Step Into my Parlor

[Luidaeg Phrikborne]

. : Midvinter : .​

. : Some Mountain Top : .​

Pale eyes observed the winds that blew wildly through the mountains of this… Planet. Such an odd word to use, with the weight of something that to her ears sounded as though there ought to be a precious few of it. Yet it was months ago that she learned that there were as many of these planets as there were blade of grass upon a meadow. The word chosen for it was… Disappointing.

Carefully, her hands, their skin drying and crackling in response to the frozen air that tried to caress them, opened the little ratio package. Food. Nourishment. There was no hunting in the great vastness of space. If she wanted to eat, she had to purchase it in advance, and ensure that she had sufficient amount of it for the length of her trip or she would starve. She had starved, at first, when she had not known any better.

Her Matriarch had said that the galaxy offered much opportunity. She had not said that it offered even more danger. Ways to die were numerous there, and everything to the petite blonde was new and strange.

But she would learn. And she would adapt.

For she was not the only one who had set out upon a task. Two more Coven Leaders had been sent with her, each pointing themselves to another point of the map. Their mission was simple. Study the galaxy. Learn its strengths and weaknesses. And find a way for the Ironborne Witches to conquer it.

Luidaeg knew she would not be expected back on Niri for half a decade, perhaps even more. She also knew it was better to die in this vastness than to let her rivals win and make it home before her. To be forgotten was less of a horrible fate than being remembered as a failure. There was no compassion among her people, no gentleness.

And she was bred to be as hard as any of them. More so, even, for she was in the direct race to become a Matriarch herself when the time was right.

Luidaeg had chosen the furthest most corner of the map that still had life on it. To travel far and slowly come closer, that had been her strategy at first, before she realized the numerous errors she had made. But she had adapted, stopping on a planet whose name she did not know, leaving a few butchered families behind her as she feasted upon their food units. The feeling of their blood running down her phrik claws was the closest thing she had to feeling like herself since leaving Niri, and she knew she would be bathing in death and pain again shortly, for wherever she went, there would be no denying as to who and what she was.

And now here… This planet, she knew, was called Midvinter. And there were villages and cities upon it, though it appeared she had landed her space carriage far away from any of them. It was now that she searched, then, for prey – because Witch or not, right planet or not, she still had to fill her belly with water and food.

Once that was taken care of… She would resume her journey.

 

[Imran Feral]

Midvinter | Forrest | Late Morning​

​

The forrest was thin. The trees were skinny and did little to hide the prey from the predator. She had given a good chase, sure. What was it? An hour? Two? Long enough for the exhaustion to set in, long enough for the legs to grow tight and start aching. On Midvinter, a planet always crossed with an icy chill, every breath was a natural pain. For the witch, Khalara, each deep breath came with the price of swallowing the icy winds. Her crimson cloak was tathered. It had come into one too many run ins with the sharpened branches that stuck out from the forrest's trees.

Khalara paused, gathering herself as she pressed her back against a tree. She just needed a moment. Just a few minutes to catch her breath and gather her magick, then she could deal with the man who had hunted her. She'd arrived on Midvinter with hopes of founding a new cult in her name, growing the influence of the Dathomiri witches and bringing more power to their fold. However, she had not accounted on one thing.

He stood on a branch directly above her. The cloak he wore was made from the skin of a Maalraas, so it was no wonder she had not sensed him yet. Imran's face was a sweet mixture of anger and happiness. So much so it gave him a wild look in his eyes, as if he was physically drinking in the witches' exhaustion. He bit the bottom of his lip. Gods he was ready to kill her. How would he do it this time? Skin her? Cut her head off? Feed her to some superfluous beast that was found on the planet?

Screw it.

He leapt off the branch, falling down towards the woman. In his right hand was a crude weapon. A tomahawk carved from bone and wood. It was small and held no flash, but it was plenty deadly. The crimson streak that flew through the air when he fell upon her was sweet, but not as sweet as the scream that she let out when the blade pierced her pale skin. "There it is!" He yelled out, excitement overtaking him as he spun on his heel. The back of his tomahawk hooked around the woman's leg as he pulled with all his strength. Before she knew it she was thrown onto her wounded back, letting out another crazed shriek.

"That's the sound they made when you burned them!" He yelled again, watching as the woman attempted to make some type of gesture with her left hand. "No, no, no." He chided, as he swept the tomahawk threw the air, severing her hand. It fell back onto the woman's chest, quickly followed by Imran's knee. His weight crushed into her chest and there was the satisfying snaps of her ribs under his knee. "Make it again! I want to hear you kriffing scream, just like they did!"

"What, you don't remember?" He asked her, a sincere disappointment in his voice as he looked down to the woman. Her eyes were blinking with pain and she was letting out a number of screeching cries. "No, that's not it!" He yelled, anger filling him tone as he grabbed the woman by the throat. "Scream! Scream Scream!" He yelled over and over again, this time he did not let his blade slice into her, no that was far too fast a death for this witch. Instead he slammed the pommel of his tomahawk into her face. Again and again....and again....and again. After a few minutes of the bashing, her face was bloodied and her features were all but destroyed. Blood leaked out of her eyes and nose and she could no longer scream, only whimper as her body went into shock. Imran stood over her, his breathing heavy and labored as he looked down at her. He leaned down, grabbing the woman's hand off of the ground. One of the fingers had a small, bone crafted ring on it to signify the tribe the woman came from. Still breathing heavy, Imran pulled the ring from the woman's finger and leaned forward. He turned and craned his neck so he could hear the woman's whimpers. They were growing even more quieter.

"You're not gonna scream for me, huh?" He asked, before tucking the ring into a pouch on his waist. "Fine." He exhaled, before grabbing the woman's hand and leaning forward once again. He took the severed hand and did what he could to cram the abomination into the woman's mouth. He continued to stuff the hand in, even over the woman's gasps and heaves for air. After he had fit all he could inside, he clamped his hand over what remained of her nose.

There were a few minutes of convulsions and shimmers from the body as he sat on it. It didn't last long, and in the next few moments the body fell still. Imran exhaled a sigh of relief before taking his hand off the witch's face. "Bye." He said simply, before spitting at the woman's face and pushing himself to his feet.

[member="Luidaeg Phrikborne"]

 

[Luidaeg Phrikborne]

She could feel the hunger gnawing on her insides. Like the metal that sometimes covered her claws and teeth, it scratched, threatening to draw blood from her organs. A Metalborne Witch could survive hunger, but could not thrive while hungry. Her main hope was that she would find at least some nourishment on this too cold of a planet before she ceased to be able to properly think. Once her thoughts became as fog, she knew, it would mean her end was near, and survival would depend on others. Not in over fifty years had she had to depend on anyone but herself. This new galaxy was not sufficient of a reason to begin now.

Her feet dragged through the snow, and for once she was glad that she had taken the advice of her Second and Third and brought good boots with her. They would not keep her for days or weeks in a weather such as this, not when there was so much walking she had to do, but they would give her at least a few hours – enough to find something, eat it, and return to her ship. Perhaps, even, if she could find prey with thick leather or fur, she could add an additional layer to her boots as well as her blood red cloak to keep the warmth in.

It felt as though a life time had passed before she finally caught it; cold, starving, and now thirsty as well, the initial prickling sensation she'd felt beneath her skin, she'd first dismissed as hunger hallucinations. But no, she was not imagining this; a man.

Of course, men were not always the best choice. On Niri, many of them had grown to suspect young and pretty women, often believing that their pleas for help were a trap. Naturally, they were right. Unless their teeth or claws were out, there was no way to know if a woman was of the Metal Borne or not, and many of their witches had chosen deception as a means of luring unsuspecting men to do their bidding. But this was not Niri. This was a place that had never heard of the Metal Borne, had not had the proper chance to undergo the required evolution to develop a healthy wariness of them.

Which meant that now…

Putting the most innocent of expressions on her face, Luidaeg marched towards the source of the sound, only to come to an abrupt stop when the scene was revealed to her; the man, above the woman, her body dead and her severed hand inside her mouth.

Trained with ruthless efficiency, there was no response on the little blonde's face other than that of genuine shock and horror as she stared at the scene. Her eyes darted from the hand, to the man, to the hand, to the man, widening ever so slightly. People had three possible reactions when met with dire situations; they could fight, which meant that she would have to charge this man of whom she knew nothing, they could flight, which meant that she would have to run, but right now she was even willing to taste the flesh of that dead women with the hand in her mouth if it meant food, or she could freeze.

Like a fawn in headlights, Luidaeg's body did not move save for the faintest motion required to show that she was breathing hard. It wasn't even entirely an act.

And of course, there was the last touch.

When facing men, her Matriarch had so often told her, until you know what you want from them, it is best to play stupid. When she'd been younger, she had tried to go against that advice so many times. It often slapped her right back in the face, up until the one time that she had faced a man sent to her by the Matriarch herself. She had killed him, which had earned her the ire of the woman, for that had not been the goal or the instructions.

"Did…" she pretended to stammer, her voice so innocent, so angelic, like the smallest bell of a belt, "Did you see what did that to that poor woman?" her eyes almost filled with tears, "Is the monster that did that still about?"

@Imran Feral

 

[Imran Feral]

He'd been working on ripping off a piece of the Witches' cloak when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Immediately Imran pulled his tomahawk back into his hand, ready to throw it at anyone thinking they were smart enough to get the jump on him. He was almost immediately disarmed by the woman he saw. She was small, petite, and had a look about her that was unlike any Imran had ever seen. Even if he did not see her as a threat....he was still wary of the woman. He kept his tomahawk even in his hands, before finally ripping off a piece of the woman's cloak. "Yea, I saw it." He muttered, wiping the cloth over his blood smeared face. All he succeeded in doing was smearing the crimson liquid over his features.

"I did it." He told her, before looking to her with an almost puzzled expression. She was a woman, that was easy to tell, but she was nothing like the women on Dathomir. Her skin looked soft and vibrant, while the Dathomiri women's was pale as a ghost. The man looked to the woman, still slightly confused, but he didn't say anything. No, he wasn't finished yet. He walked back over to the witch, kicking the side of her head violently while yelling out in anger. Once he had finished, he produced a small vial from his waist band. The vial had a thick, green powdery substance within. He started to pepper the woman's body in the powder while keeping his eyes peeled on the woman who had arrived. Her voice...he liked listening to it. It wasn't anything like the Nightsisters he was used to, what was she?

"Go away." He asked, almost with a naive tone about him. He put the vial back into his pouch and pulled out a piece of flint and steel. With a few strikes of the stone against the rough metal, he made a flurry of sparks. They rained down on the body and immediately caught the powder aflame.

Green flames twisted and exploded out, covering the whole area in a their hue. Imran turned his head from the light, yet still his eyes remained firmly locked on the woman before him. "What are you doing out here?" He asked. Not that he was in much of a position to ask, he was no more familiar with the open galaxy than most others. It had been a miracle he was able to follow this woman to Midvinter, how he would get the hell off of this planet was yet to be seen.

[member="Luidaeg Phrikborne"]

 

[Luidaeg Phrikborne]

She took half a step back as the man pulled his weapon. There was no question regarding his intent to use it; Luidaeg knew that if she miscalculated but a single step, it might as well be her hand that would be stuffed into her own mouth. Many things about her were cold and calculated, but that single step… That was genuine. Her teeth and claws would help her defend herself, but she did not know if she had the strength to properly use them against a mad man in her current situation. No. She knew that this was an event in which she could only rely on her brain and wits. The moment either of those failed her, she would surely perish. When he confessed that he had done it, Luidaeg wrapped her crimson cloak tighter about her body, her shivering not an act either.

Her eyes remaining wide, they followed his motions as he produced a vial with some powder that he used on the woman's body. Did that mean that her body would become inedible? Had he removed it from the cycle of nature? When the predators and carrions came, would they not be able to feast upon the remains of her flesh? She wished to ask all of this and more of him – but she knew she could not. Not yet. He bade that she go away, yet she did not move. Too cold, too frightened, as far as she would let him understand, but she knew he would not throw the weapon at her for merely standing there. Inside her head, she counted slowly from ten.

Ten, nine, eight… There came the fire, the heat. How she longed to rush forward to stand by it as the body burned, indeed stealing the chance for food from any who might have feasted on it. A disgusting waste. Yet the flames… They were green. She had seen such before, of course. Niri might have been the only planet she'd lived on, but she was no ignorant fool. Green flames were often much hotter than yellow, and required a special substance to become as such. Her Fourth knew how to produce them with her magic, a gift that had Luidaeg realize that she would climb to Third or perhaps even Second before the decade was up. There was still time. The Metal Bornes lived to five hundred and some even beyond than that. What was a mere decade in a scope of that grandeur?

Seven, six, five… There. He asked her a question. Her educated guess had been correct; there would be no throwing of his weapon, not while she still stood there like a frightened and freezing gazelle.

Luidaeg blinked, and swallowed, as though it had taken a handful of moments for her to realize what he had been asking. "My ship has malfunctioned," she said, still stammering, "Something in the wall of my cargo deck short… Shortcuiruit…" she hoped she was pronouncing the word right. At least she did not look like someone who was meant to know the technical details of such things, "And my food rations have all burned. I was hoping to find a shop and make a purchase but I've gotten entirely lost, and it's so cold here…"

Moving as though she was collecting herself, the woman forced a smile that seemed nervous and forced upon her face. "I am Luidaeg," she introduced herself, "I am sincerely sorry if I have somehow disturbed your... Ritual?"


[member="Imran Feral "].

 

[Imran Feral]

The flames that twisted and writhed around the dead Witches' body were warm. Imran grunted as he looked to the mysterious woman with an unsure expression. Something about this woman. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She made him uncomfortable, hellishly so. He leaned his back against a tree, lowering himself to the ground as he kept his eyes fastened on her. He was only a few meters from the body, so he was still able to savor its heat.

The woman explained her situation, she had come to this planet on one of those starships. Imran had as well, however he had no clue of how to pilot them. Instead he had stowed away on a cargo shuttle that was rumored to be going to Midvinter. It had taken him weeks to arrive on this planet and a few more days after that to find this witch. He glanced over at the burning carcass, before glaring at it angrily. He spit out at it again, before looking back to the woman. She gave her name. Luidaeg. He didn't care to give his.

In fact, it seemed as if he was finished speaking, until the woman referred to his slaughter of the witch as a ritual. "It wasn't a ritual. I killed her and burned her body. Not a ritual, just payback."

He huffed, sliding the edge of his tomahawk against the grass below him, wiping some of the blood into the ground. "She's the third one I've killed and I'm gonna kill a lot more of them too, for what they did." The man dug his free hand into his pocket, pulling out a small leather pouch. The jerky within the pouch was fresh and had a heavy peppery smell to it. He bit into the jerky, before looking to the woman again. "Hungry?" He asked, holding out the half eaten piece of jerky to the woman.

 

[Luidaeg Phrikborne]

She gazed longingly at the flames that rose from the woman's carcass. Under any other circumstances, she would have stood much closer, enjoying the warmth and protection they offered from the biting cold. The spirit that had resided within the woman was gone now; the flesh that remained was only there for use. Whether that use would be by them or by the maggots that would eat her rotting corpse, it did not matter. And as it did not matter, the best outcome would have been that she would've used it. Yet, it was too soon to step closer to the man. One wrong move and she would surely scare him away, or worse.

He did not give her his name. Very well. For now, Luidaeg decided, she would not force it out of him. Silently, she listened as he explained that it was payback, and not a ritual. She wished she had the freedom to smile in that moment. Already she could guess that the other two he had killed before that, had died similarly. Rituals need not hold special meaning; the man killed them, powdered the, and set them afire. Why? There had to be a hidden meaning behind it, a purpose. Most would not bother going to such lengths to dispose of an enemy.

Still standing in her place, the smell of the meat with the pepper hit her nose a moment before he unveiled it. The hunger was all plain to see on her delicate features; there was no reason to hide or disguise it. She was hungry. The man took his first bite and Luidaeg was ready. She could feel the tingling beneath her nails and within her gums, that tingling that let her know her body was ready. She could, in a matter of seconds, have her phrik teeth and claws out. She relished in the thought of pouncing him with them, ripping half his neck out, taking the meat for herself and satisfying herself upon it as the temperature of the man's blood warmed her up.

And then he offered it to her.

She moved, faster than a human would have. Very fast. Her tiny hands grabbing the piece of meat, stuffing it into her face as herknees sunk into the snow, her entire body broadcasting docility and gratefulness. The phrik nails and teeth remained back; there was no need to bring them out now, not when food was offered. After the first few bites she looked to him from her place upon the snow and wondered whether or not he knew how close he had been to being brutally undone by her. How close he had been to joining the woman he had killed moments ago.

Only when she had swallowed the final piece of meat did she rise, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and having the sense to make it look as though this for some reason slightly embarrassed her. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice sounding so awfully fragile. By sheer willpower did not she not look to his pouch to make it look as though she was considering whether or not he had more of it to offer. She could devour at least three more of these before feeling true satiation.

But no. She had to keep appearances up. Had to not break the mask that she had so carefully adorned. "Do you know where the nearest village is?" Luidaeg asked, "Or anywhere that could have provisions to sell?" Looking around at the vast background of snow and mountains. There was nothing nearby, that, she knew for certain. And then, pretending to suddenly remember the burning corpse, she glanced at it and made a tiny jump backwards, as though she wished to put more distance between it and herself, and looked to the man again, her eyes still wide and full of uncertainty.

[member="Imran Feral "].

 

[Imran Feral]

The moment the woman before him moved, his grip on his tomahawk tightened. It was practically an involuntary wince, but he was quick to catch it. She took the meat from his hand and ate it hungrily. He watched her, he was always watching her. Even when he took the water skin from his waist and drank from it. The liquid that flowed into his lips was a dim shade of crimson. He felt his muscles tighten and pulsate as his stamina was slowly restoring itself. The mixture has a foul taste but it brought him a burst of strength and energy when he was growing tired. He placed the cork back in the skin, looking to the woman carefully.

What was it about her? Why did she set him on edge. He figured it was because she was a woman. Growing up on Dathomir, all of the women who he had been exposed to were frightfully horrid creatures. Not in appearance, necessarily but they had always treated the men as if they were utter garbage. They had deep, condemning gazes which could Pierce through stone. Even when they mated with the men, it was with a certain disdain. No, Luidaeg didn't remind him of those women. In fact, all he could compare her to was the only non-Dathomiri woman he had ever known. His chest grew tight and he immediately discarded the thought. Now he pushed himself to a knee, glancing over to the burning body once again.

The flames did not subside, nor would they. They would continue to burn until the body itself was consumed whole. She would burn for days before not even the bone was left. The thought of this made Imran smile.

His smile was broken when the woman began to speak again. He didn't answer her at first, instead he paused to think. There had been a large village a few miles east of where they were. That was where he'd originally landed when he arrived on the planet. He stood up, pointing a finger back east. "That way." He said, with a tilt of his head. "It's not far, maybe a few miles." He explained.

With that, Imran huffed, stepping back from the woman. He would not turn his back on her, nor would he let her watch him leave. He'd rather watch her walk off. His arms crossed over his chest as he looked to her silently.

 

[Luidaeg Phrikborne]

Luidaeg cast her sight to the east, her eyes narrowing. A few more miles in the cold and in the snow. The idea was not quite welcome, though it seemed she would have little choice in the matter. Whether he would be joining her or not, whether she decided to head back to her ship or not, a trek through the frosty weather would be entirely unavoidable.

Slow. That was what she was. Too damned slow. Her rivals had by now probably covered an entire planet if not more, and it was her dumb luck that had her somewhat stranded on this sphere of snow and ice, her phrik claws not having graced the neck of a single person thus. Her Matriarch would call her a disappointment and deliver the nine; three punches to the face, three to the ribs, and three to the stomach. Three in the name of the Crone, three in the name of the Mother, and three in the name of the Maiden.

But no. She could not think such thoughts. She could not think defeat. Let her rivals conquer their first planet first; let them believe they had the grasp of the galaxy and return home soon, basking in fake glory. When she chose to come back, it would be with the rest of the galaxy at her heel, ripe to do her bidding. She would bring about a new era for the Metal Borne Witches, and the snow on Midvinter would not keep her from manifesting her very destiny.

Pride swelled in her chest and she took a deep breath, wrapping her red cloak tighter against her body, looking almost like a giant tear of blood against the frosty background.

"Thank you," she said with a self-assured nod to the man. It was clear from his body language that he would not be coming. The fool. But it was of no matter. She would not slaughter him now for no reason, not when she still did not exactly know what he powder was that he carried in his pouch, and when she was no longer as starving as she had been moments earlier.

And perhaps… Luidaeg now smiled to him, giving him a truly innocent smile that only a child ought to be able to conjure on their features. "Safe roads and open skies," she blessed him with the courtesy blessing of her people, "Should I ever meet you again, I shall owe you a meal," she nodded again, "flesh for flesh and drop for drop."

With that, she began to walk in the direction he had pointed her towards.

Ten, nine, eight, seven…

[member="Imran Feral "].

 

[Imran Feral]

The Dathomirian nodded his head at the woman's thanks. When she smiled at him, he merely turned his eyes as if something else was occupying his thoughts. What was it about this woman? He said nothing when she turned away, yet he found himself watching her. She walked for a few steps before the man slid the handle to his tomahawk into his waistband. His hand dipped into his pocket, pulling another of the jerky strips out and biting into it.

He growled.

The man stepped forward, making his way towards the woman. She seemed like such an incapable thing, to the point where even he was not able to ignore it. The terrain was even and in only a moment he had caught up to her. "This way." He said, leading past her and through the Forest. He glanced back to her, but otherwise said nothing. Instead he ran a hand over his brownish hair, sweeping some of the sweat that he had worked up chasing the Nightsister.

The path through the forest wasn't a long one, however he felt as if it would be a long walk regardless. After a while, the two passed by a tree that was all too familiar. He reached past the tree, to the bone crafted spear that had laid against it. This had been the very path he'd taken to hunt the Nightsister, and he'd left his spear behind when he drew his tomahawk. The spear's staff was slick and we'll crafted. Although the bone tip was crudely fastened, it had been sharpened to razor sharpness. He pulled his tomahawk from his waist, slamming the blade into the side of the staff. With that, a third notch was formed on the staff, marking the third kill that he had made for his tribe.

 

[Luidaeg Phrikborne]

The smile upon her face this time was small, too small to be seen unless he would directly look at her face.

"How will Luidaeg make it on her own in outer space?"

"She will use her wits and mind, her strength and her cunning, and all that makes her a Metal Borne Witch so that we may thrive."

"But how do people behave outside of Niri?"

"I do not know how the women behave, little Witchling. But the men… Men are men, anywhere. A man from the land of Darthold in the North is at heart the same as a man from the Spider Desert in the south. There is no reason to think that this would be different on another world. And wherever men may be, a Metal Borne Witch can handle herself."

She remembered that short conversation, a mere night before she'd departed from Niri. While she would have never shared it with any of her coven, she'd had the same thoughts too. But whereas her Second had been so certain that men were men wherever she went, Luidaeg, at the time, had not been so sure. Yet now, with this man, using old and tried tricks she'd used dozens of times on men before, she was beginning to believe that her Second had been right after all.

Rejoined with the man now, she lifted her hood to her head, to protect her ears from the biting winds. Their walk was a silent one, disturbed only by the sound of boots crunching against snow and road. It was only when she saw the spear that she felt any will to speak.

"You would leave such a beautiful weapon in the open, for any and all to claim?" her voice giving her slight confusion away. There was no play in her question, no game of pretend, "What have the woman and her ilk done, to earn the respect of your spear receiving a notch in the memory of their death?"

[member="Imran Feral "].

 

[Imran Feral]

After the notch had been set, Imran set the tomahawk back on his waist. His eyes absorbed the terrain. This planet was far different from his home. Dathomir was arid and dusty, while Midvinter was cold and held life that the Dathomirian had never seen before. The cloak he wore was thick and gave him some shelter from the cold, but not much. The trees were thin and did little to hide the terrain, however they also kept the two out in the open. When the woman spoke of his spear, he glanced up at it before grunting. "I didn't leave it for long. It's hard for me to balance on these branches with the spear." He pointed up to a nearby branch, the one he had climbed into the tree on.

Luidaeg asked another question and this time, Imran glanced back at her, his eyes showing shallow wisps of anger. The flame in his brown eyes soon died, as he realized there was no reason for her to know just who he was or why he hunted these women. Imran didn't understand the galaxy at large, he'd never experienced much outside of Dathomir and now Midvinter. He turned away from the woman, making his way back through the forest.

"I'm from a planet called Dathomir." He began, although for a good while after that he did not say anything further. They walked for a few moments, and after an exhale and a glance back at the woman, he spoke again.

"They murdered my tribe." When he finally spoke, there was a weight on his words that showed the hatred that filled the man's heart. "So I'm going to kill them, all of them. Just how they burned the bodies of my people, I will kill them all and burn their bodies." While he spoke, his hand tightened around the staff of his spear. There was something about this woman. The way she had shied at violence, but spoke of weapons and blood as if she knew the dark ways. Again the hairs on the back of his neck sat up. He stopped walking, gazing back at the woman for a moment, peering at her searchingly.

He said nothing. His expression did not change. He merely turned back to the path he was walking on and continued on.

 

[Luidaeg Phrikborne]

She saw the anger in his eyes. Once again she assumed the role of the fawn, freezing in her place until that anger fizzled and disappeared. It was a constant game, between the two of them; where she attempted to control the reigns, yet constantly had to appear as the demure and reactive one. It made any situation hard to control. Yet among the Metal Borne Witches, to not know how to do it… It spelled an early death, more often than not. Some of those who could not rallied to those who could. In her own coven, Luidaeg had two such witches; her Twelfth and her Thirtieth. They had more to offer than combat prowess, and the strength they added to her coven were worth the price. They were protected under the Phrikborne politics as Luidaeg announced that they were hers. But beyond that, they were on their own.

Dathomir. Almost, so closely, did she ask him to repeat the name of the planet. But no. Luidaeg held her tongue, glancing at herself with curiosity. She had felt it, when he uttered that name. Felt the prickling beneath her skin, the burning of where her claws and teeth were. It was a sign, a sign from the Mother herself, that this was a place of importance. She had to know more – needed to know more. But there was no way to ask without arousing more suspicion.

"Women killed your tribe?" she asked, and blinked in surprise that carefully concealed what she truly thought, "All of it?" Yes… Women, on Dathomir, slaying entire tribes. The prickle of her skin and the heat of her phrik had once again nudged her onto the correct road. Even if they were not witches, they were still powerful women. At the baseline, women were weaker than men, their biology leaving little room for more than scarce few individuals to gain a physical upper hand. It was but part of why the Metal Borne killed the males – if they were granted permission to grow and live among them as equals, that equality would soon vanquish and the females would be subdued. And that would simply not do. Neither the Crone, the Mother, or the Maid, would step aside for men. It was territory that belonged to women, and women alone. All those who sought to change that would die terrible deaths.

"We have such women, where I am from," she said in a hushed voice as they continued to walk, "We fear them terribly. Parents tell tales of them to their children at night, to keep them in proper order. When they do not slaughter men, they seek young women to add to their ranks. It is said that they dance naked beneath the light of the moon and breed with demons too terrible to exist on our world for long."

She utterly adored the tales. Many of them had been told to her when she had pretended to be a proper lady. When she thought there was room in her heart for a husband and a child, for the love of a family and running of the mansion. She had been wrong then. But the stories… They stuck with her.

"When I was a child, my father locked me up in the tower, for fear that if those women knew of my existence, they would covet me," Luidaeg resumed, "I was not permitted to leave until I was old enough. Not allowed to bask in the sun or even come too close to the windows, for fear anyone might see me. But when at last came the day, ten years after my first bleeding, I was free. I no longer held any interest to them, and they would not attempt to cultivate me. And so I am free, to explore the galaxy for a year, before I must return home and wed a man of his choosing."

[member="Imran Feral "].

 

[Imran Feral]

The woman spoke and Imran glanced over to the woman. Her question seemed like a dumb one. Of course the Witches of Dathomir were women, he had never once seen a male witch. Was such a thing possible? He pondered for a moment but never said anything against it.

"Yes. All of it." He returned with a passive tone. Why had the Witches destroyed the Feral tribe? It was simple. The Feral tribe was one of the strongest Nightbrother tribes on Dathomir and it was the most rebellious. If it could potentially grow into a threat for the witches it only made since that the Witches would destroy them. Of course, they had made one mistake. They left one of the Dathomiri alive. For Imran, who had been counted as the lowest among the brothers, this meant there was only one option left, vengeance.

Then the woman spoke of the Witches from her planet. Beings that mate with demons and slaughter men? How familiar. Imran made his way up a large hill, climbing over a stone surface as he spoke. "You're weakness is disgusting." He snapped, glancing at her before waving a hand back at the woman. "The weak exist to serve the whims and wishes of the strong. If you people are so pathetic that you tell terrors to your children, then perhaps you will follow behind my tribe?" He asked, gazing at the woman with a certain curiosity.

"Even my tribe was deserving of their fate. They had been weak while the witches were strong." Then the woman spoke of her own upbringing. It all sounded so strange to him. In the Nightbrothers clan, a mate was chosen when a Nightsister came to claim the man. He would present himself for breeding and after the sister was with child, he would return to his tribe. If the child was born a male, it was brought back to the Nightbrothers, but if it was a female then the father would never hope to see it again, fore she would be raised with the sisters and was something greater than the man could ever hope to be.

"Sounds complicated. When I was born I was taken to my father. He marked me, trained me, and then he turned me over to Brother Ardes to become a warrior." The life of a Nightbrother was battle, from the day he was born to the day he died. A simple life. It was supposed to be.

"My mother…" he began, but then quickly turned silent, continuing through the forest without a second thought.

"If I were you, I'd go back to your tower." He said, with a chill to it. But in his own way it truly was a warning.

 

[Luidaeg Phrikborne]

Her weakness? Luidaeg's gaze focused on the man now, the tingle of her teeth and claws dancing once again. He dared call her weak? And speak of it in disgust? Was he so blind then that he did not realize that with a few bats of her eyelashes and a softly spoken tone, she had gotten him to feed her as well as serve as a guide as she ventured into the unknown? Certainly, there were more types of strength than the brute, yet as she gazed at him when his back was turned to her, studying what lines of muscles she could glimpse, she wondered – could she beat him in hand to hand combat? Her confidence told her that yes. Her sense of survival told her that perhaps he held some surprises within him as she within herself.

"I understand that your tribe tells no tales of fantasy and magic," she responded sweetly, "and yet your tribe was slaughtered before a single hair was harmed on my people. So who here exactly is the weak one?"

But he had said the magic word. Witches. Luidaeg had to not permit herself to lose control at the confirmation that this was why she had tingled so. Witches. Dathomir. All words she had to remember, all places she had to see.

Taken to his father… Now that was odd. For the Metal Borne Witches, the father never played a part in anything important. The vast majority of the Witches did not even know who had sired them, who had swelled the bellies of their mothers with their seed. And when sons were born… They did not let them live. Death before sunset was deemed as the most compassionate ending for them, if they were void of any magical abilities.

Those that did have magical abilities… A Metal Borne Witch never forgot the first child she was granted for magical consumption. She had felt the power flow through her veins, the joy as her strength became greater. It was said that the Matriarchs had eaten the most, and not just babies; but grown men, men that had managed to escape the wrath of the Metal Borne Witches and had time to let their powers manifest and be trained.

Sharply inhaling, Luidaeg ran a few steps until she stood in front of the man, and then turned, effectively blocking his path for a moment. "Why?" she demanded, gazing straight up. Small and tiny she might have been, but it would be hard to miss the sharpness of the look she gave him, "What have I done to you that you should wish me to imprison myself? What harm have I caused to deserve such cruel punishment for merely being pleasing to the eye?"

[member="Imran Feral "].

 

[Imran Feral]

Perhaps it was because it caught her by surprise. Yet Imran had been stopped in his place, gazing back at the woman with a nearly unreadable expression. Nearly. His eyes blinked at her for a moment as he gauged her once again. He said nothing, instead he turned back to the path before him and contemplated her words. Her words were truth, regardless of their venom he could not argue with her.

When the woman moved, quickening her pace, the man brought both hands over his spear, prepared to sway it's blade over the woman's throat. However, she did not attack him. Instead she moved to stand in front of him with her eyes and emotions bared against him. She was much smaller than him, barely to his chest but her words did not hold any less power.

"You seem weak and small. Nothing like the witches from my homeworld. You're more likely to die than kill, so you should just hide." He said, his words showing the truth of what he saw.

He moved around her, shaking his head as he did. "But you're more than you appear, aren't you?" He said, hinting that he could see more than he let on. In reality, he did not know anything about the woman. He did know, that his body was on edge when she was around. Even more so than the witches he had come to be wary of when he was a young boy.

They crossed a small ridge and in short order they could see the small village in the distance. Once they could see the village, Imran lowered himself to the ground, running a hand over the soul below him. He could tell it was frequently traversed, meaning they had grown closer to a main road. "You're right, you know? The Nightbrothers were weak, but I'm not. That is why I am going to kill all of the Nightsisters."

 

[Luidaeg Phrikborne]

Weak and small, more likely to die than to kill. Luidaeg wanted to beam at those words, to give the man one of her most secret smiles so that he would know how terribly wrong he was before she removed his arteries for him, before her nails dug into the cavity of his chest and ripped the heart out, letting the beating organ warm her hand up as the blood came in streams between her fingers.

And yet her insides froze as he said that she was more than she appeared. No. This was not good. Her act was most often perfectly flawless. How could he have known? Was he one of those males who were permitted to train? Allowed to live even though they had an instinctive access to magic? She refused to dignify his question with an answer. She would absolutely not confirm his words. Not as long as he was still taking her to the village. She was a Metal Borne Witch, she was of the Phrikborne, and she would not let some man decide that he could read her like that!

When the ridge was crossed, she saw it – the village. It… Was not much of a village, compared to what she was used to. But it would do. She would make her purchase… And leave her mark, unless the man decided to work against her.

Instead though, he chose to speak.

"You are not weak?" she asked, repeating his words with a little smile as her face gazed at the village again, the hunger all too plain to see on it, "Were you there when those witches slaughtered your tribe, or are you alive because by chance you happened to not be there when it happened? If you are not weak then why did you not protect your own?"

Luidaeg inhaled deeply, still looking at the village. "What are Nightbrothers?" she asked then, using the very term that he had used himself, driving the verbal dagger ever deeper, "And Nightsisters, what are those? I would assume it is the name of the women that removed your tribe from its terrible weakness, but what are they beyond that?"

[member="Imran Feral "].

 

[Imran Feral]

The way this woman spoke. It had a particular way of pissing Imran off. When she asked if he was weak, his footsteps slowed to a halt. He turned back to the woman, tightening his fist as if he wanted to punch the woman in the face. But instead, he found himself noticing something. She had said nothing to his challenge of her being more than she was. Maybe he should kill her now? His grip tightened on his spear, bringing it into his hands. Who was this woman? She was so off-putting and disarming at the same time. A dangerous combination. He planted the butt of his spear into the ground, gesturing towards the village. "There." He said, his head craning towards the path that led to the village.

"I am strong enough to have survived." And weak enough to not have been able to kill them. He could not say the words but they did, in fact, come through his mind. He clenched his jaw at the thought before pressing his back to a tree, gazing at the woman searchingly. When she inquired about the Nightbrothers, then he glanced away from her.

"On my homeworld, the men belong to tribes of warriors. The Nightbrothers Clan. Most Nightbrothers are full-blooded, but I am a half-blood." He explained. Imran ran a hand along his brow, pushing his hair from his forehead. The horns on his forehead were prominent and sharpened but easily hidden by his hair.

"My people usually have red or orange skin. But because of my mother I look more like a human." He explained, perhaps a bit more than he needed to. "The Nightsisters are Dathomirian women, their skin is a bit paler. Once, we were taught that the Nightsisters were the savior of our world, but countless times they have nearly destroyed us all." He sighed, before looking to the woman curiously. Why was she so interested in his world and its people?

 

[Luidaeg Phrikborne]

An explanation then came. Tribes of warriors. Was that all there was to it? Niri had its fair share of tribes, but it was also ruled by four courts – Summer, Autumn, Winter, and Spring. It was, she'd been told, a sign that Niri was progressive, that it was getting ahead. That people who still lived in tribes were the remains of barbaric times that ought to have been forgotten. How she had realized on it when the tribes were the ones to not be directly affected by the courts of Dusk and Dawn, who had risen to shatter the status quo of the other courts.

"You are not human," she said as a matter of fact, the depths of his meaning sinking. No. He did not have the red and orange skin and… Only now, could she see the horns. How had she not realized they were there before now? "Worlds are not made to be saved," Luidaeg said a moment later and then turned to look at the village again. Witches who lived on this planet called Dathomir, where men were witches too, where the planet was nearly destroy instead of saved… Her interest continued to grow, but she knew she could not let the man know that.

"My family serves the Court of Spring back on Niri," she said with a little smile, "But we've long ago learned that there would be no saviors. For anything. Best brace ourselves for whatever may come."

Looking to the village, she put on a softer smile. "Will you come to the village with me, Warrior?"

[member="Imran Feral "].

 

[Imran Feral]

There was a certain weight ever present in Imran's eyes. Perhaps it was just the past few days of running on nothing but adrenaline and jerked Maalraas. Regardless of what it was, there was no way to know what was going through his mind as the woman spoke. He didn't have an expression that shared much, even though it was obviously youthful. She spoke to him and he continued to listen to her words. She didn't sound like the Nightsister's either. Her words were strong, but pleasant to hear none the less. He exhaled when she said he was not a human, although he did nod his head in agreement. When she said world's were not meant to be saved, for perhaps the first time he shared a slight smile with her.

"No, they're not." He agreed, before glancing back at the village with her. She spoke about her planet a bit more and the court of Spring? Whatever the hell that could be. He tried not to give it too much thought, even if it was noticeably unknown to him.

Next, she asked if he would travel to the village with her. He cast an uncertain gaze on the village. It was not like he was afraid, however all of this was just happening in a way he was definitely not expecting. He inhaled before looking back to the woman and that small little smile. "Imran." He said, finally revealing his name to the woman, "My name is Imran."

He started to move down the path towards the village, this time he was the one to instigate the conversation. "What is your planet like? Niri?" He was curious. The woman spoke of her world and it's ways just enough to make Imran wonder why she would have left. It didn't seem like she had anyone to kill, so why leave the planet she was born on?

[member="Luidaeg Phrikborne"]