I R O N M A I D E N
L O C A T I O N | Jutrand Social Club
G E A R | Gjallerhorn | Celestial Crown | Glyphscript Anvil
Jutrand was a world of velvet shadows and perfumed sin, where power whispered behind every jeweled curtain and the Sith Empire's aristocrats floated through life on a river of menace and luxury. Tonight, however, the crown jewel of the city, the Onyx Halls Social Club, held a far rarer sight than a thousand noble-blooded Darkborn: Dima Prime, the Warpriest of Mandalore, brushed in gold accents and wrapped in ceremonial furs, carving a path through the crowd like a comet.
The air buzzed with speculation and veiled reverence. She moved through the obsidian-and-crystal interior with a swagger born of war and divine certainty, shoulders back, four arms relaxed yet predatory, chin lifted with that impossible mix of Mandalorian arrogance and preacher's heat. Her reputation had clearly preceded her; entire tables subtly shifted, conversations tapered into whispers, and more than a few Sith looked away as though making direct eye contact would brand them.
She was here under the newly forged, surprisingly cordial alliance with Srina and a handful of other powerful Darkborn who saw the value in associating with House Prime. The Empress's patronage had opened doors that had previously been welded shut, yet the danger, and opportunity, hung thick in the club's incense-heavy atmosphere. Those who dared to meet with Dima did so with equal parts ambition and fear; she was fire incarnate, a creature whose faith sharpened her smile and whose god sharpened her purpose.
Dima tipped her chin toward a group of Sith nobles reclining on a balcony booth, their eyes glittering with curiosity. She approached them like a priestess stepping to a alter, her voice a low melodic purr that rolled into a thunderous sermon-cadence as she spoke of conquest, unity through strength, and opportunities that could be born from shared enemies. She sipped from crystalline cups, traded veiled threats with velvet words, and laughed, too sharp, too bright, for anyone to forget she was a weapon sculpted by doctrine and war.
Yet in the midst of all the elegance and predation, she was utterly at home. A wolf in a den of jackals. A zealot spinning deals with devils. Dima Prime basked in it, moving from conversation to conversation with that intoxicating blend of holy fervor and battlefield swagger, shaking hands with one set of arms while the other folded with regal menace.
Jutrand's elite had come expecting a brute in ceremonial armor.
Instead, they found a warborn prophet dressed for high society-
and she left them wondering whether they had just met an ally, a herald...or the first tremor of a coming storm.
