Location: Archenwood City, Arbra
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The shuttled landed with a jarring thud, the flaxen haired witch at the controls huffing at her never-quite-smooth landings. Learning to pilot a star craft was certainly out of necessity, and not desire. Dispara had, in fact, been a bit distracted by the nature of the city she had just flown over. It was a far cry from both the grimy metropolitan hives of some cities and the gleaming towers of others. It was...green.
The perspective she was granted as she followed the flight path to the port revealed a large city that didn't sit in the landscape around it. It was as if the buildings rose from it, not plopped down on top of it. It was pleasant and inviting. Which gave her a small measure of ease, given the nature of her visit.
The Jarvashquiine shaman needed mentored. She had potential, she was told. She had a good handle on many of her magicks, mostly drawn from the Dark. But Dispara was backwards, a bit crude and socially inept, not to mention undisciplined and mischievous. She might have been a diamond, but to fit into the crown of the Solanaceae and the Obsidian Knights, she would need the dirt brushed away and some corners knocked off of her.
Enter Vanir Eris.
Dispara didn't know what to think of the appointment of her mentor by the Nightmother. Eris was no mere Knight or Witch, he was a Viceroy of an entire planet. Either it was an indication of their faith in her potential, or a lack of faith in her ability to learn at the hands of someone lesser. Either way, she had thrown her lot in with the Confederacy and the orders that served it. And she was intent to receive what was promised for her service...revelation and deeper knowledge. By this came power.
Cycling down the Mu-class craft, Dispara paused for a moment, looking out of the cockpit. She took a deep breath. She had no teacher since Shalterria. Dispara wondered how this Vanir would compare to the shaman mother. The newcomer was admittedly nervous, but she sure as hell was not going to show it.
Dispara exited the shuttle. She wore her more familiar shaman robes, garments of course fabric, fur and elements of fiber armor. A crude disc of ivory hung around her neck by a leather thong, the image of a black snake etched into its surface. Dispara had packed the initiate robes given her at the Academy, intending to change into them before she met the Viceroy. She did not wear her sword, but her small blaster was strapped to her hip and the ever-present primitive knife hidden upon her.
At the foot of her landing ramp, the young witch paused as a docking officer approached. She provided her credentials on a datasheet rolled up within her robes. The thin translucent film flickered as it was presented to the man.