An Ill-Fated Reunion

[Darth Callidus]

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.

[Darth Anxia]

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.

[Darth Callidus]

“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.

[The Fanged God]

Trissstan… the phantom whispered.

[Tristan Alastor]

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?”

[The Daughter]

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.

[Tristan Alastor]

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.

[The Fanged God]

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.

[The Daughter]

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..

[Tristan Alastor]

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.”

[The Daughter]

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.

[Tristan Alastor]

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?”

[The Daughter]

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.

[Tristan Alastor]

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.

[The Daughter]

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.

[Tristan Alastor]

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?”

[The Daughter]

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.

[Tristan Alastor]

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?”

[The Daughter]

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.

[Tristan Alastor]

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?”

[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?

[Megaera]

Did she fear for Tristan?

It disturbed her a little to awake and find him gone. It was almost instinct now, to protect what was hers after losing so many. Above all other's she would protect her mate, but she did not sense that he was in danger. She trusted in him to return to her, and to be able to protect not just himself, but their people.

"No. I am not afraid."

The soft soles of her boots made almost no sound against the ash covered stones as she followed.

[The Fanged God]

You’ve done well… to ssshape him from the sssoft, mewling child that first came to Dathomir.

The spirit halted, turning suddenly to face Megaera directly. It looked down at her, white eyes like two torches in the darkness and face half-shrouded in ragged shadows.

You have grown powerful, haven’t you?