The nightsisters, in their infinite wisdom, have encased me in stone and magick, with the caveat that they will release me when I tell them my of my vision of Allya. I have been disallowed from inspecting the contents of my cache.
I am typing with the force. It is not as hard as one might expect, just... fiddly.
What they do not know is that I have been experimenting to figure out the finer points of mistwalking, as sisters do. When all is quiet tonight, I will simply leave this place, my due in hand.
[You open the door to the cafe, where the ambient lighting is soft and orange like the planet of a red sun. It's easy on the eyes, still illuminating the front counter plenty enough to see all the various food items for sale, and the menus where hundreds of drinks are carefully written out in chalk. The room is filled with mismatched tables and cozy booths, with a spiral staircase that leads up to a loft of couches. It smells incredibly good in here, like rich caf and baked things. A yellow, heavily tattooed zabrak stands at the counter, leaning on it while idly scrolling the holonet on a datapad. He looks up when you enter, smiling.]
“Hey come on in! I don't bite unless you ask nicely. A joke! Haha, just a joke, I swear. Don't be nervous, I'm always good to my customers. So welcome to the Twin Moons Cafe, what can I get you?”
((Welcome to the Twin Moons. This is an RP blog for the nightbrother Feral. All interactions and tagging @exile-of-dathomir assumes you've come up to the counter in person, unless you explicitly state otherwise, such as sending a comm message or holocall. Ask box is open for 'holonet' messages. If you want to RP without using reblogs, feel free to start a message chain on a post or DM. The cafe menu includes anything you want it to. The end of this post includes more helpful interaction advice.))
((Read below the cut for Feral’s backstory.))
Feral is friendly and chatty, don't be nervous, come on in! He'd love to make you a drink. ☕
[[[[ This blog is currently inactive, but the short story below remains for anyone who wants to read. :) ]]]]
I'm laying on the cot in Viscus’s back room, the one reserved for the injured.
Only I'm not injured anymore, just… empty inside. I'd tried so damn hard to win the Selection, but it hadn't been enough.
The thing is… I've never wanted kids, okay, but Savage? He smiles the most when the littlest brothers are underfoot, and he's never been one to smile much in the first place.
So I had thought…
Better than half of the nightbrothers that are Selected never come back, but, a year later a new kid is dropped off in the village, often more than one, with familiar angles to their faces, to the shape of their eyes.
If someone was going away and probably not coming back? I wanted it to be me. I can't handle the idea of being the one to wait a year, hoping to see if a new little brother shows up, with yellow skin and big almond eyes and-
I wanted it to be me.
Despite being the fastest climber and one of the best archers in the village, I’d failed. The melee part of the selection, the Trial of Night especially, against that nightsister with the smokey voice…
I turn over in the cot, and bury my face in the rough spun fabric.
I'd failed, and she'd Selected my brother instead. The fuck was I supposed to do now? Pick a new sparring partner? Go hunting by myself?
Just… carry on, like half my heart wasn't missing?
The chair beside the cot creeks with the weight of someone sitting in it. I assume it's Viscus, come to kick me out, or Burn, here to bother me into doing anything else besides laying here until I stop breathing.
“I'm so sorry, Feral…” comes the soft, silky voice of Rend.
I roll over, despite the fact that I probably look like shit, because this is the one person who might have answers for me.
Rend smiles when I do, but her lilac eyes don't crinkle at the corners like it's a real one. Good try though.
“Is he still…? Are they going to…” I have to ask.
Sometimes nightbrothers come home after the Selection. It's not… it's not unheard of.
“I don't know,” she replies, reaching out to stroke cold fingers over my forehead, passing her wrinkled knuckles under the line of my horns. “The Nightmother’s inner circle are preparing him for something, the rest of us aren't privy to what.”
I clear my throat, swallowing around a heavy thickness that clings to it. “Is that… normal? Does it mean anything?”
Rend shakes her head, the small, enchanted bells on her shawl sending out eddies in the force. A sound I've long associated with wise words and unusual kindness. “It can be… it depends on what sort of Selection it was.”
I sit up, gripping the edge of the cot. Her evasive words aren't helping.
“Is it normal for when they're going to use one of us as a stud? Or is it something else?” I ask, trying to keep my tone even.
I'm terrified. Hopeful. Terrified of being hopeful.
“No. It's not something generally done when a nightbrother is brought to the temple for procreation,” she admits.
I let go of the cot’s edge in favor of dropping my head into my hands.
Maybe… maybe.
Maybe he's coming back. Maybe I won't have to try and raise my nephews while trying not to scream inside everytime I look at them. Maybe I won't have nephews.
Would that be better… or worse?
Rend sits down on the cot beside me, the cloth arm of her deep red robes coming over my back like a blanket. “Oh Feral… you should have been born on Rattatak or Iridonia.”
“I'm not weak!” I hiss, trying not to be offended. She's not… wrong.
“No,” Rend agrees softly, “you're one of the best warriors in the village. It doesn't change the fact that your soul is… gentle.”
“Being gentle didn't win me the Selection, so what's it worth?” I mutter.
The nightsister snorts. “You wanted to be Selected?”
“... I want to have been Selected instead of Savage,” I admit, rubbing at my eyes tiredly.
Rend sighs, like the very idea of it makes her even more tired than I am. “Go home. Get some rest. If I find out anything about your brother, I'll come let you know, alright?”
I manage a thin smile up at her, then take her thin fingers in mine to kiss the back of her knuckles. “Thank you nightsister. I… thank you.”
She withdrawals to stand up, giving my shoulder one last squeeze. “Walk with the fanged god’s blessing, nightbrother.”
I watch her go, until the bright splash of her robes disappears around the corner. Viscus takes her place in the door frame, watching me silently with his weathered eyes.
“You heard her, Feral. Go on home… and take care of yourself. You might have a maleling on your hands, come spring. Don't forget that,” he cautions me, in his gruff way.
I drag myself to my feet, buoyed just barely enough by the thought that maybe this was an unusual Selection, and the results might be unusual too. Maybe Savage will be back tomorrow, and we can go fishing like we'd planned…
I leave, but I don't make it home.
Halfway across the village, a pair of nightsister initiates come striding up to me.
“Follow,” says one, droll and bored.
“You have been summoned,” snaps the other.
I know better than to speak when sisters come calling with sneering looks and curt demands. With my head lowered I follow, but excitement churns in my guts.
Was I being called on to help Savage take his leave from the temple? Did they already… you know, and now they want someone to get him out of their way?
Maybe, maybe.
The two sisters direct me into a side seat on a transport spreeder, and take off. I watch Viscus, Rend, and the Comand brothers all rush forward, only to stop at the gate, watching us go.
I lean out to wave.
The ride across the distance goes fast on these speeders. Rather than hours of flight on a winged creature, or day long run on a hooved one, the nightsisters’ transport gets us to the temple in an hour.
“Follow,” the shorter one orders me.
For as many herb hunting trips as I've gone on for Rend and some of the other sisters, I've… never actually been to the temple. It's huge. I mean just… it's the whole mountain range. The statues that border it's entry are bigger than any creature I've ever seen.
We enter, and Domir’s red light is quickly replaced by the softer glow of lamps. I'm led to a room with nothing in it, just a nightsister waiting with a cup.
“Drink.” She hands it off to me, and leaves.
I sit down at the back wall, ready to wait patiently, hoping I'll get to see Savage soon. The drink tastes limey. A little too sweet for my tastes, but not noxious or anything.
I turn around as she goes, just about ready to brave asking a careful question or two, but all the witches have left. They close the door behind them, and I'm alone in a plain stone room.
Well… alright then.
Sipping idly at the cup, I wait.
I feel as if… he's alive. Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but it's like… I can feel him? Maybe it's not wishful thinking, sometimes I just know things.
As long as my brother is okay, I don't really care what happens next. I'll carry him back if I have to. I know he'd do the same for me.
I stop drinking the cup when I get tired of the flavor. It's too strong. Setting it aside is the last thing I remember before falling asleep.
Rough hands lift me upward under either arm, and I blink awake.
“Mmnh?” I ask, disoriented.
“Silence, nightbrother,” says one of the women holding me.
Ughl. I feel… unwell. What was in that drink?
The nightsisters drag me out of the room, which is a good thing, because I don't think I can stand. We don't go far, really. One long hallway and a few doors down, and they come to a stop. Then they just… stand there.
What are we waiting for exactly?
“Bring in the prisoner,” I hear, in that nightsister’s voice. “Now… for the final test.”
Prisoner? The fuck.
The two witches bearing me up start forward again, dragging me into a room scrawled with ritual circles and ichor and all manner of nightmagick tools.
I look up, confused, because… because I feel my brother, but I don't see him.
The two sisters drop me on the stone floor before those gathered, then retreat to the sides. I'm honestly a little dizzy, but I look up, waiting to see what they want from me, looking for-
It's the eyes that I recognize first. His markings are in shadow, and his frame is… different, but it's him.
“Savage!”
The hulking man that looks down on me just… stares. Wordless.
“Now,” says the woman, with words like syrupy poison, “kill him.”
My jaw drops of its own accord. She can't be serious, can she? He would never.
I look from the nightsister back to my brother, waiting to see what the plan is. If he wants to try fighting our way out… well the odds suck, but I'm willing to try.
Savage looks back at me and just… growls, softly.
I hadn't noticed it before, too caught up in feeling sick and confused and hopeful, but my brother feels…
…absent.
Oh fuck.
This is nightmagick.
“Savage? Y-you know me…”
Nothing.
“I’m your kin!”
Nothing.
Savage’s eyes narrow, and again he growls, soft and low in his chest. He makes no move to gut me, at least.
“Do not do this!” I encourage.
Gods be good, he'd never forgive himself. I'd rather jump from the top of gorgara falls than let him-
“I said kill him,” the nightsister orders, smacking my brother across the face.
It barely moves him. He's like a mountain onto himself with… whatever it is they've done to him.
He never looks away from me, and I refuse to look away from him.
‘Come on brother’, I will toward him, ‘It's me.’
With a lurch, he steps forward, reaching out. For a few beautiful seconds I think he's going to pick me up and run…
His hand slips around my throat.
“No!” I cry out, horrified.
“Mnnngg…”
“Brother,” I beg as he lifts me, “Brother please.”
“You,” he rumbles, caustic and hateful, “make. Weakling.”
I try calling his name, my nails scrabbling at his forearm as the hand that had patched my wounds a hundred times instead squeezes the life out of me.
I feel my neck break with a sickening crunch I can taste, and suddenly my world narrows down to what I can see, which grows dimmer, and what I can hear, which grows quieter.
I can feel nothing of my body besides the skin on my face, and even that is fading.
The world spins, and my cheek is pressed to the cold stone floor.
“Good,” the nightsister with the smokey voice croons. “Very good…”
“You will learn to draw your strength from your emotions...”
“Hate will feed you….”
“Never sympathize with the enemy…”
“Not even for a moment…”
“Yes. Sister.”
Hate…? Hate is difficult to feel. Maybe I'm inured to the average nightsister's casual cruelty, but what I'm feeling right now as I die… it's not hate.
It's grief.
Gods why… why did they make him…
… and then, suddenly, everything is pain.
I jerk, screaming. Howling. Incoherently and uncontrollably writhing.
My limbs are fire, my gut is lightning, every breath is sand and grit. I scream for so long and so hard that I lose sense of time and direction.
“I'm so sorry, oh winged goddess forgive me, I had to try. What did I do wrong? I was so careful…”
I scream.
And scream.
And scream.
“I shouldn't have… This spell… I shouldn't have…”
That's… that's… I know that voice.
I draw in a deep breath, and force myself to shut up. It hurts even more, and I barely manage it, but what else is there?
More screaming? Forever?
“Rrrr,” I try, but speaking is ridiculously difficult. “Rrre… reennnn…”
A gasp. Hands on my shoulders. Her pale face comes into view, framed by the red-orange sky.
“Feral?” she asks, thin brows turned up with fear and hope, “Please. Please tell me you're in there?”
In where? I try to ask but it comes out like gravel poured off a cliff.
Rather than try and talk when it just isn't working, I reach up to cup her wrinkled cheek. My hand shakes, covered in dirt, with too-long claws and streaks of ichor, but I manage it.
Gently, I stroke a thumb over her cheek. “Rr-rrennnnd.”
The nightsister’s lilac eyes fall closed, and she holds my hand to her face with one of her own. “It's okay… it's okay. I'll heal more of you, just… stay calm, alright? Don't think too hard.”
I can barely think in the first place, so that's doable.
Exhausted, and still in unholy amounts of pain, I relax as best I can. I don't… remember how I got hurt this bad, but I'm glad Rend was on hand or I'd probably be dead.
Where is… um. Where is…
There's someone else I'm looking for.
My thoughts drift like clouds, uncoordinated and ever shifting. Incohesive.
I feel like I'm lifted, energy raising me up, moving me. Night falls, and we pass into a village of some sort. My legs feel like I'm being passively electrocuted.
A nightbrother comes into view above me. Older, but handsome. He has kind eyes.
“What have you done, nightsister?” he asks, raw and quiet.
“He didn't deserve… I can't help- mn. But I could help him,” Rend replies, from somewhere near my head.
“Sister…” the man starts, fearful, “If one of the Nightmother's inner circle return to the village and see him here…”
“I know,” she says, swallowing, “believe me, I know. I'll… figure something out.”
“One of the other enclaves?” he asks.
“... no,” Rend replies slowly, “I don't think that will be enough.”
“Then what?” the man asks, laying a hand on my head, fingers threaded gently between the horns.
“... I'll come up with something.”
I fade out after that, weary to my bones from fighting the endless twitching in my limbs, bearing myself as steadily as I can, despite the cold fire in my fingers.
The next time I wake up, I'm… elsewhere.
I shiver, automatically clutching at the blankets piled on me. Footsteps echo on metal, low voices talking, too distant to hear.
A hand lands on my forehead, like they're checking my temperature.
I open my eyes, looking upward at the person. It's a nightsister. She smiles at me.
I know her… don't I know her?
“Where am I?” comes out of my throat more like ‘wheremm iiii?’ but it's better than before.
“We're on a starship, Feral. In orbit. Have you ever been up here before?”
Now that she says it, I can feel… I can feel that home is down. I hate it.
“I want to ggg-go home,” I tell her, cringing at the rust in my voice. “My t-throat hurts.”
The woman makes a horrible face for just a moment, then gathers me close. I'm… being hugged. It's nice.
“I'm sorry your throat hurts,” she croaks, “The magick that… fixed it… was born of our planet. Taking you away from that is… well I would prefer not to, but it's not safe for you anymore. I have to take you somewhere else.”
I can barely understand what she's saying. That was so many words in a row. A noise escapes me, unhappy and forlorn. I don't want to go somewhere else. I want to go back to… to…
“Nightsister,” I say, then pause to cough, “wwwhat is our planet called? My h-head is…”
The woman lays me back, such strength in her arms even though she's aged. With lines like that in her skin, she must be pushing several centuries.
“I know you,” I tell her, distressed. “But I- I-”
“Shhh,” the sister tells me, “your mind will heal, but it will take time. I'm Rend. We're from Dathomir. You're… the best assistant I've ever had, honestly.” She makes a sad little hiccup, trying to smile and failing. “Our medicinal stores have never been better, but apparently that doesn't matter to those- those- …nevermind. Just rest, alright?”
I want to say no, but I'm already slipping away again.
I'm Feral. Her name is Rend. Dathomir. Home is Dathomir.
I'm Feral.
She's Rend.
Home is Dathomir.
I repeat these to myself, desperately holding on to the only three thoughts in my head.
The flight to wherever we're going takes a while. I can't really keep track of the hours, nevermind the days, but it feels like it's been ages.
I relearn how to walk. How to drink. How to hold a stylus. How to put on clothes. It's horrible. I'm either confused, embarrassed, or both ninety percent of the time.
There's only one other person on the ship, the pilot. A very old nightbrother, older than I'd ever seen before. He doesn't talk much. Apparently they're old friends, with enough favors owed that neither keeps track anymore.
He's nice to me, but distant.
I'm more awake than asleep during the day by the time we come out of hyperspace near… wherever we've been heading to. While the ship lands, Rend helps me get dressed in new clothes.
“These are uh, k-kinda ugly,” I tell her, frustrated that I still can't stop stuttering.
She laughs, patting me on the cheek and straightening the vest like I'm a youngling. “I have to make you less pretty, you know. You’ll attract too much attention with that smile of yours, hm? Try to look grumpy and dull while we go through customs for me ”
I side eye her. “What's a customs?”
“It's a… security check, to make sure people visiting a place aren't bringing things that aren't supposed to be there,” Rend explains. “Coruscant is very strict about such things.”
“We're going to… kor-sant… then?” I ask. Never heard of it, honestly.
She steps back, looking at me sadly. “There's going to be a lot of new things to get used to here, but I've a friend who's going to help you get settled.”
I shift uncomfortably. “... not you?”
The nightsister shakes her head, making the little bells of her shawl tinkle and chime. “The Nightmother will look for me eventually. Nothing slips by her. If I stayed, it would leave a trail right back to you.”
“... and that's… bad?” I ask, still not understanding.
Rend’s expression twists in anger for a split second, but she hides it by looking away. I can still feel it though.
“Nevermind all that, Feral. There's a new life waiting for you here. Focus on the future, okay?”
“... alright.”
Everything goes really fast after that. The ship lands and the airlock spills us out in a busy place that the pilot calls a ‘spaceport’. Rend holds my hand, leading me through ‘customs’ and the dense crowds, showing papers to different people, and exchanging little metal bars for passage.
We go from spaceport to tram, from tram to elevator, and from there we walk.
In a matter of hours we've gone from the quiet little cabin where I relearned how to lace my boots, through a maelstrom of places unlike anything I'd ever seen outside of holos, to a quiet little living room with a tall, strange woman.
“Feral, this is Hexa, she's a pau’an, and an old acquaintance of mine,” Rend tells me, “You're going to stay with her while you get back on your feet.”
I'm on my feet right now, but the joke seems like low hanging fruit. “Hello Hexa… thank you for your help.”
She smiles with a mouth full of needle teeth, the lines along her pale skin bending with the muscles beneath. “Oh I'm glad to have you, really. I've been thinking about hiring help to run the shop, even held a few interviews… but I haven't found the right person. Rend says you're a deft hand with herbs and spices?”
“Ahh, yes ni-” I cut off, unsure what to call a female from another species. She's not a nightsister… is she? “... Hexa. I um… I like plants.”
The pau’an raises a lined brow at Rend, who snorts. “You'll need to teach him all the names you use, and the proportions you want, but Feral was the best herbalist’s assistant I've had in ages. He has a talent for it.”
I really don't know what's going on. It sounds like the nightsister has found a place for me to live, and a job for me to do, but… anxiety turns over in my gut. She's going to leave.
I don't want her to leave.
“Well alright,” Hexa says thoughtfully. “We can surely try. If you're not suited, I know a tailor looking for a bit of help too.”
“I can sew,” I offer, “but working with plants sounds better.”
The tall woman nods, resettling her feathered jacket she gestures me forward with one long nail. “Come on then m’dear. I'll show you the shop, the undercroft, and the little studio basement I've got set up for you.”
I turn to Rend as Hexa walks away, heading down a set of stairs to the level below. The nightsister smiles at me, nodding toward the staircase. I bow my head, accepting the order. What else can I do?
As it turns out, the shop downstairs is a cafe, featuring a galactic variety of beverages and lighter fare for sale. As Rend had hoped, my half remembered talents with dathomirian herbs did translate to making the various brews, though not as much to the baking.
Rend leaves the next morning, but promises to visit, and I settle into the studio beneath the cafe as best I can. I own nothing but the contents of a duffle bag.
This is how I come to work at the Twin Moons Cafe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
RP interaction guide:
Feral doesn't know anyone except Rend and Hexa. If you're a person from his past, you'll have to help him remember you. He is especially excited to see other dathomirians.
OCs, yourself, other RP blogs, and multiple-versions of the same canon characters are WELCOME. Feral will have individual friendships/rivalries/fights with each person without mentioning the other instances. He may have multiple adventures, romances, and even brothers at the same time. Every RPer gets a fresh instance of Feral, right off the ship and new to the city, unless requested otherwise or a group tag chain is started.
[ ] indicates narration, "" is dialogue. You can format your own posts anyway you like though.
//Indicates a file, images, holo, vid, or holonet link on a text communication.
Explicit or highly emotional engagements may be moved to DM.
Minors DNI. Adults RPing minors are welcome for wholesome interaction.
There are no timeline constraints. You can be from kotor era, the rebellion era, or any other time, just establish this with him and he'll follow your lead.
Don't speak for, react for, think for, or otherwise drive other characters. Only your own.
Describe what you look like when you walk in, especially your clothes, vibes, and species. Feel free to be excessive, since your first tag will be the header for the rest of the reblog chain, and will make an easy reference point for your appearance, abilities, attitude, etc. Time of day is also helpful, but the cafe is always open.
(( )) indicates out of character communication. Tags are also generally ooc.
If you're wondering 'does this guy want to even talk to me?' the answer is YES. Even if you just stop in one time for a cup of caf, Feral wants to talk to you.
Some believe the Witching Hour is the time of night when the veil between life and death is thinnest, allowing spirits and ghosts to travel between two worlds. Others believe that witches and psychics are more powerful at this time of night.
So what time is the witching hour? 3AM is commonly the accepted time, but some people consider the start of a new day, or midnight, to be the true Witching Hour.
The phrase “Witching Hour” was first recorded sometime around 1835, though the origins seem to be from a period of time in 1535 where the Catholic Church forbade activities during the 3-4AM window due to rising concerns about witchcraft in Europe. Witch hunts, demonic activity, exorcisms, and rituals have all become intertwined with the Witching Hour.
Ultimately, the Witching Hour is a time of energy, power and magick. 💙💙Sending blessings to you and your loved ones. 💙💙
Morpheus, Hypnos, Nyx and Erebus spirits of the nighttime darkness and vesper time world of dreams. Also Persephone and Demeter. This locket contains Thornapple (moonflower) a nightblooming memeber of the nightshade family closely tied to night magick and nocturnal creatures. Poppy (Papaver somniferum, sacred to and ruled by the gods of sleep and dream used for millennia In divination, dream incubation and underworld mysteries. This locket also contains graveyard moss and a share of Victorian era porcelain from the UK reprinting a man playing a Lyre. This is an amulet of peace and tranquility and the healing that comes from the oblivion of sleep. Use to connect to nocturnal energies for magick and ritual. Link In bio #herbalamulets #poisonlocket #poisonjewelry #datura #daturainnoxia #poppy #papaversomniferum #opiumpoppy #underworld #persephone #chthonic #nightmagick #nocturnalmagick #moonflower #moongarden #nocturnalgarden https://www.instagram.com/p/CQ1DIe2rYAo/?utm_medium=tumblr
It begins the day after Maul makes his return to Dathomir.
The sith is elbows deep in datapads trying to gain background knowledge on the Crimson Dawn's next venture: an escargot farm, of all things, for a particular breed of shellfish. One that acts as a nearly universal aphrodisiac when eaten. Vos had declared the market for it 'an untapped niche' with projected gains in the 'I could buy a moon every other year' category.
He already has a planet. Dathomir is more or less his, but Maul thinks he might like a moon or two. Besides, one never knew when they might need a spare astral body in his line of work. Perhaps for trade, perhaps for crashing into things. He is flexible.
One minute he is reviewing zoology documents made by a mon calamari, and then gently, like a cloud over the sun, he is being watched.
His spine straightens and the sith pulls his sense of self tight to his skin, guarding himself while attempting to observe the observer. The presence slips through his fingers, but he too slips through theirs. They go round and round like two predators in the night, stalking each other through the flow of the force.
Eventually the feeling fades, and Maul is left alone in his office space, perturbed. He waits an hour or more, patient and wary, but the sensation of being sought does not return.
He exhales heavily through his nose and returns to reading about aquarium keeping, stopping only to make snacks, refresh the tea pot, and stretch his back.
Dathomir's red star sinks below the horizon. Domir takes with it the light that had been coming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, leaving the spectacular view of the sunrise canyon in deepening purple hues. Maul takes this as his cue to end the day.
The sith stalks out of his simplistic office, and heads to the end of the hallway. The decor transitions from plasteel to roughly carved redstone at the doorway, from the soft orange glow of sodium-vapor bulbs to flickering oil lanterns and magelight. He had appointed the bedroom den at the end of the hall with far more dathomirian aesthetics than the modern office space.
Some furniture he had been able to scavenge from the temple, mostly of carved stone, though there were a few precious wooden pieces left unburnt by the droid army among them. A small table, a few mismatched chairs, and a hefty trunk. The rest of his furnishings Maul had collected from offworld.
The result is… functional. Quiet and dark. The bed space is large and comfortable, partially carved back into the wall for extra protection. Nowhere is too open. Everything he wishes to be reminded of has a place to sit, somewhere he can see.
Dim candles light all the cracks and corners without hurting his eyes. There are books and scrolls to read, an orb recovered from his mother’s temple, projects to tinker with in idle moments. It is… good, he thinks. Though he might reorganize his memory items again. Later.
For now, he plans to undress, bathe, and-
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Maul whips around, expecting a physical presence, but there is no one and nothing there. He coats himself in a basic spell of obfuscating mist and draws his force presence close to his hearts, under his skin.
The observer tries to catch him up with a searching pattern that feels like smokey claws and gossamer hairs, winding ribbons and closing jaws. Threads, deceptive in their affectionate creeping.
"One?" he rasps in the empty hallway, "No… more. Several."
There are so many aspects of force trying to locate him that surely it must be a ritual, fueled by multiple people. Four or five, at bare minimum. He would guess it was his former master's doing, but surely Sidious would not need to look for him so much as come for him if he decided to spare the effort.
So who? Who?
But to look with that part of him which can See is to open himself, and Maul is not certain of the wisdom in letting this coven of force users near him just for the chance to find them.
Sweat beads on his scalp, dripping down and sliding off his chin. The effort to remain untouchable, hidden from these hunters, is intensely taxing, but the force vibrates in warning whenever he starts to slip.
Then, suddenly, he is alone again.
He waits, just as before, shoulders high and breathing hard as he remains watchful. The air remains still, lacking that dark innervation. Maul falls back against the wall, and presses the heel of a palm to his forehead. The effort has earned him a headache and shaking fingers.
The sith returns to moving down the hall, but changes destination. His den, while comfortable, is not the most secure location available here. That title goes to his mother's sanctum, riddled with runes and steeped in ichor fueled protections. He has not yet deciphered the nature of even half of the witch-made wards from the books and murals that remain of her teachings.
Maul slips into the sanctum, touching his chest where once her spirit had anchored itself.
"Mother," he begins, searching for an acceptable explanation for intruding. "I seek… shelter, in your sanctum. I am hunted by a power unknown, and the force warns me to avoid its touch."
That is an understatement. The force buzzes with indistinct warning, a vibrating drone so deep and ubiquitous it feels physical. Bumblebees underwater, crawling anxiety like marching ants.
No reply comes. He counts that as permission.
The sith goes to sit on the stone floor at the center of grooved patterns and runes. He will meditate now and gather his strength, assuming that eventually-
It returns! So quickly the threads descend again.
Vitriolic green light bursts to his left, then forward, then above him. Sharp eyes survey the room as sections of sigils light and dim along the walls, like fireworks. The grooves in the floor begin to fill with-
"Ichor," he murmurs, watching the luminous waters fill in the circling patterns. He cannot identify the source of where it flows from.
This… is not magick Maul has witnessed before. Savage had, reluctantly, described his own rituals, and the healing the Nightmother had done for Maul after Lotho Minor, but this is… different. Carved into Dathomir’s living stone, commanding the planet’s power even in the absence of a witch to direct it. It is wonderous.
The feeling of being looked for slides away from him with so much more ease, and he sighs in relief.
Maul ends up sleeping there, curled in on himself on the stone floor. Every few hours the cloying tendrils return again, and he wakes to watch the wards and push away the hooks that stretch for him.
It is only after a week of being chased back to his mother's room, day and night, that he realizes he is trapped on Dathomir until the hunt is ended. Until he ends it. To do that, he will have to learn to hide all on his own. Without becoming an unhinged, sleepless mess incapable of hunting these new enemies.
Maul faces this reality with easy acceptance. He has survived harsher challenges before, and will again. Mustafar, Lotho Minor, Hypori- the dark sustained him every time.
This will end no differently.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
There is something to be said for the creativity of a determined witch.
I spent the majority of last night in a stuttering vision of being a spider-like version of myself, tucked away in the back of a cargo hold. Again and again a facsimile of the Nightmother would coax me out from a sea of crates, whether I wanted to go or not. My body moves on it's own in these visions, dizzily chasing a ball of green witchlight, until I feel a tap on my forehead and everything goes dark.
This repeated, ad nauseum, until one vision where... it is difficult to describe. Talzin called to me from outside the vessel, but instead of some distant figment again trying to beguile me from my shelter, it was... her. As she is now.
She called me son, and spoke of the singing stone. Surprise, surprise, the Nightmother also wants the beacon of Allya. She claimed the beacon is not for a man to touch. That my ownership was wrong.
I pretended to be insensate, lost to the influence of my vision-self and unable to hear her offers of favors or rewards in exchange for bringing the stone to the nightsister's temple.
