Serpentson

[Tristan Alastor]

They whispered as they watched him. He wore the leather apron of a slave, yet the blade of a dagger was grasped within his fist, hooking through the air like a serpents fang. It was said by some that he would take the lizard skin soon, and craft the armor all the sisters of the clan wore, weaving the flesh of a beast into a second-skin that could shatter spear-heads.

Tristan heard their whispers. In the first week, he had called them out, offering challenge to anyone who would take it. The primal air that surrounded the witch-village was infectious, bringing out the animal in him – though it alone was not enough to make up for his own shortcomings. The first of his challengers had taken his legs from beneath him with a whip, and though he vowed to learn from the experience, the second and third had claimed victory just as easily. Whenever he spied the pommels of those whips at the witches sides, he felt a pang of covetous anger. They would not arm him as they did themselves. Even his sword had been taken away.

“So it must be,” the clan mother had intoned gravely – yet with an ally in the woman's daughter, Megaera, Tristan had been given some small mercy.

“If he is to be of any use, he must know war,” she said, in a language he had only begun to understand. Though her voice betrayed little affection, when their eyes met Tristan saw the mischievous smile she had concealed and was aware once again of how little he understood of the woman's designs for him.

One thing was certain: there were things they would not share with him. A book, for one; a leathery old thing that the clan mother clutched within her talons with such ardor that its importance could not be doubted. The path to it – to the whip, to the reigns of the rancors, to the rites chanted in a foreign tongue – lay before him, each swipe of his daggers point another step along the road.

[Chrysothemis]

Jewel-bright crimson eyes peered out from a thick profusion of sable curls, seemingly unfocused as they traveled across the small clearing. She crouched low to the ground, fingers pressed reverently to the packed earth.

She too had heard whispers like these before. The barely contained malevolence, the fear mingled with the hatred of the unknown. Never before had a daughter of the Red Hills Clan been born with the faintly crimson-hued skin of the clan and the witch-red eyes of the Nightsisters. Oh, she understood the whispering and the watching all too well.

Here, however, she had a place. Though still under the watchful eye of the Clan Mother, Chrys had been accepted and heralded for her gifts, the very ones that had earned her exile from the only other home she'd ever known.

She watched Tristan closely, fascinated by the way he and Megaera exchanged a glance as if they were in accord. Hmm...that would bear watching from now on. For a male slave to meet the gaze of not only a Sister, but one as high ranking as the daughter of the Clan Mother herself - well, that was sacrilege in her clan, as was his so-far unbreakable spirit.

Chrys remained where she was even as the others began to filter away, studying him intently with her unfocused gaze. There was something about him that unsettled the young woman, but at the same time, did not allow her to move from her position in the shadows of the tree-line.

[Tristan Alastor]

In time, his motions became familiar. His was a dance with only a handful of steps, the routine marking him out as a man who had little to do with warfare – at least, that had once been the case. The Hapan Prince was not expected to be versed in combat, unless he chose to command a fleet of Battle Dragons, and the naval uniform had never hung comfortably on Tristan Alastor's shoulders. Far more fitting were the hunting leathers he had been given by his wife, the Princess of Onderon, as she attempted to introduce Tristan into rough-and-tumble culture of her people. It had been a brief education but enlightening all the same, and could not have had any negative impact upon Tristan's sudden and impulsive desire to hunt down the mysterious woman he saw, with increasing frequency, in his dreams.

Now that he had found her, and the clan her mother presided over, it was as if he had reached an impassable obstacle. To go forward, to embrace what he instinctively felt was writhing inside of him – desperate to be free, he would have to cross bridges that the witches would sooner burn than let him set foot upon. When the swipes and slashes of his dagger became repetitive, some of them sneered and turned away, though their mockery only fueled his anger. A time would come when he would strike unexpectedly, when his blade would sheath itself in their breasts.

With one last strike, the motion full of finality, Tristan's practice came to a slow end. His shoulders rose and fell with panting breaths. He laid the blade against one open palm, looking into its dull surface at the reflection of himself he saw there, as clear as if he were peering into a pool of muddy rainwater, unaware that he was being approached...

[Megaera]

"Tell me again what it is you want with that surly fellow?", the teasing timbre of her older brother's voice came from over her shoulder.

She did not turn, but instead outstretched her fingers in his general direction. Tugging him forward to stand beside her, Megaera's lips puckered into a smirk. "Arikos, vallabha. You are a credit to the male gender. Do not pretend to be dense." Laying her head against his arm, since his shoulder towered high above her, Meg let out a sigh.

"I no longer know myself. It all seemed so clear, whilst in the grip of one of Mama's passionate lessons. Now though, I do question the sanity of what I have done. It did not happen exactly as I envisioned. Sometimes I rather think he hates me.", she confided.

Wincing as the day's practice reached it's end, Megeara felt the full weight of her own selfish actions. She had been giving Tristan his space, since bringing him into Aurilia. Time to adjust to his new surroundings. Perhaps he had seen it as an abandonment? She had done all she could for him already, incurring the malice of several of the elder Sisters. They would have spoken against her, had Matier not silenced them with a glance.

"Help him learn what he must, if you can?", she asked her brother quietly, stepping up onto the lowest rung of the fence before her to press a kiss to his stubbly cheek.

Leaving his side, Meg crossed the distance to Tristan. The hem line of her simple blue dress was muddied from the ground, but she appeared no less regal for it. She was very different from the rest of the clan. She was no warrior, never had been. That was the specialty of her siblings, Arikos and Asherah. Megaera's gifts lay in visions, potions and curses. The very things that had brought him here. Uncertain of her welcome, she stopped before coming too close. One of her more ingenious endeavors lately had been a charm on Tristan's mind, intending to help him understand Dathomiri. It had not worked as intended, he still only knew a handful of phrases, but he understood her quite well.

"You are progressing.", she offered with a little smile.

[Tristan Alastor]

Carefully, Tristan tucked the length of the blade against his wrist, the hilt held in a reverse grip. His eyes tracked up to Megaera, and he found no cause to share the smile she wore.

“What else have I to do?” he asked in reply, the exact phrasing of his words still not entirely correct. The native tongue of the Dathomiri came to Tristan easier that it might have a child who had been raised to know nothing but Galactic Basic as the language of the Hapan's had the same rolling, musical cadence as the witches speech. Bit by bit Tristan was piecing it together, in yet another frustrating attempt to integrate himself into a community who wanted very little to do with him.

[Megaera]

"You make a good point.", she admitted, still smiling a bit too serenely for a witch.

Though he was dressed in the garb of the other male slaves, Megaera had no intention of letting Tristan remain as such. This was not the future she sought to bring about for him. For them. It was a beginning, nothing more. He did not have the resigned, submissive look about him that the other native males did. Rather, his noble bearing and determination to prove something set him apart from them. Unfortunately such a presence among the slaves drew quite a bit of attention, hence the special treatment in the form of a more grueling education.

A thoughtful expression crossed her features. "Maybe you'd like a change of scenery for a little while? I'd thought about riding out later...", her invitation was interrupted by a taunting cackle.

"Megaera, come away from your pet." The order was snarled at her from Sula, one of Matier's eldest and most formidable female warriors. The one most responsible for Tristan's special treatment.

Still holding Tristan's gaze, Megaera's eyes narrowed into the first truly angry expression Tristan had likely even seen on her before. Calmly she turned, folding her arms before her and spoke quietly in melodic Dathomiri.

"You do not command me, Sula. Save your venom for someone not immune to it's poison.", she advised. One hand brushed against the pouch ever tied at her hip, which rattled curiously in warning. "Someday your wisdom will be mine. Do not forget." Sula backed off, but Megaera knew it would not be the end.

"I'm sorry about her.", she said to Tristan. "She's like an old herd-mother sensing her end. Vicious to the last bite."

[Chrysothemis]

The soft purr began as a sound of comfort to the tiny purbole (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Purbole) that had crawled over to wrap its arms and legs around her slender wrist. The orphaned creature had taken to the young woman the instant it had been brought into camp. Instead of allowing it to be kept as a bait animal, she'd saved it and treated it as if it were her own.

But crimson eyes darkened at the sight of Sula, a warrior of high-standing and even higher self-delusion. Chrysothemis didn't like her in the least, however, she liked the way Megaera looked at Tristan even less. It made her nauseous, and her faint distress upset the little one wrapped around her wrist. As Sula departed, snarling as was her wont, the young woman rose to her full height and stepped out of the shadows, a handful of earth clutched in one fist.

"Very prettily done, my lady Meg...such a strong defense of your favorite new toy. I do wonder what makes this one so...special." Her purr darkened her voice and made it echo through the small clearing, gliding like silk across the skin.

[Tristan Alastor]

If Sula expected a rise from Tristan, she would be sorely disappointed. His eyes speared her with a glare but his body remained still, rigidly so. To strike out at her would be to give in to her, to mark himself out as a defiant slave. Megaera chased the older woman away, but Tristan did not take his eyes off her until she was well and truly out of sight. Even then there was no time to let his guard down, however, as just as soon as Sula was gone, another clan-sister sprung up in her place. This one spoke in tones more sweet than sour, but the meaning of her words was still the same.

Special, Tristan thought, a sudden swell of arrogant pride bubbling inside of him. He was special, whether the rest of the clan liked it or not.