Of Buried Treasures and Loathsome Witches

[Apocrypha]

Sore muscles ached pitifully, twisting under the weight of his lean body as Rorik hauled himself up over one more incline, over one more crown, cresting the path with a grunt. Despite the altitude of the mountain, the thick, humid forests and wide, flowing rivers had driven a respectable sheen of sweat down the entirety of his body. His sleeveless green tunic had grown a shade darker, his hiking boots were now a pair of puddles, and - despite being tied down behind his head - his thick black hair was soaked through.

Crossing his arms, Rorik stood at the precipice of the overhang, eyeing the beauty of the lush green valley beneath Singing Mountain. Rivers criss-crossed and cleaved aimless paths through the foliage, mid-morning mists clung to every branch and bushel, and the sound of life was numbing; the chirp of bugs and the song of birds, the low slither of snakes and the whistling of wind as purboles swung, branch to branch amid the treetops, far now from rancor feeding grounds.

They had traversed the hostile brush of Dathomir and now summited the tallest peak within its slim habitable region on a quest: Rorik's lightsaber, lost during the decimation of Anoth, needed to be replaced. It had been some time since the young Jedi had wielded a lightsaber, and he only hoped that his talent with the blade had not diminished. His fingertips traced the metal casing dangling from his belt; he now lacked only the focusing crystal necessary to power the weapon and, given the Imperium's choking grasp over known space, the Outer Rim was the safest place to acquire a crystal and hope not to blunder into an Imperial ambush.

"Orlaan," he greeted the massive Jedi Master, who was now accompanying him on his quest, and had summited the ridge several moments after Rorik; for all Orlaan's bulk and strength, Rorik - lean and light - could travel faster. "We're not far," he surmised, indicating the thin red flag dangling from a crag perhaps a quarter-mile away; "We're entering Dathomiri Witch territory."

Rubbing his beard, Rorik frowned. "I can't be certain, not being a native, but I would hazard a guess that this is the territory of the Singing Mountain Clan. They should be able to help us locate the crystal cavern in these mountains." He didn't mention that, not being Nightsisters, they were considerably less likely to murder the pair on sight. "Whether or not they'll aid us for free, I cannot say. Perhaps my healing powers can come in handy; they're likely to have ill and infirm among their tribe. Shall we carry on?"

 

[Ben]

"This is your trial, Rorik. Not mine. You should be the one to decide if we go ahead, I will support you when you need me, but these are your choices to make."

Orlaan clapped Rorik on the shoulder as he dragged himself up after his friend - a fact which had made itself fairly clear again after Core 244 and Naboo. The younger Jedi had maintained the lead as he led the path, with Ghess following at the set pace. They'd been travelling together for near a month now, since the chaotic few days after they were first reacquainted. Orlaan had hoped that Rorik would have started to open up a bit, to begin the healing process, but if anything, he'd simply become more distant.

It seemed that the adrenaline had helped loosen him up a bit, and now that he had time to think, the guy wouldn't say a word. Not that Orlaan had been particularly pushy - he'd be there to do what he could when the time came, but he wasn't going to pester the guy about it. No need to tear his soul back up again; Ghess wasn't much more eager to see that burnt look in Rorik's eyes than the man himself was.

"Least we can be thankful the Dathomiri have developed a little culturally. It wasn't all _that_ long ago really than just being men would have set us back a country mile. Just remember the clan's respect strength and tradition. Show their customs some mind, but don't go being a supplicant... not that you would you stubborn mule."

Orlaan let go of Rorik's shoulder and gave him a playful bump. His pal may have been hurting, but he had come to terms with -- if not faced the issue -- his decision to keep on trucking and seemed to not mind a bit of banter every now and then. Most of the time he was jus that though: a stubborn mule. Like a work horse, he seemed so determined to see some task through. Problem was, the bastard was too damn quiet to disclose what the hell that was.

Orlaan half wished they would land themselves in a Rancor nest, just to try and get some of that adrenaline working in Rorik's head again. Surely he had to spill sooner or later.

"I reckon we'll come up on some watchers sooner or later; I know we've passed two patrols already. One about three miles back, on horseback out to the wast down where the valley came out onto the veldt's. Another was just a few hundred yards back up in the scree fall to our left. See 'em?"

Orlaan didn't doubt Rorik had - he was sharp, and had senses like a Kath hound.

"I imagine one of them has word back - doubtless we'll be challenged soon."

 

[Apocrypha]

"I do," he answered solemnly. A brief wave of darkness overtook him, but he would not let it settle; whether or not he was dealing with his grief in a healthy manner was unimportant to Rorik. For the time being - until he was ready to heal - he would put the past out of his mind and look towards the future; there were many tasks that demanded his attention, from a war with an insidious death machine to individual, wounded persons throughout the galaxy, to the crystal he required for his weapon. The weapon of a Jedi.

Truth be told, even once he had constructed a third lightsaber, Rorik was uncertain that he would consider himself a Jedi. They had titled him a Knight - but what did that even mean? Was it representative of his power? His growth and understand of the Force? His martial prowess? A decaying cluster of warrior monks clinging to ancient, perhaps outdated traditions named him a Knight - but he did not feel like a Knight... and what good was title when, in your heart, you no longer lived up to or aspired to the qualifications of a savior?

It was time to move on, though; there was work to be done.

"Speak of a Sith," he remarked, indicating the dust cloud on the ridge ahead of them, "and it presents itself." The cloud drew near - and without warning, the hazy, shifting miasma dispersed, clearing as if it had never existed. In its place were a dozen women on a dozen horses - large, fur-coated quadrupeds used on Dathomir as beasts of burden - with great wooden staffs and airs of granite about them.

"Who are you?" their commander shouted, the left and right flanks slowly encircling Rorik and Orlaan. Rorik raised his hands in a universal gesture of peace, bowing his head. "What business do you have in Singing Mountain Clan territory?"

"Hail, but we are friends," called Rorik, gesturing towards Orlaan. "My gargantuan friend and I wish to speak with your Clanmother. We seek aid, and offer whatever we may in return."

"And what do you offer, outsider?"

"I am a powerful healer," Rorik admitted, "and my friend is a great warrior. In return for the aid we seek, we would give freely our talents in any fashion that the Clanmother deems just."

"Indeed?" the commander questioned, smirking. "So be it. You," she waved her staff at Rorik, "will ride with us. Your friend must make the journey on foot; he looks to be gargantuan enough to crush one of our horses."

Rorik glanced sidelong at Orlaan, grinning. "She's not wrong."

 

[Ben]

Orlaan shrugged off his pack and tossed it at Rorik.

"Fine, but you're taking my bags."

The Jedi eyed up the horses he'd have to run along side: thick muscle, stocky limbs, dense fur. They weren't made for speed, rather power, and sturdiness. Besides, Rorik's agile form may have made up the ground better on the uneven mountain side but, on a straight, Orlaan's powerful legs and massive stride made all the difference. He'd keep up. It looked like the horses and their riders had come down from a pathway cutting through stone walls atop the mountainside - easy enough to follow.

'I hope you're promises don't land us in a sticky situation. Believe it or not I've fought for a Dathomiri before, the clan wars still happen, from time to time.'

Orlaan spoke to Rorik telepathically, but all he got in response was a sort of mental shrug. Ghess was getting used to being brushed off by his old pal at this point. The tall Jedi rolled his eyes and fell into step behind the riders as they circled back around the way they came, quickly forming up to keep eyes on him from all angles. This was no scouting party - why so cautious over two off world visitors? Men at that?! Perhaps Orlaan's idle thoughts of clan war were not as far from the mark as one would have guessed.

--

It took then another hour of straight running to reach the clan's main grounds. The frequency of armed patrols and outposts increased as they drew down into the heart of a great depression between the two mountains the clan called home. A great palisade was erected around the mouth of every entrance into the bowl-valley, with guards on horse back and on foot at the ready; the tension increased as the off-worlders were spotted amongst the clans own. A fact that Orlaan did not need the Force to pick up on. Nor did he fail to notice the variety of looks he got - but they were nothing new. He'd seen them on the faces of the wary Padawan's he'd shared classes with as a child, the concern of Master's and friends, the chatting behind his back, even from time to time the greedy looks from slavers - what a prize he'd be. The freak show - Orlaan scoffed to himself, but quickly shut the thoughts down before Rorik caught wind. Wouldn't do for him to hear any of that concern, no sir.

"Are your people expecting an attack?"

He directed his question to the lead rider, a woman perhaps just past her prime, but nevertheless formidable-looking - cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on. She seemed a little less dejected than the rest, and his guess had been right.

"We are."

Curt. He hadn't expected much more.

"Is it something we could help with? We can act as -"

"That is for the clanmother to decide. You can save your questions for later - if she permits it."

He quickly snapped his jaw shut. Now was not the time to push their 'hosts', although with the way they angled their weapons at him, Orlaan couldn't help but wonder why he and Rorik had been brought this far. The looming long-tent set against the massive cliff wall against the far side of the bowl valley to where they had entered likely held the answers to Orlaan's questions.

 

[Apocrypha]

Rorik massaged his ass as he set boot on firm ground once more; he'd ridden his fair share of beasts, before, but these horses were obnoxiously uncomfortable. Having to invade the Witch's personal space to ensure that he didn't flop off of the horse while they rode had also eroded his comfort - but after days of trekking through the perilous "habitable" zone of Dathomir, nothing could deter him from acquiring what they had come for. Not even the Singing Mountain Clanmother.

"I will take you to the Clanmother," the troupe's commander spoke, dismounting. "My name is Arasha," she said, rolling her r ever so slightly, "what are your names, outsiders?"

"Rorik," the young Jedi intoned, bowing his head ever-so-slightly.

"Indeed," Arasha said, half-ignoring Orlaan as she aboutfaced, motioning over her shoulder for the duo to follow her to the great tent that must, Rorik assumed, belong to the Clanmother.

Rorik quirked a brow at Orlaan, conversing telepathically.

Arasha held the tent's flap open for them, and Rorik and Orlaan ducked inside the grand abode. It was decorated humbly, only a handful of keepsakes - daughters' youthful drawings and first hunts' prizes, etc. - and furnishings. Several feet away from the seated Clanmother, Rorik settled onto his knees, bowing his head in reverence. The young Jedi bowed before very few - but, at times, it was prudent to show the proper respect, lest one lose their head to a pikewoman's blade.

"Rorik and Orlaan, outsiders, requesting aid from Clanmother Zarothea and, in exchange, offering their own skills as payment," declared Arasha, bowing at the waist and slowly backing out of the tent, leaving the Clanmother, Rorik, and Orlaan alone.

Clanmother Zarothea was an attractive woman, surprisingly youthful given the age that Rorik knew her to possess; one rarely became the leader of an entire clan of Dathomiri Witches without surviving for quite some time on their hostile planet. Her hair was tied in several thick, long braids, tickling the ground behind her; faded tattoos marked the slightly-wrinkled skin of her face; scars, long healed, from great battles - presumably either with the local fauna or else rival clans - marred her arms and shoulders.

"You may rise," Zarothea spoke, gesturing gracefully. Rorik sat upright upon his knees. "Before I levy payment," she said slowly, looking from one Jedi to the other, "what aid do you request from me and my clan, outsiders?"

"We seek only information, Clanmother," Rorik began.

"Information is, perhaps, the most priceless form of aid, young one." she interrupted. "Go on."

"Rumors abound that a cavern with supernatural crystals lies within these mountains. We seek its location, and offer in return -"

Zarothea raised a hand to quiet him. "These rumors are true; a great cavern filled with crystals attuned to the Force rests not far from here, perhaps a day's march. Know that I freely admit this for only one reason: I can see - by your weapons and your stance - that you are warriors. A laughable notion of men, on Dathomir, but wherever you come from I expect you are talented combatants. Truth be told, I've lost something dear to me in the crystal cavern."

"What... might that be, Clanmother?"

"My daughter."

Rorik's eyes widened, and he furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "A rite-of-age ceremony gone awry?"

"You're very perceptive, young one," the Clanmother replied, the corners of her mouth very briefly attempting a smile. "Typically, were a child lost to the caverns - our ancestral proving grounds - we would mourn their passing, but move on; only the strong are permitted to survive on Dathomir." The Clanmother sighed, a great sorrow evident upon her. "I am selfish, however... and I do not wish to lose my daughter, Sarama. She is my youngest, and I have coddled her - and I fear it has lead to her demise. I cannot make this request of a clan sister - but if you outsiders will seek out my daughter, perished or alive, and return her to me, I will gladly provide you with the location of the cavern."

Without conferring with Orlaan, Rorik nodded his head; "We would be honored to return your daughter to you, Clanmother."

 

[Ben]

'Yeah, I picked up on that.'

Even the clanmother gave him the cold shoulder, and she was in a bind! One very impressively handled by Rorik. Whether he was right in himself or not, whether he believed himself a Jedi or not - it didn't matter. His heart was good and his compassion was plain to see; he was still the friend -- the good man -- that Orlaan had befriended back on Bakura.

He was quick too boot. Far sharper than Orlaan would have given him credit for, far sharper than Orlaan himself. Must have been the healers touch, the compassion. It was a honest gift to have empathy come so intuitively to someone; to be able to put yourself in someones shoes like that and pick up the pieces quickly. Orlaan was glad Rorik didn't confer with him, he was glad he dove at the opportunity to help. He'd expected some unsavoury moral quandary to be their task, not something as apparently clean and simple as saving a young woman. Besides, Orlaan doubted the Dathomiri particularly valued his opinion either.

He restrained the urge to skim the Clanmother's arrant thoughts - she was a powerful witch, she'd surely notice the intrusion. He didn't need to give them more reason to distrust and dislike him. He settled for simply lowering his head in a nod of respect and empathy - the Dathomiri did not appreciate pity, you see. Orlaan gave Rorik a slight mental nudge. Not quite encouragement, or approval, Rorik wasn't the kind to need the recognition of others, he moved under his own volition. It was just vaguely positive. Gratitude? Something like that. No, no Rorik didn't need that either, Orlaan supposed the closest he could describe it would be appreciation for Rorik just being there, strong and good after so much bad had come his way. A good man indeed. And if he wanted it, Orlaan would see to it that he would do whatever he could to make Rorik a good Jedi (at least the parts that could be taught).

Rorik picked up on the nudge.

"My outrider, Arasha, she will give you the knowledge you need to find my daughter, but she cannot lead you to the caves. They are revered grounds, only to be tread on by our people when their time of proving has come - we cannot go there. Go, please, find my Dalira."

The clan mother gestured to them, it wasn't pleading, just a fierce imploring. More moving, actually.

Rorik stood and gave a motion almost like the tipping on a hat that wasn't present, before turning on the heel of his boot and preceding Orlaan to the door. Orlaan stood to follow when the Clanmother's eye stopped him; there was more than mistrust there.

"You would do well to watch yourself, Outsider. We know what your kind are, and you do not have friends among the Singing Mountain people."

Orlaan weighed up a response, a dozen questions gunning through his head all at once, but he quickly shut it down. It wouldn't do to go being all abrasive when they were here to help. He could investigate later. What did worry him though was the Clanmother's tone. It wasn't a threat, or a scare tactic - she genuinely meant it as a warning, in spite of her own distaste. It was almost an unwilling curtesy or respect paid to ones enemy - for helping her daughter? Orlaan didn't know, but he got the distinct vibe of: 'stay with your friend, we like him'.

Rorik and Arasha were wrapping up details when he half-crawled his way out of the long-tent; she was handing over a heavy looking hide-map and muttering a few quiet words under her breath as Rorik nodded, brows furrowed. Arasha's eyes darted up warily to Orlaan as he exited, as if she didn't want him to overhear what she and Rorik had been discussing - a fact that Rorik did not miss, he watched her carefully, looking back between Ghess and the rider, still atop her steed. The Jedi imagined his smaller friend likely had just as many questions as he himself did. Arasha imitated, looking between Rorik and Orlaan with a sceptical look in her eyes - and... and was that concern? For Rorik.

If it was, it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

She nodded curtly at Rorik before pulling her horse around sharply and bursting off at speed. Ghess trundled over, a little miffed, to his comrade.

"Mhmm. Picked up on that indeed. What do you think their problem is?"

The younger of the two didn't answer, Orlaan got the impression theories and conjecture were whirring around his head. Maybe the quick-witted healer would see something Ghess could not? Some connection made apparent by empathy, or being a third party? The Jedi went on whilst he thought.

"At first I thought it was just one of those reactions I get, but something the Clanmother said... I'm not so sure."

Orlaan replayed the seen to Rorik as the pair stood, looking one another in the eye. Rorik was chewing something other than his thoughts that he promptly spat out and firmed back up into the moment.

"Beats me, bud."

Orlaan nodded - it could wait. He gestured at the map rolled up in Rorik's hands.

"Shall we?"

 

[Apocrypha]

"Let's," he replied.

* * *​

Their journey to the crystal cavern some four miles from the Singing Mountain Clan's camp was, at first, uneventful; a brush with a handful of dangerous local fauna - spiders and snakes, primarily - but nothing particularly noteworthy. They were on the last leg of their trek, and Rorik summited a sheer cliff shortly behind Orlaan. Wiping sweat from his brow, Rorik moved away from the edge of the cliff and seated himself in the grass, removing his water skin from its place on his hip.

"A short break seems in order," he explained, glancing at the midday sun as he drank. Assuming their ordeal within the cavern didn't take an exceedingly long amount of time, they should make it back to camp before nightfall - which was, in Rorik's estimation, a good idea. While this was his first visit to Dathomir, he'd been on planets of similar temperaments, and he knew that the nocturnal wildlife was often less than savory.

"Arasha didn't mention what we'll run into at the caverns," he said, capping his water skin and hanging it from his hip once more. "Though, if it's how they test their mettle, I expect nothing short of a good fight."

After a moment of thought, Rorik cast his gaze out over the ridge, down into the sloping valleys below. "Did you know there was a praxeum here, centuries ago? Built after a war with an extra-galactic entity, some time around 30 ABY. If we had more time, I'd suggest a little field trip to see if we can find it - though, after all these years, I wonder if anything evidence of it still remains. Dathomir isn't what I would call a forgiving planet."

An ear-splitting skreeech split the air, and Rorik immediately turned towards the source, ripping the sheathed vibroblade from his back. "Fliers!" he cried to Orlaan, grasping the blade firmly in both hands, "perhaps half-a-dozen." The beasts came into view shortly after, cleaving between a thicket of forest and flying straight towards the two Jedi. Their great, leathery bodies worked hungrily, soaring through the air with their maws gaping in anticipation of a meal.

Rorik adopted his traditional Niman stance, drawing the first flier in for a low strike, rising left to right and catching it on the underside of its neck. Thick red blood sprouted and the beast squawked angrily, pulling away while one of its comrades joined the fight. The young Jedi slid to and fro, deftly sidestepping the flying reptile's angry swoops; as it came in for one more strafing run, Rorik extended his left hand, clenched his fist, and yanked sharply. The flier tumbled slightly, off-balance, and came crashing into Rorik's blade at top speed, impaling itself handily.

The vibroblade was ripped from Rorik's hands, carried aloft with the motionless corpse of the downed flier, and he found himself unarmed. An inkling tugged at his periphery and Rorik leaped into the air, over the swooping, snapping jaw of the previously wounded beast, landing on the flier and straddling its back. The sudden shift in weight caused it to drop, and Rorik wrestled it to the dirt, wrapping his arms around its neck, locking his biceps and throttling the life out it.

 

[Ben]

Orlaan caught his assailant as it plummeted straight at him, talons extended. Utilising his particularly lengthy arms, the Jedi Master put a hand straight up into the fliers midriff -- his arm being longer than it's legs, which now skittered useless against the plasteel-leather bindings around his forearms -- holding back up and at bay. He twisted his shoulder down and inwards, snapping his arm around to follow and launching the the flier like a paper aeroplane-cum-shock-ball the opposite way.

Orlaan took stock - Rorik was wrestling a larger beast on the ground, more were swooping in from overhead - regardless of his size making any one of them alone no issue, that many talons added up. They were swarming to feast, and the duo on the mountain made their meal. Orlaan set his jaw, sinking into the Unifying Force and connecting with the beasts around them. He took one step forward, his foot coming down hard in a physical expression of the pulse of burning Light side energy he sent coursing towards the psyche's of the fliers. For one moment, his presence peeled forth, shining brilliant and bright, and then it was gone again.

Screeches echoed around them as the fliers flapped in a desperate attempt to peel themselves away from the wrong meal choice. Orlaan watched them flow off as Rorik pushed the carcass of an asphyxiated flier off the top of him with a grunt. One moment the pair were dusting themselves off, and the next Orlaan was clutching the sides of his head.

Someone was attacking his metal barriers. Not successfully, but painfully. He'd encountered this tactic before: in lieu of the strength to punch right through, the assaulter would train and shake their targets focus by scrambling their mind with pain. Orlaan bolstered himself and retreated away from the walls of his defences, buying himself precious moments away from the worst of the pain whilst he assessed the situation. He quickly established that it wasn't one mind arrayed against him, but rather one assault of a connected series of consciousnesses. Like a net... or a coven. The Witches of Dathomir - if Orlaan was a gambling man, which he was, he'd put his money on the Singing Mountain Clan specifically.

He acted quickly. He did not want to make them distrustful of him, but he could also not let them overcome his mind. Luckily, whilst they were powerful in their own right, there was no one with the strength to challenge Ghess. It was their unity that made them so worrying. Orlaan traced his presence back down their line of attack and flipped the tables on them. He did not counter, rather, he warned; specifically, he warned with a violet flash of Light side energy projected to cut short their onslaught and give them something similar to a slap in the face.

The connection was broken, and Orlaan collapsed to his knees, breath whooshing out of him. He answered Rorik's question before it could be asked.

"It was Zarothea and her acolytes. I think something about my defence against the fliers set them off. I think I confirmed something of that suspicion they gave me back at the camp."

Orlaan panted it out in between staggered breaths, the walls of his mind felt like someone had rubbed the inside of his skull with sandpaper. He looked up at Rorik, sweat flicking from his brow as he did.

"Rorik, you have to contact them - let them know this was some sort of mistake!"

 

[Apocrypha]

Rorik caught Orlaan - sort of, at any rate - as the larger man collapsed to his knees, ensuring that he did not split his skull on the rocky terrain. "Orlaan - what's wrong? What is it?"

The young Jedi recoiled at his traveling partner's explanation, incredulity plain on his face. "What are you talking about?" he blurted, shaking his head. "I thought the Witches were our allies - what are they doing barging into your mind like this? Why would they want to hinder us?" Orlaan had no answers - none with which he was forthcoming, at any rate - and so Rorik simply frowned, rising to his feet.

He closed his eyes, reaching out with his supernatural Force-augmented senses to clutch at the thread of life traveling throughout every inch of Dathomir, connecting every living being for hundreds of miles into one intangible entity of being. He saw, clearly, the Witches huddled in their yurts, their own minds recoiling from Orlaan's ejection - and yet mustering their collective strength for another bid at his partner's mind.

STOP he forced into their open psyches. They cringed, his 'voice' forceful - but they ignored him.

He knew what they were going to do; he knew that, given enough time, they might even kill Orlaan. He could not allow this; feelings of kinship aside, Rorik needed Orlaan to continue his journey - in more ways than one. A bewildering rage overtook him, and he considered, briefly, the dangers of his actions - of giving in to this darkness, to this despair, to this hatred - but cast his inhibitions aside, a muddled grey aura of pure energy emanating outward, throbbing and surging its intensity.

TURN YOUR MINDS INWARDS AND LET US BE OR - I SWEAR TO YOU - I WILL VISIT A CARNAGE UPON YOUR CLAN AS YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE, WITCHES OF DATHOMIR.

The Witches screamed, clutching their heads, groveling on their bellies, sheer terror overtaking their senses; birds fled from treetops and wildlife scattered in disarray, horses within the Witches' camp whickered and screamed, some tearing free of their reigns and running amok. Rorik withdrew his presence, opening his eyes and centering himself with a steadying breath.

He allowed the rage to ebb out of his system, gritting his teeth at the taste of bile in his throat.

"Are you all right, Orlaan?"