platter of sweets and fruits beside her and dropped it into her mouth, savoring the burst of juice across her fanged grin.
Then, with a sudden burst of mischief, she snapped her claws and barked across the hall:
"Flex harder! Mama wants to see them muscles ripple~"
The command was half growl, half purr, and it echoed through the garden with predatory delight. The oiled man obeyed immediately, his body tightening like coiled durasteel, veins bulging as his muscles rippled under the golden light.
"Mmmh! There it is~" Dima crooned, her tail rattling with pleasure. She snatched a handful of coins from a nearby bowl. Real gold, stamped with the sigil of the Destroyer, and tossed them at his chest. The coins struck his pectorals and clattered to the ground like applause, each bounce earning a ripple of laughter from the nearby attendants.
"Good boy," she murmured, voice low and sultry. "You'll make a fine statue when I tire of you."
The Twi'lek girl giggled softly, until Dima's lower eyes flicked toward her, and she froze in place. The Warpriest's grin deepened.
"You may laugh," she said, voice honeyed but sharp. "Laughter pleases the gods. Fear does not."
The girl smiled nervously and continued braiding, her fingers trembling as she resumed her work.
Dima stretched, every motion serpentine and deliberate, her four arms flexing like the limbs of some divine beast. Her gaze drifted across the chamber, at the pools, the dancers, the servants, the conquered. All of them were tools, offerings, and trophies. To outsiders, it might have seemed monstrous, barbaric even. But to her, this was sanctity.
Where others prayed with words, she prayed with excess.
Where others sought virtue, she sought dominion.
For to the children of Ha'rangir, pleasure was no sin, it was tribute. Every scream, every sigh, every drop of sweat and gold and blood was an act of devotion to the eternal cycle: Power. Plunder. Pleasure.
Dima exhaled deeply, eyes half-lidded as the music swelled again. The boy at her knee had finished his work; her claws now gleamed like fresh-forged blades. She regarded them, pleased, and with one lazy flick of a wrist, dismissed him.
"Go," she murmured. "Dance for your god. Let him see what the conquered have learned."
He rose silently and obeyed, stepping onto the stage among the other courtesans as Dima leaned back once more, the glow of molten light washing over her form. Her laughter, rich and decadent, rolled across the chamber like rolling thunder.
She had labored long in the name of faith, forged temples, organized crusades, blessed the forges and the warriors who would soon make war across the stars. But tonight, she was not Warpriest nor Overseer. Tonight she was the living embodiment of divine indulgence, basking in the sacred pleasures her god had promised his faithful.
And surrounded by beauty, worship, and the scent of sin.
Prime purred in contentment.
"Let the pious starve on their virtue," she whispered, swirling her wine. "I feast on faith, and my god demands I eat well."
