If You Go Down To The Woods Today...

[Tristan Alastor]

It had taken months before the Nightsisters of Dathomir had believed Tristan Alastor worthy of sitting astride a rancor and joining their hunt. He would have laughed at that once. How could a bunch of savages ever know what the Hapan Prince was worthy of? Now – mounted atop the great beast – Tristan had to admit that there was a certain thrill to the experience, something regal in it that almost did make him feel like a prince again.

It had been many moons since he had ridden one of the drexl on Onderon and though the rancor was no less dangerous than the winged lizards had been – he had seen the Nightsisters feeding male-slaves to their rancors, back at the village – the rancor was easier to ride.

A slim-bodied ssurrian scurried across the beasts path and it lunged forward suddenly. Tristan clung to the pommel of his saddle as the rancor slammed one huge, clawed hand onto the ssurrian. With a spear in one hand, the knuckles of the hand he used to steady himself were pure white. The rancor tore a limb free with a wet crunch and began to gnaw flesh from bone. On its back, Tristan struggled to maintain his balance, jamming his heels against the beasts flanks. Not for the first time, the creature ignored him.

“Get... move!” he hissed, his eyes darting up to the shape of another rancor as it moved steadily ahead of him, its rider having far less difficulty managing her mount.

[Megaera]

Not far ahead, Meg shot a look to her fellow Sister, Chrysa, riding beside her. Neither of them had any trouble with their mounts, but then they had been riding them a lot longer than Tristan had. Nightsister's and their rancor had connections that bound them more than simple mounts and riders. Megaera's own, Erishkigal, was more friend than beast of burden. Chrysa's patience with Tristan was often comedic, but it was early for it to start.

Standing in the stirrups, she turned around and leveled a stare at the man following behind them. His rancor did not seemed pleased with him at the moment, bordering on blatant disregard for orders. Maybe she just didn't like the name he had chosen for her.

"Ishara... Ser phor qualla!?", Megaera bade in a more familiar tongue.

"Next time you're trying to eat, how about I saddle you up and drag you around?", she smiled sweetly, turning back to her Sister with a grin.

[Chrysothemis]

Chrysa was hard pressed to keep her customary scowl in place with Meg riding Erishkigal beside her. Even if Tristan was trailing along behind them, and even if she was supposed to be keeping an eye on the fool. Of all the tasks to be charged with during a hunt, watching Tristan was the one she relished the least.

Fingers reached out and stroked Sel'tur's rough hide, earning her an appreciative rumble. She had been given the opportunity to choose and raise her mount in the Clan tradition. Sel'tur had been the smaller of her mother's two offspring, and in danger of being eaten until Chrysa had rescued her.

Like her, the young woman mused, Sel'tur too had been unwanted. They bonded very closely, and often Chrysa simply had to think her commands to her beloved rancor and they were obeyed. An ability some of her elders had praised while others had muttered about curses.

She grinned in response to Meg's comment and winked at her Sister. "I may have forgotten to tell him to feed Ishara before we left on the hunt."

[Tristan Alastor]

Huge jaws made quick work of the ssurrian, chomping through flesh and bone in a matter of moments, though Ishara took the time to yawn before she began to plod along after Erishkigal and Sel'tur.

“At last, the Chume deigns to rise,” Tristan muttered, “You are more like your namesake than you will ever know.”

The path they followed through the forest was just wide enough for two rancors side by side and so even as Tristan began to gain on the Nightsisters, he was forced to ride behind them. He might have been bitter, if he had not spent his entire life amongst a society who saw men as second-class citizens.

The two Nightsisters were speaking in hushed voices to one another, in the language that the clan mother had not yet given Tristan permission to learn. He frowned.

“Will we be spear-hunting burra fish today?” He hoped so. It was one aspect of the hunt that he felt himself becoming stronger at.

[Megaera]

Speaking in rapid, and almost heated Dathomiri tones, Meg suggested to Chrysa that they break off from the other hunters for a while to do as Tristan had suggested. She said this in such a way that it implied she was certain he was going to keep talking and annoy the other witches by scaring off their game before it was found, but her motives were no such thing. She'd seen Tristan spear-fish before, and was quite taken with the sight. This was pure selfishness on her part.

"We may as well.. I need some fresh supplies from the river.", she shrugged a shoulder, but left the decision with her Sister.

[Chrysothemis]

"Ussta dalninil, a mzulst xo'al naut ulu ulnar ulu uns'aa. Usstan shlu'ta kyorl l' lor wun dosst solen." Chrysa replied in the mother-tongue, a smile curling her lips at Meg's reaction. While she clamped down on the thread of jealousy that lay coiled like a viper in the pit of her stomach, she nodded.

In spite of her reasons, Meg did have an excellent point about keeping him out of their fellow Sisters' hair. Chrysa had also been meaning to show them both the spot in the river she'd discovered, near the cliffs, where the bend had worn away at the soft rock and created a small pool at its edge. Tristan could fish to his heart's content, Meg could stare at him with the slightly dazed, wondrous look she always used when she thought no one was looking, and she could sit off to the side and make an attempt at not drowning either one of them.

"Alright. That does sound like a fine idea. Seems like ages since we had fresh fish. This way...I found a new spot I thought you'd like to see." Chrysa replied, glancing at Meg and then back at Tristan, before veering off to the right on a smaller side-path that took them ever closer to the sound of the river.

[Tristan Alastor]

Ussta... Tristan recognised that word, but the rest of what tumbled from Chrysa's lips was nonsense to him. The language of the Hapes Cluster was rolling and lyrical, whereas the witches formed their words by taking all of the leftover letters that no one else wanted and mashing them together.

As much as it vexed him to be denied understanding of their language, he knew that Meg would share anything important with him later, when they were alone. Tristan sat up higher in his saddle, smiling a thin, confident smile at that thought.

As though understanding that they were moving towards more food, Ishara was surprisingly compliant as Tristan urge her to follow the narrow path behind Chrysa. “A new spot?” he asked as he peered ahead, seeing a flash of sunlight on running water.

[Megaera]

She did not blush. Though Megaera was somewhat irked, though not surprised, that Chrysa had seen right through her, she was not embarrassed that her sister knew her thoughts. "Taudl, Dalninil. Usstan ul'kas ukta ghil. Usstan xal 'zil al l'amith l' ml'aen d' ukta." It was really that simple.

Stealing another glance over her shoulder, she looked rather smug that Tristan had no idea what they were talking about. Chrysa was quite correct, there was something oddly gratifying in tormenting the male.

"Oh!", she exclaimed, breathlessly at the sight of their stopping place. "This is lovely, Sister. I already see some redweed growing up the bank!"

Without waiting for the others, Meg was already swinging a leg from the saddle, bidding Erishkigal to go seek her own lunch. Her back arched as she leaped to the ground, specimen bag in hand. She paused only to sit and remove her soft-soled boots, and then she was ankle deep in the water closing in on her prize.

[Chrysothemis]

"Zil al dos zhal'la. L'oloth orn'la tlu nauqu'allath ka dos kat."

Chrysa smiled, her expression softening for a brief moment, into an expression few, if any, ever saw from her. She adored Megaera as if they had truly been born from the same mother, and regarded Matier as so much more than simply her Clan Mother. The august lady had, after all, been the only one to willingly take her in, accepting a small, crimson-hued little girl who's clan cast her out for being cursed.

She watched Meg for a moment, before turning back to Tristan and making a small effort at not tormenting him for a change. It would, after all, set him off-balance and that would be nearly as fun.

"Indeed, Tristan. The water is just the right depth and speed for burra fish in this area, and the small pool that's been worn into the rock has been known to occasionally trap the fish if the water level is low. I think you'll find it a most advantageous area for the spear fishing you wished." Chrysa nodded as she slid from Sel'tur's back, turning away from them both and focusing instead on her beloved rancor. For her part, Sel'tur huffed a breath that set the young Nightsister's hair rippling. In turn, the young woman bid the rancor to lay down, hugging her massive head before ridding her of the saddle and leads so she could move freely.

Sel'tur rose and padded off with Erishkigal, while Chrysa rid herself of her boots and set her things aside atop the saddle. She freed her spear from its place, fingertips reverently coursing across its length as she murmured words of thanks to the spirits. It was they who had guided her to the sapling, and in turn guided her hand in its creation.

[Tristan Alastor]

Tristan made as graceful a dismount as he could muster. His feet had barely touched solid ground before Ishara had turned to plod towards the river. Tristan frowned and stalked after the creature.

“Vost,” he commanded, the witches word for 'stop' being among the few that he had managed to grasp. He told himself that the rancor responded more readily to Dathomiri than to Basic, though the truth was that Ishara obeyed when the occasion suited her. On this particular occasion, she was far too interested in the rivers shimmering waters to pay attention to the irritant that sometimes strapped itself to her back.

Tristan glanced ahead, spotting the shadows of a small shoal of fish. Perching on the bank of the river, Ishara had spotted the fish too. With a rumbling growl, she raked one set of claws into the waters.

“What are you -”

The fish slipped nimbly through her claws and darted away downstream. His grip on his spear tightening, Tristan glowered at the beast.

[Megaera]

To keep herself from getting entirely soaked, Megaera lifted the linen material of her skirt and tied it into a knot, just above her knees. Bent over the redweed, she examined the red fern-like planet. From a distance it looked like a small fire burning, which was how it got the local name flame-leaf. The red vegetation was used by their weaker counterpart witches as a beneficial healing herb, but for the Nightsisters it had many other properties. From her belt she removed her boline, a curved-blade that looked terribly dangerous, but was meant only to properly harvest herbs and roots.

Hearing Tristan struggle with his unruly rancor she slid a glance down the river to the deeper pool and did her best not to laugh. "Ishara! Dos ph' natha jiv'undus! Alu xuil l' byrren!", she called in a warning tone.

"She thinks you all bark and no bite.", she smirked and went back to her leaves, trimming each flame-like leaf and tucking it away for later use. When she had finished, she closed her eyes and thanked the plant, leaving enough that it would easily regrow what she had taken. After, she moved further away looking for other supplies she might need, getting further away from Tristan and Chrysa.

[Chrysothemis]

Careful steps took the young woman to the side of the pool she had mentioned. A moment's concentration saw her leap atop a large boulder with a flat top that jutted out over the pool, offering a wonderful vantage point. While Megaera wandered off, Chrysa carefully set her spear aside.

Nimble fingers untied a small black leather pouch from her belt, delicately tracing the sigils etched into it. Faint, ancient words fell past her lips as she opened the top and poured out the sacred red sand inside. It soon formed a large unbroken circle, which she carefully sat in the middle of. Legs folded gracefully in front of her, hands resting palm side up on her knees, and her crimson orbs half-closed.

Chrysa 'watched' with her senses as Ishara gradually moved off, following Erishkigal and Sel'tur in their quest for a meal. Tristan glowed with the sullen, angry aura she'd come to expect, with crystal clear ripples of water ebbing around his legs.

She sighed and closed her eyes, drawing in deep, rhythmic breaths as she sought to relax.

[The Fanged God]

To Chrysa's lidded eyes, the light of the forest clearing grew dim - dappled, as if clouds had suddenly passed over the face of the sun. A voice scraped against the inside of her skull, like claws drawn across the surface of a stone.

Chrysssothemisss...

[Chrysothemis]

Her breath caught in her throat as the light changed even to her lidded gaze. The normally crimson edged vision of her mind's eye had darkened to a writhing black pitch.

The voice...that sound...

...tortured her skull and sent a vicious shudder down the length of her spine. She never thought her name could hurt her, but it did, and the young Nightsister basked in the powerful pain-wrapped syllables as they echoed.

She did not dare reply verbally or mentally...even she knew better than to presume to address what was obviously a spirit. Instead, she bowed her head and turned her 'attention' outward, waiting patiently to be addressed once more.

[The Fanged God]

Nightsssissster... the voice hissed, each sibilant sss circling within her mind as a carrion-crow circles a carcass.

What is your purpossse?

[Chrysothemis]

A faint whimper threaded past her lips, brief and almost wanton. Fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists as she fought her unnatural inclination to simply wallow in the pain-tinted fear that followed after the spirits words.

To do the will of the Mother...she replied in kind, her mind-voice soft and deferential. Adopted to the Clan or no, it had been made clear to her since her first moments that the Mother's will was her purpose, and her words the laws to guide her hands.

[The Fanged God]

There was a shadow advancing at her back now, visible at the edge of her vision. Sinuous and shapeless like smoke rising from the campfire. Instead of heat, it brought with it a chill, as though fingers of ice - so cold that they could burn - hovered just a breath away from her bare shoulders.

What am I?

[Chrysothemis]

Her breathing came in short, labored gasps that were just barely audible. It was very nearly sensory overload to finally 'see' the spirit coming closer, just at the edge of her vision.

Her breath left her completely as she felt it - him - close to her back, a deep, vicious chill lingering just above her bare shoulders. Tiny bumps formed along the surface of her skin as she shivered with anticipation of the pain she could almost taste.

Clarity enough for a response was slow in coming to Chrysa. A shuddering breath came first, and then another, her body reflexively taking in the oxygen it needed. But recognition did slip through her mind a moment later, with the same burning sensation the voice trailed in its wake.

You are the darkness incarnate, the Son, the Fanged God...the voice of doom ever-present in my dreams...Chrysa replied, her mind voice brimming with reverence and need.

[The Fanged God]

The chill receded for a lingering moment – and then returned, as if it were exhaled with a sigh of breath.

The othersss... do not hear me. Do not sssenssse me as you do.

True enough, she saw that Tristan was now practically knee-deep in the river, the tip of his spear twitching above its surface, poised and ready. Megaera was ostensibly gathering grasses and herbs from the waters edge, though she glanced every now and then towards Tristan, offering him words of encouragement. The dappled sunlight warmed them still, while the cold that surrounded Chrysothemis grew more oppressive by the second.

I ssspeak only to you, Nightsssissster. I have chosssen you...

[Megaera]

For a while she had enlisted Erishkigal's help, climbing back atop her large mount, the better to reach the arachnid-like leaves from a tall Ongmuel plant. Balanced on one tip-toe atop the back of her rancor, Megaera trimmed and dropped the clippings down into a leaf-bowl basket.

When she had enough of the specimen, she climbed down at let her rancor resume her own activities. Leaving the hastily made basket on the riverbed, Meg waded back into the river, far enough away from Tristan so as not to disturb his prey, close enough to watch..

So long ago now, when she had first called out to him, she had been submerged in water, a natural elemental conduit for the soul. If she could reach his mind in that manner from across stars, surely she could mange to do so from down the river? Tilting her head to the side in speculation, Megaera tried.

I could throw the bread that was to be our lunch to the fish if you think it will cause a feeding frenzy.

Down the river, she smirked.