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.

[Tristan Alastor]

The riverwater sluiced around Tristan's ankles, as it would a solitary pebble sitting on the riverbed. The lower half of his body was a picture of stillness, his stance once that demanded great concentration. His spear-arm was equally still, though not rigid. He knew he had to be ready to snap into action at precisely the right moment...

When he heard Meg, it was as if she were speaking to him over his shoulder, as if her lips couldn't have been more than a breath away from his ear. He twisted his shoulders towards her and – blinked. She was sitting at least some fifteen feet away, a smirk on her face.

Tristan lowered his spear a fraction, deciding that the fish could do with a little more time to become acclimated to his presence. He opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated.

“How do you do that?” he thought.

[Megaera]

Glancing toward Chrysa, Megaera made certain that their conversation was between them. She loved her friend, but Chrysa did not exactly approve of the way she favored Tristan. She did not understand what it was Meg was trying to accomplish, or maybe she did.. Her friend remained in quiet meditation, obviously in deep focus with whatever energies she was working with.

Looking back to Tristan she shrugged a shoulder. "The same way you just did I should imagine. The Mists recognize you."

Sitting back against a sun-baked rock, Megaera held her arms apart. "You are connected to all now. Water, stone, fire and wind.. and me.", she shaded her eyes with a hand, smiling.

[Tristan Alastor]

Tristan smiled too. It was the smile of a man who had heard a joke that others were laughing at and not understood the punchline, but smiled anyway for appearances sake. Without even trying to, he had spoken into Megaera's mind, or perhaps she was simply able to dip into his thoughts as easily as he could dip a toe into the river.

A thought occurred to him.

“Can you hear what I'm thinking all of the time?”

[Megaera]

She arched a brow at that wondering how she should answer. She had never tried to read his mind, really. Only to communicate with him, to connect with him. Megaera's smile only seemed to grow as she felt a little of Chrysa's devious influence making her toy with the prince.

"What if I said yes?", she teased, wondering what manner of thoughts she might have picked up.

"No.. I'm not reading your thoughts, just speaking to them. If you can already send and receive thoughts, you probably have other gifts you are unaware of. Can you feel it, Tristan? The power behind the Mists?"

[Tristan Alastor]

Tristan realised that he was looking towards Megaera, as if he needed to see her to be able to speak to her. He turned his attention back to the river where a school of tiny shimmering fish darted amongst the waters not far from where he stood. They moved as one rippling wave, each instinctively appearing to know where its brethren would turn to next.

“What would I feel.. if I could? How is it supposed to feel?”

[Megaera]

Looking up she watched a leaf free itself from a branch high above. It spiraled, like a dancing girl at a feast, before splashing down into the river. It was carried away toward the small pool. Tilting her face to a beam of sunlight peeking through the trees, Megaera idly kicked her feet in the water. "I don't know how to describe it, except to tell you that when you feel it, you will know it. It is a great connection to everything around you."

Pulling her feet from the pool, she rose and walked along the bank, out of the water. She could sense the connection to water was no longer necessary for their conversation. Though, it had helped to guide her how to perform the mind-speak of a Nightsister, as it had suggested in the Book of Shadows.

"When you can close your eyes and still see everything around you because you feel everything around you, then you will know.."

[Tristan Alastor]

He closed his eyes. He heard the river, the wind, the snuffles and grunts of the nearby trio of rancor. He pictured the trees lining the river bank, their leaves rustling in the breeze, and the silvery school of fish as they darted this way and that through the rivers steadily flowing waters - but he did not truly see them, only what he imagined would be there. Not as he had once seen Megaera herself in his dreams, a vision almost more real than life itself.

“I do not think I feel it, then.. not yet,” he added, frowning.

[Megaera]

Looking over her shoulder, deeper into the Mist that surrounded their legendary lands, Megaera was inspired to up the stakes. She knew that Tristan would eventually understand what she spoke of, it was up to her to explain it, demonstrate if need be.

Heedless of his wary prey flitting through the pool, Megaera strode straight in scaring them away to escape back into the river. She marched right up to her prince and held out a hand to him. "You will...", she promised.

[Tristan Alastor]

A protest on the tip of his tongue, Tristan said nothing as the school of fish scattered. They had been too small to catch, he reminded himself. He shook his head at Megaera, fighting and failing to hold back the smile that the look on her face inspired.

Wading out of the river, he drove the point of his spear into dry soil. Whilst dusting off his hands, he glanced along the river towards Chrysa. He met her eyes and smiled, though the expression waned when he realised that she was not looking at but through him. She was with them still in body, but not in mind.

Turning back to Megaera, Tristan slipped his hand into hers.

“Where are you leading me now?” he asked, one eyebrow arched.

[Megaera]

"Just for a walk...", she assured him, eying Chrysa again. Leaving her friend some solitude for her meditations, Megaera left their rancor behind, so that if they were not back before Chrysa was finished, she would know they had not gone far.

Retracing their steps to the pool, she took them back to the game trail path that had led them this far on the hunt. It was an obvious, serpentine path through the thick of the land. To either side of it though, mist swirled so thick it was impossible to see more than a few feet within. Tristan had been warned upon first being brought to their encampment.

To enter this veil without training would most certainly mean his death. This Mist was no natural formation, it was a gift from the power beyond, and strengthened over time by the will of all previous Mother's of the Burning Mists clan. It served the clan itself, leading home it's daughters and concealing them when they required it. Also, by confusing and misleading their foes, most times to their death. Those who escaped into it were often led straight into their snares of their captors, or off the side of a ravine. The Mist had a will of it's own.

"That is our path.", she nodded. "If the Mists accept you, there can be no further doubt for you."

Striding forward, the feel of the Mists magic rippled all over her skin, as familiar to her as Matier's infrequent embraces. Deadly, yet comforting to her because she was accepted. Here she did not need to see, the Mist was her eyes, guiding her steps. "Feel that?"

[Tristan Alastor]

If the Mists accept you...

There were few topics so frequently discussed by slaves at the campfire than the Mists. Standing at the edge of them, part of Tristan understood why. They marked the borders to the clan territory, keeping the slaves penned in as much as keeping intruders out.

Some men claimed they were a sentient thing that would tear the flesh from your bones like ravenous piranha as soon as you stepped into them. Others, that the Mists were just mist. One of the grizzled old lizard keepers had told him that a man had once wandered into the Mists as a boy and emerged fifteen years later a man, his body covered in blisters and babbling in a tongue that not even the crones could comprehend.

It was difficult at times to know where Dathomiri superstition ended and truth began, but Tristan knew one thing for a fact: Megaera revered the Mists. When she walked into them, there was a certain ceremony to her step. They swirled around her feet and clung to her like a trailing cloak, creating the illusion that she was part of them. It was like seeing her in a dream again, an apparition swathed in grey fog.

Though he knew they were not far from the warmth and light of the rivers bank, to Tristan it felt as if they had travelled miles. The air was different, the atmosphere made heavy by that intangible force that Tristan could never seem to define.

The Mists.

“Yes,” he said, both eyebrows lifting in surprise at himself. “Yes.. I think I can.”

[Chrysothemis]

Her breathing grew shallow and labored as the chill coursed across her skin and through the fabric of her being in the same instance. Crimson eyes slid tightly closed, completely ignorant of the glances from Meg and Tristan. Chrysa was there, and yet not there, all at once. She'd never be able to explain it.

How could the others not sense the Fanged God as he said? With Matier and Megaera so favored by the Mists and the spirits, and Elder Sisters so wise in the mystical traditions? How could she, a barely tolerated outcast be worthy of such attentions?

Chrysa didn't quite understand, but knew better than to question it. Such favor was to be treasured as a sign. An important missive that she was meant for greater things than the average Nightsister's existence.

Such honor...I am hardly...worthy...but I shall...serve...she could no longer move, not even enough to shiver as the oppressive cold began to burn. It seared her lungs as she tried to breathe, the pain intense and intoxicating. Chrysa savored every second, letting it roll through her senses like a rancor in full charge. If this...if this was what the Fanged God's attentions were to bring whenever he spoke to her, she'd revel in it each and every time.

[Megaera]

"Excellent!", she smiled askance at him, leading him on, deeper into the Mist. It was not required to go very far. Megaera stopped, and turned toward him keeping Tristan in her sight, even though she had not yet let go of him.

"Within this veil, the disturbance of the outside world fades. You are confronted with concentrated magic here."

After running her thumb affectionately over his hand she let go, and stepped back. "Right in this moment, there is just the Mist, and you, and me.. "

She stepped back again, further away, mists closing around her.

[Tristan Alastor]

When Megaera moved further into the Mists, it was as if she was walking into a lovers embrace. They parted for her and reformed around her, insubstantial as smoke at one moment and impassable as stone at the next. Instinct told Tristan not to let himself become distant from his guide in a place like this. The forests of Iziz may have been dense, but he could always look to the location of the sun for guidance or climb a tree and expect to see the imposing city walls in the distance. Within the Mists, it could have been day or night. Neither sun nor moon could penetrate them.

Tristan took a testing step forward, scarcely able to see the ground beneath his feet.

“I still don't understand. Why do the Mists favour you and your tribe over others? And why me?”

[Megaera]

Tilting her chin in consideration, Megaera thought about the question before answering. "I do not know how long the Mist has existed, or how it was originally created. It has just always been. Perhaps it started as a tear in a deep well of magic, and the Mist flowed from it and covered the land.", she suggested.

Lifting her fingers she swirled them through the thickness of the unnatural fog, smiling at the formations that spiraled around her almost lovingly. "Proximity to such untapped power would have made those witches native to this land stronger, and the Mist would have been honored as a deity. Overtime and with strengthening spells, and continually added power, I suppose maybe the Mist took on a life of it's own."

"We choose to dwell within it and empower it, and in turn it favors us, and you.. Perhaps."

[Tristan Alastor]

“Perhaps?”

Already a few steps into the obscuring mists, Tristan turned slowly. The path leading back to the river bank had now vanished, their footprints erased.

“On Hapes, there are no spirits or deities,” he mused, adding as a silent afterthought to himself: Only my mother.

“Can't the Mists... sense that I'm not of this world?”

[Megaera]

"I do not believe that the planet of your birth concerns the Mist. If that were so it would accept all Dathomiri, and it does not. It recognizes those who belong. Perhaps the Deities of your world went silent when they were ignored? No offense to you, Tristan, but it sounds like a world that traded it's spirit for personal gain."

The wealth of Dathomir was not in golden cities, or an army of super weapons, it was in the deep connection of it's people to magic, and to the spirits. Megaera lived her life trusting in the Mist to keep her, to guide her, and she had never been led wrong. She had faith.

"Do not fear the Mist, Tristan. It brought you here, as surely as I did." She stepped back again, thick swirls of white closed over the space she had just been standing, she was gone from sight.

[Tristan Alastor]

“I do not fear it.”

There was an edge of defiance to his voice though even Tristan himself wasn't entirely convinced. Watching Megaera fade into the Mist, his mind was carried back to Iziz City – to the bed where he had first lay dreaming of her. He could not long for Onderon as a simpler place and moment in his life. Though he knew how to play the intrigues of a royal court to his advantage, Dathomir had awakened something in him. Part of him that had perhaps always been there, bidding its time.

“I do not fear this,” he said in a lower voice, to himself.

The Mist coiled around his ankles, rising to his knees like wisps of smoke.

“I have come too far to be fearful.”

[Megaera]

Not far, Megaera heard and smiled. "You have no reason to fear. Just walk. Think of me, and walk, and you will find me."

At least that was her theory. She had no real answers about the Mist, no tangible evidence to place before him to prove the validity of her claim. She had only her faith, in the Mist, but also in him.

From where she waited she could feel her connection to him. There were connections to all those that were a part of her life. The connection to Tristan had been there before he had arrived on Dathomir. A shade-like empty tendril that bound two great distances. After he had arrived it had grown stronger. This connection, if he could sense it, would lead him straight to her.

[The Fanged God]

You will have a chance to prove your worth sssoon, Nightsssissster.

There was no need to explain how. It was widely known amongst all tribes that the Selection was fast approaching. The cold hands at her throat began to recede. With this message delivered, the Fanged God began to relinquish his hold on her. The connection between them had been brief, but it was enough. It would not do for the girl to become too familiar with him, not yet.

As warmth and sensation began to return to Chrysa's flesh, four final words whispered in her mind. A threat.

Do not disssssappoint me.

Her mind was once again her own, or so it seemed.

[Tristan Alastor]

As she bid, so Tristan followed. Placing one foot in front of the other, he struggled to keep his eyes on the path ahead of him, instinctively wanting to glance down and search for any sign that his next step would cause him to slip or stumble.

“I do not fear this,” he said to himself, as he squared his shoulders and lifted his head. He imagined Megaera before him, her beckoning fingertips curling out of the mist much as they had once done in his dreams. Her voice invited him onward and his strides became longer, each footfall precise. He had managed to cross the stars themselves to find her. Why should a little fog stand in his way?

[Chrysothemis]

As her breath returned to her, she almost wished it wouldn't. The receding sensation was simply so exquisite, she lost herself to it for several moments. Her head dipped back, lips slightly parted as a shiver coursed through her well-shaped flesh.

Do not disssssappoint me.

N-never...she thought in response, but the presence was gone before the thought managed to form in full.

The Fanged God.

A faint, smile flitted across her lips even as she struggled to breathe, and found herself sitting alone on the sun-warmed rock. The sacred red sand of her meditation circle had been scattered, taken by the whim of the spirit that held her enraptured for a span of time she couldn't pinpoint.

Chrysa sprawled out inelegantly on the rock, her eyes closed as she simply soaked in the sun. Thoughts dwelling on what had just happened, even as she gave thought to the coming Selection which now held new meaning for her.

[Megaera]

Once Tristan started moving he was unstoppable. For a minute Megaera was convinced that he could see her and was in hot pursuit. Convinced she was being chased, she nearly let out a squeal in her haste to back her steps up quicker, but then suddenly his forward march ceased, and his look which had been so determined only seconds before began to look..uncertain. He could not see her, after all. He was just able to sense her as she had suspected.

Stepping forward, she was right in front of him now. Only a few inches of mist stood between them, but it might as well have been an ocean for all he could see. He could do this, she knew it.

Patiently she waited, he was so close now.

[Tristan Alastor]

The connection that lead Tristan onward grew suddenly weaker – as though it had been a cord he was holding onto, and the cord had been snatched away by the wind, now whipping about in the air just beyond his reach. Anxious that he might lose touch with Megaera, Tristan quested his mind outwards, feeling with a renewed urgency for guidance on where he should step.

He'd scarcely begun his almost panicked search when Meg's face swam out of the Mists in front of him, forcing Tristan to a halting stop. Startled, he nevertheless smiled.

“I found you.”