Private Worship Upon the Throne

[Jorryn Fordyce]

// Lady Jorryn Fordyce //
// Objective // Connect //
// Focus // // Domina Prime //

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Mandalorians...

A crude and warlike people, one that Jorryn Fordyce would have preferably avoided dealing with. In her past life the former Lord Inquisitor had often clashed with the Mandalorian Empire, being captured by them once upon a time.

Her mind tried to bury the thought, pressing it back as a period of weakness that would never overwhelm the silver-haired Sith again.

Yet, among this batch of Mandalorians, there lay one that caught the amber gaze of the witch. Dima Prime. There was no shortage of her achievements in the documents of the Sith Order, though some of it bordered on the unlikely. A war priest of some Mandalorian faith that Jorryn silently sorted away in her mind, passing the religion away as some warrior religion that she wanted no part of.

The priestess was amassing a following, that much was hard to deny. Whatever charisma commanded them was a tool that the Sith sought to exploit and tame, no matter what mouth the words fell from.

Dima would be a beast to wrestle and dominate like any other Mandalorian, no matter what her reputation. They were a simple people, existing simply to be pointed at the next campaign of violence.

So why not it be Jorryn's hand upon the leash?

As the Sith Order moved to a government where they fought for influence once again, the efficacy of such warriors would be invaluable to the Echani. That is why she ventured to the mobile fortress of the Mando'a, the Iron Citadel. The trip didn't take too long, and as the chanting of war priests rang her ears, Jorryn questioned if this venture may have been a bit foolish.

It was too late to regret her decision to add to her sphere of influence, and so she would step forward into the theatre of war, hoping to meet it's conductor before long and witness the weight of the woman that led them in concerto.

The Echani arrived no less resplendent, gold and black robes flowing away from her lithe figure, a feathered cloak falling off her shoulders. Black heels clattered down the ramp of her shuttle, and the robes revealing the red runes that lay upon the skin of the witch. Delicate gold trinkets fell away from large black horns, and similar jewellery decorated her arms delicately.

A small following of cloaked figures closely trailed their mistress, their simplicity only serving as a background for the radiance of Jorryn as she strut along the steel walkway. Patiently, the former Lord Inquisitor would be waited for a greeting, expecting a grand reception belonging to such a lady as herself.

 

[Domina Prime]

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

The Ark thrummed with divine industry.

The forges belched light like newborn suns, and the hymns of smiths rolled through the monastery's spires in a tide of devotion. Warpriest Prime moved among them like a living benediction, every bow, chant, and hammer strike a note in the symphony of her god's will.

She oversaw it all: the coliseums brimming with fresh prey, the devout bards weaving oaths into song, and the procession of warpriests arming for pilgrimage. The citadel was alive. Fed by faith, flame, and flesh.

And when her duties were seen to, Domina retreated to the Grand Theatre of the Hollowed Halls, a vaulted temple of art and violence, where the epics of Kith & kin were sung and the myths of Mandalore bled into living poetry. Here she lounged upon her throne of forged iron and bone, legs draped lazily over one armrest, back against the other, her massive frame bathed in the molten glow of the stage fires below.

The performance below faltered when a Magistrate of the Monastery approached, whispering softly into her ear.

A visitor.
A Sith.

Dima's many eyes shifted beneath her iron mask, narrowing. She raised a single clawed finger, the silent signal for the performers to cease. The hall dimmed. Only the faint crackle of flame and the pulse of sacred drums echoed in the distance.

The Warpriest didn't rise when Jorryn Fordyce was admitted.

She didn't need to.

Her presence alone filled the room with the weight of ceremony, and danger.

The Sith's arrival was nothing short of theatrical: black heels clattering upon the steel, robes of gold and shadow trailing behind her like the breath of some decadent storm. Her horns glimmered with delicate chains, her flesh marked by the red runes of her order. She looked every inch the sovereign serpent she believed herself to be.

Dima's helm tilted slightly, appraising, as the entourage reached the VIP dais that overlooked the theatre.

Her claws drew languidly down the edge of her dagger, filing them idly against Beskar sharpness, the sound shrill and deliberate.

"It is not often," she began, her voice a low, metallic purr that reverberated through the hall, "That one walks these hallowed halls with my name upon their lips."

She gestured lazily with her free hand, the motion echoing her indifference, and her amusement.

"Those who invoke Prime do so only ever for one thing."

The Warpriest's visor turned fully toward the Sith, the dark mirror reflecting the pale glimmer of Jorryn's form.

"Can you guess what it is?"

The silence that followed was thick and dangerous, like the pause before a predator strikes. Then Dima's tone shifted, melting into something smoother, almost playful.

"Come, come. Share a drink with me."

She rose now, slowly, unfolding from her throne like a divine monolith brought to motion. Her cape of purple whispered against the floor.

"Tell Prime..." she gestured toward a table already being set by her attendants with chalices carved from stormglass. "...what blade-shaped dreams pierce your heart."

She tilted her head, helm angling just enough for her voice to drip with faint mirth.

"You've come here for conquest, haven't you, Sith? Your people always do. But tell me-"

Her claws traced the rim of her goblet as she poured two measures of shimmering black ichor into it.

"Are you here to command the flame...or be consumed by it?"

 

[Jorryn Fordyce]

// Lady Jorryn Fordyce //
// Objective // Connect //
// Focus // // Domina Prime //

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The chorus that accepted the Sith's arrival wrapped tightly around her senses, skin rising as the singers sung praise to the Mandalorian gods and their chosen. It felt the arrival she should receive commonly, allowing herself to bask in the singing even if unintended for herself. Perhaps there was some benefit to religion after all.

Striding into the hall behind the priest, it was clear who all the praise was being thrust unto. A large figure, sitting idly upon a throne that carried with it the weight of war.

"Your name falls as sweetly upon my ears as it comes from my lips, Domina Prime." A small curtsy was offered to the matriarch of the Ark, not forgetting her manners, but also not low enough to be misconstrued as prostrating herself before the woman. "So sweetly do your feats caress my ear that I had to see them in person."

She raised herself slowly, amber eyes preceding the action. She observed the matriarch in her entirety, four arms delicately balancing a dagger along their fingertips. The behemoth laid upon her throne, either not cherishing the feature or believing it beneath her. It was amusing in the indifference, yet the worshippers surrounding her were no less enthralled.

"I take it you have seen my like before, looking to shackle you to their side?"

The Sith were a predictable, and Jorryn supposed in that way she and her ilk were alike. But she had no plans to chain this machine of war to her will, taming such chaos was an impractical and unnecessary solution. This was a time where sweet words carried more than any promise of credits or zeal.

"I promise that I do not come to force you under my wing, no such arrogance that I would be capable of it if that was what I wished." With a nod, the Echani slowly made her way to the table. Parting her dress to allow her to sit, she looked upon the mask of the Matriarch. "There lies no blade in my heart, the part that seeks to sever is my mind."

The Echani waited patiently as Domina poured their drinks, a black fluid that the former Lord Inquisitor had no experience with. As she poured, amber eyes shined fiercely against the Mandalorian's mask, reflecting against the violet lens. It was a shockingly graceful mask. As little as she thought about the Mandalorians, Jorryn could admit fine craftsmanship when she was it.

"It is no such simple thing as conquest I come before you for," She said as she leant upon her hand, allowing the woman before her to tower above her. "And as far as being consumed, I suppose that depends on how these negotiations go." Intimacy dripped from her black lips, wondering if they may catch the Mandalorian off guard.

"It is no surprise that the Sith Order may come to a boiling point soon, the Galactic Empire not the least of our problems." Jorryn's eyes remained fixated upon the mask in front of her, unyielding to the sheer force that sat across her. "I simply seek to provide you and your church with an offering, a feast for the flame that lies in your chest."

Legs folded upon one another as the Echani swirled the liquid in the goblet, attempting to glean what it could be.

"Soon enough, there may be some... strife in the Sith Order." The words came calmly, though trying to conceal what she could. "What I offer is a possibility to test your might against the strongest power in the galaxy. Some of them at any rate. How does the Matriarch of Mando'a think she may do in battle against such forces? A curiousness, nothing more. Nothing for now at least."

 

[Domina Prime]

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

Oh how Dima's ears fluttered along the sides of her head like butterfly wings when the Sith stranger let her name roll from her lips. Sweet as honey drawn from the bone. Her massive tail flickered and rattled in delight, the warpriest shifting lazily in her iron throne, chittering through rows of sharpened teeth as she reached up and peeled away her intricately forged mask.

The sight beneath was no less a sermon, five eyes, dilating and focusing with predatory amusement as the Sith spoke.

Jorryn Fordyce words were smooth...talk of freedom, of restraint, of not seeking to shackle the Prime. But Dima only smiled, slow and knowing. The blade in her hand sank into the throne's armrest with a ringing clang that sang through the chamber.

"Oh yes, many do try," she began, voice low and rumbling, as if spoken from the heart of a star. "Recruiting me to their causes. Trying to bend me to their will. But they never stop to ask themselves the simplest of questions..."

She spread her four arms, gesturing to her immense frame with mock grandeur. "Do I look like something that can be chained and tamed?"

The laughter that followed wasn't cruel, it was honest, primal, untamed.

They had been trying to leash her since the day she drew breath. The scientists of TITAN failed. The Mandalorians got the closest but also failed to get her in line. The jedi had tried, and even the gods themselves had learned better. Dima Prime could not be owned. She could only be worshiped.

And yet, this one. This pale flame of a Sith intrigued her. There was something serpentine beneath the honeyed words, something that made even the Warpriest pause.

The flirtation wasn't lost on her either.

When Jorr spoke of the Sith's coming fracture, of tributes and opportunities, Dima's tail coiled around the leg of the Sith's chair and dragged it closer until the Echani sat within the shadow of her throne.

"Donations to the monastery," she mused, voice curling like smoke. "Tribute to the Iron Empire. That's one way to earn the favor of my Kith & Kin."

Then, with a movement as casual as it was possessive, Dima stretched her long legs across Jorr's lap, tail swaying idly as one clawed hand threaded through the woman's silken white hair.

"Now you're speaking my language."

Her tone deepened. "You promise me a holy war?" Her eyes gleamed like burning moons. "Careful, little flame. To offer me unworthy flesh is worse than betrayal. If I am to descend into blood and battle again, it will be against prey worth the song."

She leaned closer, her breath metallic and sweet. "Give me a spectacle fit for the gods, and you'll not only have the ear of the Empire..."

Her claws tightened in Jorryns hair. "...you'll have the hand of Prime."

A wink. A smile with too many teeth. She reclined once more, drinking deep from her goblet before letting it shatter against the marble floor.

"I'll tell you what I'll do when your Sith rise to challenge me," she said, voice rising above the distant choir. "What I've always done."

A pause. A grin.

"Dominate."

She gestured lazily, and the choir obeyed, their voices swelling into a thunderous chant that made the air itself tremble.

"Too many of your kin have gone soft. Their 'duels' are dances, their blades, toys. If they want to play with Prime..." she chuckled darkly, "they better show me something I haven't already seen."

As the music rose, her voice fell into a whisper that still cut through the air like lightning.

"They think they've heard the song of war before."

Her teeth flashed.

"They haven't heard nothing yet."

 

[Jorryn Fordyce]

// Lady Jorryn Fordyce //
// Objective // Connect //
// Focus // // Domina Prime //

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Jorryn leaned forward as the Prime spoke, not letting her gaze upon the form of the Matriarch to be misconstrued as anything less than admiration of her form. In a past life, Jorryn may have been uncaring of such a difference from her own form. But in this new one, all she saw was the boundless potential of the woman before her.

She could sense the blood coursing through the violet woman's body, powering each and every muscle she held. There was potential in the woman's form, one that Jorryn mentally noted as she continued.

"You look like many things, Domina," Amber eyes flashed back up to the mask across from her. "But a submissive servant is not one of them. I won't make that mistake."

As the tail slowly coiled around the Echani's bare leg, the Sith didn't flinch as she was touched. Yet even as composed as she was, a blush fell across her cheeks as the matriarch pulled her to her side. Her hands rest upon Dima's legs as she threw them upon Jorryn's lap, perhaps a bit far up for a diplomat, and leant in close as Domina twirled clawed fingers through her hair.

The intimacy was allowed to breathe, even if the Mandalorian didn't have the intention of provoking Jorryn like this it seemed the Domina was open to other forms of negotiation.

"I make no such promises of strength, Domina, my abilities lie in my magics and my mind."

Softly pushing away the Mandalorians legs, the witch cared little for the eyes that lingered upon her as she raised from her seat and instead sat in the lap of the priestess.

"I have no doubt that if the time came, you and your gods could dominate the Sith that oppose you." A hand rest upon the cheek of the Mandalorian, thumb stroking the skin just below her mandible as she leant in. "Though perhaps I'll ask for a demonstration first."

The Echani pulled back, a devilish grin parting her black lips as she spoke.

"What I seek from you, Domina, is simply a favour." Amber eyes peered into the many violets orbs that stained the woman's face. "That when such a war comes, that the wrath of the Empire is aimed towards my enemies instead of me."

"And when the Sith's body craves to be commanded, and their ears call out for your drums of war, I simply ask that I be allowed to collect the ashes."

 

[Domina Prime]

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

Jorryn Fordyce ​

The low, resonant hum of the chamber deepened as Domina's laughter poured from her like molten silver. Rich, dark, and heavy with amusement. The glow from the pyre-lamps kissed against her gilded Beskar, casting hellish refractions across the crimson silk that spilled around the both of them. "Prime is a submissive servant only the one true god~"

"Ahh, a favor..." she purred, claws dragging idly across Jorryn's waist, then up the curve of her ribs until one rested beneath her chin, lifting it gently. "The currency of witches and warlords alike."

Her tail coiled tighter, the segmented plating of it whispering against the Echani's thigh. "And yet," she murmured, voice a melodic growl, "you come to me not as a petitioner...but as one who dares to negotiate with a god's instrument."

Domina leaned forward then, the glow of her scales reflecting in Jorryn's golden eyes. Beneath it, the faintest chitters of her mandibles punctuated the intimacy. "I can smell your resolve," she said softly, inhaling through sharp fangs. "Salted, sweet. You smell divine, can't wait to see how you taste~"

Her upper set of hands framed the Sith's face; the lower drifted lazily down her sides until they met again at her hips, holding her still. "You would do well to remember, submission is not a thing I inspire. Devotion, perhaps. Reverence, maybe. But never submission."

Her claws traced the line of Jorryn's neck, one talon following the pulsing vein. "If you crave demonstration..." she whispered, letting the words crawl across her skin like fire, "Then name your moon, your hour, and your witness. I shall bring you revelation~"

Then, softer, almost tenderly she added, "And when that day comes, when my drums awaken the void and your Enemies tremble, you shall have your ashes, little witch. I promise you that."

Domina's mandibles parted in a sharp smile as she leaned back, letting her claws slip away one by one. "But for now," she breathed, gaze lowering over her lap where Jorryn still sat, "let us not rush to war, mm? The night is long... and your flesh feels far too soft to waste on politics."