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Thread: An Ill-Fated Reunion

  1. #1
    TheHolo.Net Poster

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    Closed Thread An Ill-Fated Reunion

    While the sisters and brothers of the Burning Mists clan slept, a shadow stalked in their midst. Tall and hunched, it crept over their prone forms, unseen even by the travel-weary Nightsisters who kept vigil. Though their eyes twitched now and then to their sleeping clanmates, they saw nothing of the monstrous shape that picked it’s way to the slumbering body of Tristan Alastor and his mate, Megaera.

    “Does he look changed to you?” the shadow said, in a voice that only it’s companion could hear.
    Last edited by Dasquian Belargic; Mar 20th, 2019 at 06:49:14 AM.

  2. #2
    In another life maybe? One where Anxia had never met her master. Never known the exquisiteness of belonging to him, or the agony of being separated from him, she might have felt differently regarding the man coiled together with the pale witch in the darkness. It was possible, with time she might have even cared for him. But such a world would never exist, the thought of such a possibility hardened whatever softness Princess Razielle might have ever held for Prince Tristan. He could thank his mother for making him the means to their ends, were she alive..

    Tristan's hair was longer, curling around his shoulders now. When she had last seen him it had been closely cropped, neatly styled and clean. He had been a pampered, soft little lord in her estimation. Now, he was something else. Lean, and hard looking with strife and hunger. He did not look too different from the other forms clustered around them in the darkness. He looked quite honestly .. like he belonged there. The way his arms were curled protectively around the witch almost brought a smile to her face, at least there was that.

    "He looks content.", she returned, as quietly, though her tone implied that she would very much like to do something about his contentment.

  3. #3
    TheHolo.Net Poster

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    “Mm,” was all Callidus said in agreement, as he looked down on Tristan Alastor. He slowly crouched low over the pair, claws reaching out to hover just above the sleeping Prince’s head. Unaware of how close the hand of destiny lingered above him, Tristan stirred in his sleep, his brow furrowing as he gave a restless murmur.

    “Let’s change that.” Without so much as a gesture, Callidus’ features rippled and the pale face beneath his hood begin to transform into a new illusion. Gone was the skeletal head, instead replaced by a new phantasm, something almost demonic. As he pulled his cowl up over the lower half of his face, Salem Ave’s own white eyes burned fiercely in newly hollowed sockets.

  4. #4
    TheHolo.Net Poster Has been a member for 5 years or longer The Fanged God's Avatar
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    Trissstan the phantom whispered.

  5. #5
    Deep in a dreamless sleep, Tristan felt something tugging at him. An insistent pull that, no matter how much he tried to remain within the arms of sleep, he could not deny. It was much the same as the pull that had drawn him to Dathomir in the first place. A voice that spoke to him, called to him. He rolled away from Megaera and, blinking away the tiredness from his eyes, peered up to see two figures standing above him. He was about to reach for the dagger, always concealed in his boot, when the white eyes of the taller figure fixed him in place.

    “You… it’s you, isn’t it?”

  6. #6
    Behind The Fanged God, a second figure hovered a foot off the ground. One entire side of her was every bit as pale and fair as the witch asleep at Prince Tristan's side, beautiful even. The other half smiled at him with the rictus grin of a decaying corpse.

    Skeletal fingers outstretched for him, creaking with the friction of bone against bone.

  7. #7
    The shadows around Him receded, revealing a second figure. Tristan instinctively twisted, placing his body as much as he could between the spectral figures and Megaera’s sleeping form. Green eyes shifted back and forth, between the somewhat familiar face of the so-called Fanged God and the new, more ghoulish thing at His side.

    “What do you want?” he demanded.

  8. #8
    TheHolo.Net Poster Has been a member for 5 years or longer The Fanged God's Avatar
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    The ssshaman tells me you are among the strongest of your people, that they call you… witch-prince.

    Though his mouth was always hidden behind a cowl, there was something like a smile in the spirit’s voice.

    It isss time that you came to know my sssister ssspirit.

  9. #9
    Rise, Witch-prince.

    The mouth on the face on before Tristan did not open, the words simply shaped themselves in his mind, in the whispering voice of the more delicate side of the spirit. It was that half of Her face angled toward him now. The voice might have been soft, but the unseen force that ushered the former Prince of Hapes to his feet was not. It was as though the cold, bony fingers of Her hands curled beneath his chin, lifting upward by the face, compelling him toward where she waited..

  10. #10
    Dread was a weight in Tristan’s gut, urging him to stay down, but the voice of the spirit was so compelling. He felt himself being drawn upward like a marionette. This was not the first time a spirit of Dathomir had usurped control of him in some way. Somewhere beneath the preternaturally-enduced compliance, an almost Hapan sense of indignation bubbled.

    “I am not a prince. Not anymore. I’m… one of them.”

  11. #11
    Rise!

    She commanded him, skeletal jaw unhinging, parting unnaturally wide. Hanging agape so that nothing but oozing, rotting, blackness was seen within the portal that was this spirit's mouth..

    A high-pitched, ear-splitting, shriek was emitted, and continued as Tristan lingered in disobedience.

  12. #12
    Tristan was on his feet in a heartbeat. Around him, no one stirred. No one leapt to their feet, poised and ready for battle at the sound of the spirits howl. Only the witch-prince, his back straight and his shoulders square as he faced Her.

    “What do you want from me, creature?”

  13. #13
    The spirit's horrible keening ceased. Mouth closing again into one mismatched, dispassionate line as the witch prince obeyed, rising. The skeletal fingers outstreched for him again, creaking as the bent beckoning him forward.

    Follow.

    The half-dead spirit floated backward, expecting that he should follow Her, into the darkness.

  14. #14
    If Tristan could have travelled back to Hapes, to Onderon even, and explained to his younger self that very soon it would become almost normal to spend his evenings in conversations with spirits… what would he have said? Tristan, Prince of Hapes, would almost certainly have laughed at how nonsensical it was. Yet, there was no doubt in Tristan’s heart now that what he was looking at was real, that Dathomir was a place was anything was possible.

    Looking back over his shoulder, Tristan saw the white eyes of the Fanged God hovering above Megaera. Ssshe will be sssafe here, witch-prince, it said, and it almost sounded like there was a smile in His voice.

    Tristan looked down at Megaera, so peaceful as she slept. This was what his life was, now. His life with her. Trusting in the unknown, making leaps of faith. If Megaera believed in the benevolence of these spirits, he had to too.

    His chest rising and falling with a deep breath, Tristan turned away and followed the skeletal face of the Daughter into the darkness.
    Last edited by Tristan Alastor; Jul 20th, 2019 at 07:15:36 AM.

  15. #15
    The shape of Her moved unnaturally, even for a spirit. Where the form of The Daughter went, it was not a seamless straight progression. She appeared, and then disappeared, at random intervals along Her path through the dark, as though She were fading in and out of this world. Or perhaps he was only strong enough to partially see Her.

    Floating backward, Her grinning smile never seemed to look away from him. Her eyes, one vibrant blue and clear, the other a black empty socket, fixed upon Tristan as he obeyed and followed. Out of the caves, into the night. The cool air and the still hot ground shrouded the land, and the mists coiled about their forms up to the tops of their thighs.

    The lovely, living half of Her turned toward him, as She spoke. If you wish to grow stronger. Stop denying yourself, Witch-prince.

    That is who they need.. If you are not him.. you should leave this place. The bony fingers of her dead hand pointed, away from the witches. Away from Megaera.

  16. #16
    Tristan didn’t look away, green eyes fixed to the grim visage of the spirit.

    “I’m not leaving them.”

    When the words passed his lips, it occured to Tristan that he had quite possibly never been more certain of anything in his life. He could have crept away into the night and perhaps even found safe passage away from Dathomir. Instead, he stood his ground, wreathed in swirling mist.

    “What is it you think I am denying myself, spirit?”

  17. #17
    The Daughter said nothing. The mist around the bottom half of Her swirled around Her form, erasing it. Replacing it momentarily with new one. His. Right in front of Tristan stood a mirrored image of himself from minutes ago.

    “I am not a prince. Not anymore. I’m… one of them.” He said, but nothing else.

    The voice of The Daughter continued to speak, from all around him, as though She were the very mist surrounding them.

    You will stop believing that you are but one, or the other. You are C'nros-qu'ess, the one who is both.

  18. #18
    Confronted with the image of himself, Tristan was taken aback. He hadn’t seen a mirror in… months? Years? Though he’d glimpsed his own reflection in pools of water, he’d never truly seen himself as shaped by Dathomir until now. The face staring back at him was so different from the one that had gazed him from within gilt-edged mirrors, and yet the doubts in his heart were the same now as they had been on Hapes.

    “What right do I have to rule over them?”

  19. #19
    The image of Tristan as he appeared now was joined, as two other versions of himself stepped from him, to either side of the first.

    He was now also confronted with the soft, well-groomed Hapan he had once been. Smiling, still in the bliss that came before deprivation and loss. Before rancor and volcanoes. Before Mists and witches. Before Megeara.

    The as yet unknown image of Tristan was garbed in the black ritual armor of the Night Council. His hair was longer still than it was now, bound back away from his face, tied in a cross of blackened bones, strips of leather and one black feather. The brightness of his eyes behind the war-paint on his face was intense. They were the eyes of someone perfected in his crafts, certain of his own victory, and without the questions he had now. A man of faith, and around him swirled a cloak, not of cloth or leather, but green ichor. The cloak of a Shadow Killer..

    You have the only right. That is who they summoned. The Witch-prince.

  20. #20
    The first of the new illusions conjured by the spirit caused something to twist in the pit of Tristan’s stomach. He had been unhappy on Hapes, unfulfilled by his largely ornamental role, but on Onderon he had found a purpose. He had loved Razielle Shadana, and their child, the child who had not even met, did not know the name of. The second illusion was almost unrecognisable. It was only in the eyes that Tristan saw himself reflected. This was what Megaera believed he would become: C'nros Qu'ess, the witch prince. A hunter of unparalleled prowess, who moved through mist and shadow as if he were born of them. It made Tristan's skin prickle, to think that one day others might see him this way.

    Somewhere between the two, there was Tristan himself. Not yet the fierce yet controlled warrior that the Nightsisters needed, but a far cry from the young man who had been shipped off to Onderon. Unthinking, Tristan took a few steps towards the shadowy figure of his future self.

    “Can you… help me become this?”
    Last edited by Tristan Alastor; Jun 7th, 2019 at 03:52:38 AM.

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