Private Take Me To Church

[Domina Prime]

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASHEMY?

Ark of Ha'rangir

Aiden Porte ​

The Arc's monastery floated within the heart of the vessel, a place of impossible serenity carved into the mechanical chaos of the warfleet. The walls glowed faintly with radiant sigils written in Mandalorian runes and flowing scripture of the Old Tongue. They pulsed in time with the ship's reactor, the "Heart of Ha'rangir," as her priests called it.

Prime knelt upon the obsidian floor before the altar, her tail coiled around her feet, four arms arranged in a precise meditative posture. The air was cold here, intentionally so, a contrast to the infernal heat of the forges. Every breath emerged as mist that drifted into the high, vaulted dark.

Before her stood the altar: a raised slab of black glass carved with a single embedded blade, Starfang, one of her oldest relics. Its edge shimmered with a cold radiance, mirroring the cosmos visible through the skylight above. Each star reflected on its surface flickered with eerie synchronization, like the galaxy itself was aware of her worship.

She gazed into that blade and saw paths, corridors of light threading through infinity.

The cosmic map of her destiny.

Her lower hands rested on her knees, palms upward in acceptance. Her upper hands pressed together in silent devotion. Her five eyes were closed at first, her breathing slow, deliberate, four counts inhale, eight counts exhale. Each rhythm aligned with the beating core of the ship around her.

When she began to whisper, her voice was low, almost tender.

"O Manda, boundless thought that binds us.
Ha'rangir, who breaks us that we might be remade.
Hear your child in the silence between stars."

She bowed her head, and the faint glow of her body dimmed. The scales that had once burned golden in the forge now reflected starlight, like a creature made of nebulae and memory. She saw within the blade's reflection, not her face, but the echoes of all her past selves: the conqueror, the disciple, the sinner, the savior.

For a moment, even she felt small.
Not humbled, never humbled, but aware of the vastness that her existence served.

Her lips moved again, a prayer now spoken in full:

"The sword remembers. The flesh forgets.
The flesh is weak, yet still endures."

When she rose, she touched Starfang's hilt gently. A ripple of light pulsed through it, as if the weapon acknowledged her presence. The temple bells began to sound, deep, resonant tones echoing down the marble corridors as the faithful gathered for the service to come.

Domina turned, her cloak sweeping behind her like smoke, her expression unreadable beneath her veil.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Domina Prime
​

The shuttle broke from hyperspace with a gentle shudder, the blue veil peeling away to reveal the Ark.

Even from orbit, it was unlike any vessel Aiden had ever seen. It didn't glide through the void so much as loom a cathedral suspended among the stars. Its armor plating curved in symmetrical arcs, luminous with faint runic etchings that pulsed like a heartbeat. A fleet surrounded it in reverent formation, smaller ships orbiting like disciples around their master.

Aiden stood at the viewport, hands clasped behind his back, the folds of his robe still faintly smelling of temple incense. He had read about Mandalorian constructs before warships designed for conquest, not contemplation but this one radiated stillness. The Force hummed through it, not in the wild, chaotic way of life, but like a deep, resonant note struck in unison with something far older.

He had come here at his own design, to learn more, expand his knowledge. Ignorance was not something the Jedi could afford, not them anyway. If this strange vessel, half shrine, half war-machine, offered even a glimpse into what drove them into what faith could forge such warriors then perhaps it was worth the risk.

When the shuttle descended into the hangar, he felt it: the living pulse of the Ark. The walls themselves seemed to breathe. Lights shifted with rhythm, not automation, and the air carried a scent of cold metal and burning oils. Aiden stepped down onto the landing platform, the sound of his boots echoing faintly.

Waiting for him was a procession armored figures whose helmets bore the twin visors of ancient Mand'alors. Between them stood one taller than the rest, draped in veiled cloth, their presence commanding even without the armor's weight.

Aiden bowed his head slightly. "Greetings." he said, his voice calm, respectful. "I thank you for granting me audience."

"Few Jedi have ever set foot here, Knight Porte. Fewer still have come seeking understanding rather than conquest."

"I've fought too many wars to believe ignorance makes us safer." Aiden said simply. "The more we see one another as ghosts, the more easily we forget that we both serve something greater."

It was then there was another that made their appearance.

 

[Domina Prime]

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASHEMY?

Ark of Ha'rangir

Aiden Porte ​

The monastery had long since fallen into its nocturnal rhythm when the whispers reached her. The Iron Citadel did not sleep, for its walls sang with the hum of reactors and the low, melodic chanting of priests echoing through cathedral halls. Every soul within its embrace moved under her shadow, every step, every breath accounted for. The Grand Overseer's senses were the citadel's veins; nothing entered the Ark's sanctum without her knowing.

When the magistrate approached her chamber, bowed low, hesitant, trembling—the Warpriest was already aware of what he would say. Still, she allowed the formality. She knelt before her crystal sword, the blade embedded in the altar before her like an offering to Ha'rangir Himself. The weapon's reflective surface shimmered with her image. Part woman, part weapon, half wrapped in light, half devoured by the void. The trance of prayer bound her still, lips moving soundlessly in a forgotten dialect, until the magistrate's voice pierced the sacred hum.

"Lady Prime...a Jedi has entered the city."

Her tail gave a sharp flick against the cold marble floor, an audible crack of irritation. The candles nearest her guttered under the sudden shift of air.

"A Jedi," she repeated, her tone carrying a strange mixture of amusement and disbelief. "On my Ark."
A sigh followed, low and drawn, heavy enough to echo. "Okey-dokey."

She rose, her towering frame unfolding like a creature shedding its stillness. The motion was fluid yet predatory. With deliberate care, she tore her gaze from the sword's mirror-surface, breaking the trance as though waking from a dream too long dreamt. Her hand reached for her mask, an ornate thing of burnished onyx, engraved with prayer-lines that gleamed faintly in the dim light. As it slid into place over her features, humanity bled away; what remained was divinity forged in metal and myth. She took up her military cap, the symbol of both command and ritual, setting it upon her head before departing the shrine.

The corridors of the monastery parted for her like waves before a ship's prow. Pilgrims and warriors alike stepped aside, bowing or averting their gaze. The murmurs followed in her wake, The Warpriest moves. The Primarch walks among us. The air itself seemed to bend around her presence. Authority could be performed, but this, this was belief made manifest.

The faithful could feel her coming.

When she reached the hangar, the symphony of machines and chants fused into a single living rhythm. The Ark's pulse beat through the walls, through the air, through her. And there, descending the ramp of a foreign vessel, was the Jedi.

Aiden Porte . His robes still bore the scent of incense, the faint shimmer of light trailing from his presence. A contrast to the iron solemnity of the Mandalorian halls. The magistrates flanking him stood with rigid reverence, caught between curiosity and unease. The Jedi's words came clear through the din of the hangar.

"I've fought too many wars to believe ignorance makes us safer. The more we see one another as ghosts, the more easily we forget that we both serve something greater."

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then, laughter. Rich, resonant, and utterly unexpected. It rolled from the Warpriest's chest like thunder breaking through the solemn hush. The gathered attendants flinched instinctively at the sound, as if the very walls took part in her mirth.

"He's right, you know!" she called out, her voice echoing against the vaulted hangar ceiling. "We are alike, you and I."

She stepped forward, each footfall a commandment. The crowd parted once more, and her full height came into view, armor etched with runes of devotion, its metallic surface catching the sacred firelight. Four arms unfolded as she approached, an almost ceremonial gesture that hovered somewhere between invitation and challenge.

"We are both children of faith and fury," she continued, her tone lowering, more intimate now. "Shaped by our gods, wandering the void in search of our next holy war."

The magistrates beside Aiden immediately lowered their heads in deference, the name of the Warpriest Prime whispered like a benediction.

Her helm tilted slightly, studying him, not as one studies a foe, but as a priestess studies a relic she cannot yet decipher.

"Tell me, handsome Jedi boy," she said at last, voice soft but coiled with amusement. "What brings you into the embrace of my city? Is it knowledge you seek?"

She paused, the faintest smirk audible beneath her mask. "Or am I to believe this is merely a...cultural exchange? Cause if so we're gonna need more ALE!"

 

[Aiden Porte]

Domina Prime ​

The laughter caught him off guard.

It wasn't mockery, but it carried the weight of a thousand campaigns, the sound of a warrior who had seen as much death as divinity. It filled the hangar and reverberated through the steel ribs of the Ark, until even the air seemed to tremble beneath its force.

Aiden stood still. The magistrates beside him bowed their heads, but he didn't. He felt the Force ripple in her presence, not within her but around, fierce, disciplined, but not cruel. There was purpose there, conviction honed sharp as any blade. His eyes followed her as she stepped forward through the parting crowd. Every movement she made was deliberate, measured devotion embodied.

"Knowledge. And I'm not that handsome" he answered, with a small smirk. "And perhaps a little understanding. Your people speak as if the binding soul of all warriors. The Jedi speak of the Force, the energy that unites all things. I thought, maybe, there's something to be learned in listening instead of fighting."

The Prime's visor caught the light, reflecting the twin fires of forge and starlight.

"And yet." Aiden continued, tone measured but not without warmth, "I'd be lying if I said curiosity wasn't part of it. A faith that burns within its steel. I wanted to see what kind of heart beats in such a place."

"As for the ale…" A brief pause, the hint of a grin. "I'd never turn down a chance to learn about that side of Mandalorian culture either."

 

[Domina Prime]

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASHEMY?

Ark of Ha'rangir

Aiden Porte​

Warpriest Prime's laughter faded into a low purr as her many eyes raked over the Jedi, drinking in every detail of him, the glint of steel beneath his silks, the disciplined stance that betrayed neither fear nor arrogance. It was strange, seeing a Jedi armored like a knight of old, his light tempered by something...practical. Mortal. She respected that. It was closer to her kind of faith, one written in scars rather than scriptures.

She began to circle him with deliberate grace, each step echoing off the hangar's cold iron. Her gaze lingered upon his blade, then on the faint shimmer of the Force that wrapped around him like a shroud. When she spoke, her voice was a melodic blend of amusement and command, sharp enough to draw blood but warm enough to invite it.

"Hmmm...Strong jawline. Weathered yet kept face, fine fashion..." A clawed hand drifted to his shoulder, tapping lightly against the fabric of his mantle. "Speak for yourself, Jedi. You're almost my type. Just need bigger biceps, and perhaps a few more scars, then you'd make fine eye candy."

Her teasing laugh carried across the chamber like chimes in a forge storm, loud and alive. Folding her four arms behind her back, she tilted her head toward the distant glow of the Iron Citadel's heart. The city that thrummed beneath them, alive with the industry of zealots and smith-priests.

"Jedi, Sith, witches, warlords… all of us chasing ghosts of the same god beneath different names. You speak of the Force, the current that binds all things. We call it the Flame. Ha'rangir's breath. The spark that devours and renews. You see harmony in its rhythm. We see trial. We see the truth of its cruelty and its mercy, they are the same act, seen from different ends of the blade~"

She stopped before him then, retrieving the Gjallerhorn from her hip. Its runes pulsed faintly as she peeled away her helm, revealing the strange, alien beauty of her face. Skin of ivory steel, eyes gleaming with molten azure light. She raised the horn to her lips, drinking deeply, her throat moving with the sound of thunder swallowed.

When she lowered it, a faint line of Tihaar ale stained her lips.

"Even though swords claim many names," she began, her tone softer now, almost reverent, "And their wielders lift them in valor or terror...they all serve one destiny. For those who live by the sword-" her gaze fixed on his lightsaber "-shall die by it."

She offered the Gjallerhorn to him with both hands. Its bone was carved from some colossal beast, its surface etched in ancient sigils that glowed faintly at his touch. Though she had drained it moments before, the horn began to fill again, the runes singing, liquid light rising to the brim.

"We can learn much by listening," she said, her expression unreadable now, calm as a temple flame. "But more by testing."

Her smile returned, fanged and knowing.

"For kith and kin, the latter is always preferred. The sword speaks truth to those who cannot hear it otherwise. And educating nonbelievers who see only madness and carnage in our faith is a heavy task~"

A pause, her tone dipped to a near whisper, intimate and dangerous.

"So tell me, Jedi...are you here to listen," she leaned close enough for him to feel her breath, warm and electric "or to be tested?"

 

[Aiden Porte]

Domina Prime
​

Aiden stood still as she circled him, her motion deliberate as a blade being drawn from its sheath. Her presence filled the space gravity and grace, the scent of forged metal and smoke following her like incense. He did not retreat. The Force moved through him, calm, deliberate, a river running beneath the molten current of her energy.

When her claw brushed his shoulder, he didn't flinch. His eyes flicked briefly toward the gesture, then back to hers. Her words were teasing, but her power was not in jest. He'd seen enough warriors like her to know that laughter could be as much a weapon as any sword.

"Bigger biceps." he said softly, a ghost of humor threading through his tone. "That's not what the Temple teaches, but… I'll keep it in mind."

He followed her gaze to the Citadel's heart, that strange and living furnace beneath the ship's bones. The Ark hummed with purpose, every pulse of its reactor echoing the breath of something ancient. Her words on the Flame stirred something in him not agreement, not dissent, but understanding. The way she spoke of fire as renewal and ruin… it wasn't so far from the Force's will. The Jedi spoke of balance. The Mandalorians, of trial. Perhaps they were two ways of surviving the same storm.

When she raised the Gjallerhorn, he watched in silence. The act had the cadence of ritual, and though he could not name the words, he felt the reverence behind them. When she drank, the ship seemed to exhale with her. Her unmasking was like revelation the gleam of her skin, the glow of her eyes, the faint sheen of heat radiating from her body. She was forged, not born. A creature of purpose.

The horn extended toward him. He hesitated only a heartbeat before reaching out. The runes flared beneath his touch, singing against his palm in a language the Force almost understood. He felt the liquid's energy before he saw it, heat and light swirling in defiance of physics.

His reflection stared back at him in the molten surface haloed in the Ark's light, framed by the endless stars.

A test, then.

He brought the horn to his lips and drank. The warmth struck through him like lightning burning, alive, not painful but revealing. For a moment, he saw flashes: battles long ended, armor shattered, temples burning, hands reaching for salvation and finding only fire. The Flame was no metaphor. It was memory, and something stirred within him. He closed his eyes just briefly as he felt the rise in his pulse and the heat radiate from his skin. He took a deep breath as he regained his composure just a few seconds later, he was in control.

When he lowered the horn, his voice came quiet, steady as meditation.

"I'm here for both, but truth rarely whispers to the patient alone. If the sword must speak, then I'll hear it too."

He met her gaze, unyielding, the Force gathering subtly around him like the calm before a storm.

"If this is your test." he said, "Then let it be one of understanding, not conquest. I've seen enough of that."