An Ill-Fated Reunion

[The Daughter]

help me become this..

The image of Tristan in the center, as he appeared presently, responded answering back with an echo of the question.

And then he - the center Tristan - lunged forward, very real spear suddenly in hand, ready to impale the would-be Witch-prince.

[Tristan Alastor]

With a grunt of surprise, Tristan staggered backwards - and regretted it a moment later. He’d been caught off guard and should have known better. Instinct and reflex told him to get out of the reach of the spear-wielding spirit, but he had trained to be better than this, to be smarter. Internally scolding himself, Tristan crouched low enough to pull free the dagger from his boot sheath then, keeping his centre of gravity low, he beckoned the image of himself forward.

[The Daughter]

The other Tristan wasted no time, stalking forward even as his real counterpart staggered backward. The thick layer of mist stretched upon the ground parted before his steps. Nothing but complete focus in his eyes, single minded in his purpose. Only one task mattered.

The Tristan-Spirit did not respond to the gesture one way or the other. Undaunted, It simply attacked. One mighty leap, the point of the spear swinging high, only to come straight down for him. Not once, but relentlessly stabbing for him over and over. Giving the Witch-prince little time to think between one jab, and the next.

There was fury in the assault.

[Tristan Alastor]

Rather than backing up, Tristan dodged from left to right as the spear point lunged at him. He twisted out of the spear’s way just as the burra fish had flitted away from Tristan when he had first learned to spear fish. The Nightbrother's reflexes had sharpened since then, making him quick enough to skewer the copper-scaled fish with ease. Perhaps even quick enough to grab the shaft of the spirit’s spear, as he darted one hand towards it. In the other, his dagger flipped into an reverse grip as he punched the blade towards the spirit’s body.

[The Daughter]

It was definitely not the soft pampered Prince of Hapes dodging the spear threatening him in a very real way. The image of that man began to fade away, he had left Onderon and no one would ever see him again. If they saw him at all, he would be someone else. That smiling, naive lordling who once believed the worst thing in the galaxy was his mother, was gone.

The Tristan-Spirit smiled as the upper-half of the spear was grabbed. It did not slow it's attack though. The Spirit yanked forward on the weapon, pulling Tristan closer, even as the spear's bottom length was brought up sideways, taking the blade's strike. The point of his dagger, sticking into the shaft of the spear. The Spirit rolled the spear in it's Tristan-hands, rotating it away from the Nightbrother, twisting his grip along with it.

[Tristan Alastor]

Tristan hissed through his teeth as he felt the dagger’s edge bite into the spear. The mirror of himself began to roll the spear again and Tristan knew he had to act, had to keep himself inside the spirit’s reach. His left hand still on the length of the spear, both to anchor the weapon in place and to act as a fulcrum for his next gambit, he dropped his right shoulder low and threw his weight towards the spirit’s chest.

[The Daughter]

The fog around the booted legs of the two Tristan's had been humid, carrying the scent of damp rotting terrain and sodden ashes. A coldness swam through it now. It became less fog, more mist. The kind of mist that carried the magic of Dathomir in it's shroud.

The Spirit-Tristan did not block the tackle when it came. It bent backward with the force of it, though it never hit the ground. The mists whispered, twitching, almost flashing, like a sentient thing. The spear was pulled away from them both by an unseen force, tossed somewhere beneath the thick veil surrounding them. The Spirit-Tristan seemed to be bound by a separate set of physics than the true version. If It were bound at all. Twisting, with more agility that should have been possible, legs tangled around the waist of the former Prince of Hapes, it scrambled fast - strong around his back, as though It were weightless, only to suddenly feel made of sheer mass, bearing down on him, forcing him down face-first beneath the mist. Down into the thick layer of burnt, wet, rot. It pushed, and pushed.

And the mists around him laughed..with the voice of The Daughter.

[Tristan Alastor]

As the spear vanished and his dagger with it, Tristan spat a curse - but there was no time to go searching the mists for it yet. In the blink of an eye, the spirit had launched itself onto him with supernatural speed, riding him down into the earth. Screwing his eyes shut, Tristan choked on a mouthful of dirt and tried to wriggle out from underneath the spirit, but the weight of it was… overwhelming.

He tried to draw in breath, but only got a nose full of fetid water and found himself coughing and spluttering into the meagre space between his face and the dirt. He scrambled for purchase, for something to leverage himself with, but his hands only found slick mud. Instead of pulling himself free, he was digging a deeper ditch in the dirt, the cloying mud sloughing in around him.

The cold hand of panic began to close over Tristan’s heart. This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be how it ended.

Grasping instead for the Mists - for the Force - he pulled all of his fear and anger inward, into a volatile thing that roiled at the centre of him. Without time to shape it, to control it, he loosed all of the charged energy. A telekinetic blast launched Tristan bodily into the air, hurling the spirit with him.

[The Daughter]

When Tristan recovered from his up close encounter with the soil of Dathomir, the Spirit that had worn his present face was no more. Dispelled as had been the lordly Prince of Hapes.

Only one version remained.

Tristan, C'nros-Qu'ess of the Night Council. The cloak of green ichor trailing from his armored shoulders, mingling with the mist at his knees, as he paced impatiently. Shadowed-eyes focused now on the one crawling out of the mud.

[Tristan Alastor]

On his hands and knees, Tristan looked up into the face of what he might become. The witch prince, all shadow and tightly-coiled energy, a threat in every calculated step. As he drew himself up out of the mud, Tristan’s eyes never left the apparition, transfixed by the sight of it. When this version of himself looked back at Tristan, was it with the same disconnect and disdain as Tristan had felt about his old life, on Hapes and Onderon?

“Will you fight me too?” he asked, bracing himself for what was to come.

[The Daughter]

Each footstep set the blackened bones and feathers bound at the back of His head into a quiet hollow rattle. The Witch-Prince Spirit stopped His pacing. There was a moment of amusement in His eyes. Shaking His head, He and announced quite plainly.

"You would not survive it." Absolute certainty.

The green ichor swirled about Him, and the image leaned forward just a fraction.

"I was you. Held back by the same thing that holds you back, even now."

[Tristan Alastor]

Covered in mud from head to toe and aching from the bruising the spirit had already given him, Tristan did not think that he could have felt less prepared to fight an obviously superior foe. It was impossible to relax in that knowledge, however, when the spirit looked back at him with the look of a viper still poised to strike.

“What? What holds me back? Speak plainly!"

[The Daughter]

The Witch-Prince Spirit tipped His head back for a moment, a chuckle of amusement rolling up His throat, before He looked back to the one armored in mud, rather than mist.

"You hold yourself back. Too many questions." His dark head shook, almost disappointed.

"You think you have faith, but the truly faithful believe even in the absence of answers.."

[Tristan Alastor]

“I have faith!” Tristan spat the words, as if they had erupted out of some deep recess inside of him.

“I came here - I’m still here - because of faith. Perhaps... it was only Megaera’s faith to begin with, but now…” His heart hammered in his chest and his hands shook at his sides. Tristan did not need the ghostly, past version of himself to see how much he had changed since those first, confusing months on Dathomir. Megaera had been so confident in him, from the beginning. So certain that he would become exactly what she wanted, what the clan needed. More than that, she had been certain that Dathomir was what Tristan himself needed. She had called him Witch-Prince from the beginning, knowing with absolute clarity that in time he would wear the title as naturally and confidently as the spirit before Tristan wore it’s ichor cloak.

“I will...” he began, swallowing down his fear and frustration along with what he was about to say, his green eyes shifting over the spirit’s form. “I... am C'nros-Qu'ess. Not you.”

[The Daughter]

The conjured image of the future Witch-Prince laughed, head tipped backward, the column of His throat rippling with genuine amusement at His less experienced versions flare of emotion. Tristan Alastor had come far on Dathomir, but conflict remained. It did not require the preternatural clairvoyance of a Spirit of Dathomir to sense it.

Still, the will to become the man presented before him was there..

"Convincing Me? Or yourself...?"

The green ichor cloak around Him pulsed with energy, another chill grew from the humid ground upward. Frost began to crystallize on the uppermost layer of muck and leaves, on the toes of Tristan's boots.

The cloak detached from His shoulders, the form of it floating before him. With masterful direction from practiced hands, the shape altered into six pointed lances. One by one He sent them flying forward toward Tristan, not to injure him so much as to get his attention. To show him what awaited him, if he could progress in his training. The emerald shards sank deep into the ash and loam around him, fencing him in neatly.

The smiling figure leaned forward. "Stop looking back. There is nothing behind you..."

And then He too disappeared.

[The Fanged God]

Back in the Nightsister encampment, a shadow hunched low over Megaera.

Ssshaman... it hissed, its voice cutting through the fog, natural and otherwise, of her dreams.

[Megaera]

She was dreaming. Megaera understood that. In her dream, she walked in darkness without fear. She commanded magics stronger than she had ever conjured before. And she was not herself. The green fire of her eyes had faded, consumed entirely and all that remained was white. It was her flesh, but the powerful thing wearing it was not her. She tried to fight, but she was so deep inside herself, and it was so strong. She tried to scream, but her mouth would not open. She was a prisoner in her own skin.

Ssshaman...

The voice of The One penetrated the nightmare. She followed the serpentine hiss of his beckon, until at last her eyes opened and were confronted with the white eyes of her dream. It was all she could do not to react. Curled on the ground, her stiff limbs stayed still. The Shaman blinked once, and he was still there - above her.

"My Lord..", she whispered.

It had been a while since He had appeared.

The Shaman had even begun to wonder if they had somehow lost His favor?

[The Fanged God]

Did you think that I had forgotten about you, Megaerrra?

As the spirit drew up to its full height, it beckoned the Nightsister to stand too. In spite of her fear, the compulsion to rise and meet her lord was near irresistible.

Come, it commanded.

[Megaera]

It was not hard to believe she was still dreaming. There was an accompanying sense of awe and horror in the presence of one of their people's deities. There was also a fair amount of thrill. The potential to gain more knowledge that she craved and required for their people. It was awaiting her, should she just choose to follow.

Megaera was compelled forward to serve the will of The One.. but not before her green gaze darted to the space where her mate should have been, and was not.

She swallowed, but did not hesitate to rise and stand before The One, before following Him into the night.

[The Fanged God]

The spirit lead her away from the peaceful, sleeping shapes of her people in the oppressive heat and darkness of the night.

Do you fear for your witch-prrrince, ssshaman?