Ec-shavar glared at the obsidian panel before him. Cold selenium-radon, the planet’s toxic ground-level atmosphere, hissed through the cracks behind his fist. So unlike the chamber’s monotonously tame nitrogen compound a great many species relied on for respiration. Uninhibited, it would cause lungs, gills, spiracles, or whatever to decompose into bloody char. It certainly wasn’t beneficial to the subordinates behind him. They nervously stood, reflections flattened against the wall’s surface, albeit darkly; his throng of so-called political appointees for this pathetic frontier world.

Let the traitors tremble, his thoughts churned, and the innocents quake alongside the guilty who would see me, the unequivocal ruler of this place and time, not merely deposed, but annihilated. That which is divine will not be slain and neither will I retaliate in kind; rather, I will toy with the fiends; tease out those amongst my vestigial advisors who dared to turn against me.

Predictably, the elements reacted and the fissure shrank to a whisper and, finally, total silence. An ugly red scar radiated outward from the epicenter of his strike. He saw beyond, through the protective obsidian shell, the shroud of noxious gas, and the canopy of weird flora that placidly decorated what was hitherto thought to be a world unsuited to any manifestation of life. The vastness of his thoughts made mockery of the limitations of his advisors. They were terrified of a planet whereon they would never truly coexist with nature. Never, for he forbade their schemes to terraform Ganaxavori such that it would accommodate their frailty.

“The cretins amongst the rocks are more advantaged than the maudlin menagerie behind me,” Ec-shavar murmured, his thoughts returned to more civil matters.

Fitter, in the local context, yet they, too, feared him. While right to do so, theirs was an awe borne of deception. Simple minds oft impute supernatural aspects to simple geometric forms. From pyramids to pentacles, the ostensible orderliness nature abhors overwhelmed their underdeveloped minds and demanded a divine exegesis. As such, to become their god, he merely crushed their proudest city under an inviolate black monolith that pierced the sky and boasted of its own holiness. A greater obstacle was Q’ab, a coevolved civilization on a planet within this very star system.

Regardless, the frailty of belief made locals of Ganaxavori predictable and therefore easily controlled. Meanwhile, his advisors gave every indication of ignorance as to the attempt on his life, and while he did not trust them he refused, for the while, to push the matter further.

There was a ceremony in his honor on Q’ab to attend and gods were meant to be worshiped.



Dimly lit in an open bay of Ec-shavar’s capital city-ship, which presently dominated Ganaxavori, was the Tabriz Ruzgar. Although much smaller, the spacecraft was far more nimble and served the useful role of shuttle amongst nearby worlds. Further unlike the nigh-featureless black monolith, the Ruzgar shyly exposed rust-hued curves and creamy pinions while the hallowed incomplete circle of her form paired with perfect wings that suggested more the diadem of a woodland princess than an apex of interstellar technology.

This was his ship now and Eti Naris proudly stood next to her open embarkation portal.

A diminutive figure, he was easy to miss. Even in the shadow of the tiny Ruzgar. Still, the two shared many commonalities. Both where synthetic products of intelligent and intentional design. While the Ruzgar was created for safe passage amongst the stars, his purpose was companionship, entertainment, and utility; like a dog that need not be trained, reciprocated all the intricate idiosyncrasies and passions of love without hesitation, and was versatile enough to play the part of technician, chef, janitor, and confidant. Outwardly, he appeared like an uncannily-real red panda in a red and brass gunslinger costume—a genuine caricature. Yet, aside from his mistress, most Cizrans gazed indifferently through the façade and acknowledged only the mechanical aspect of his craftsmanship.

Former mistress, he reminded himself.

“Where is Potan Mul?” Ec-shavar strode up and demanded, his rhetorical intonation reined inward. Intuitively, he felt an absence and knew, wherever her body might be, life within it no more lingered.

“Dead,” Eti answered impassively, then added, “I am Eti Naris and will be serving as your pilot. The Tabriz Ruzgar is at your disposal and ready for your passage to Q’ab.”

“Dead how?” pressed Ec-shavar as he walked up the gangway and into the ship. He felt the little automaton follow behind him.

“That information has been purged from mine and the ship’s datastores.” Eti responded. It was a lie. Machines weren’t suppose to lie. He wasn’t suppose to lie, but nobody could know. He had promised. Besides, they couldn’t see into a soul he didn’t have or notice tics that weren’t in his programming.

Even after a brief pause, Ec-shavar found it difficult to keep a touch of surprise out of his formative query. So difficult, he reconsidered. The machine was obviously no use to him, but he was certain this intrigue was tied to the attempt on his life. Instead, they parted ways, he to his stateroom and Eti Naris to the helm. Within, Ec-shavar found chamber presented a calm white glow with all the amenities and comforts one might conceive while on a solitary voyage. He chose not to imbibe and, instead, silently endured the brief hop between planets.

The beginnings of a great mystery.


Day 4: 04:23 Gereza

Day four was the same as day three. Order was maintained. Even with the arrival of several high profiled convicts, the days were consistent. No screams were heard but be assured they were there. No falling tree analogy should be entertained. They were real. Many souls detained, a lesser sum released. One man awaited his fate within a dream-esque state induced by the dimension that confined him. He too wondered if he’d fall victim to the same fate as the many others who entered the narrow gates of Gereza.

Or did he?

His name? Not important in the eyes of the system. His origin? He was no citizen for sure. Who was this prisoner? Perhaps the greater question was who would bail this miserable soul out?

Birched among others who ultimately sinned, he was just another. Those incarcerated within the dimensional cells of the penitentiary were commonly subject to insanity; Minutes felt like hours, hours felt like days, days felt like months and months like years. A minor sentence was more comparable to that of an eternity in a place where the only publicly known method of torture was time. This was fitting for a civilization as such.

Just like the others prisoner #3091 would have to wait it out.


Day 1: Gereza

The enjoyment of leisure was something that escaped Sinclair. Never did that deter him from the task of accomplishing his goal however. Feelings often were locked away and most knew him as a man of few emotions but rest assure his thoughts ran rampant often. Emotion to him was a weakness. Everything that put him in his exact spot he credited to focusing on his ideals entirely, which were his and only his. Yes, in a world completely consumed by religion Sinclair was in fact agnostic.

Nothing to him was for certain and he could only go by the standards he set for himself. Those standards were to create and preserve order. When entering the narrow gates of Gereza you are in fact entering a dimension of his domain. Not only did he reside there but the entire establishment was his revolutionary idea to completely contain those who went against society. A society in disarray was probably the only thing he ultimately feared.

Order was the only way Cizrans were able to advance to the excellence that they have been nearing. He believed this to a fault however. No matter what the social conditions were and how unjust society was Sinclair defended the status quo with an indiscriminate iron fist. Many times literally administering what he saw as social consistency with his own rugged hands. This was the case for #3091.

Though his containment was successful the exchange did not go without affecting Sinclair mentally. This was an extremely rare feat. In fact you can say those words begin to corrupt him and cause him to stray from his self created standard he idolized. Prisoner #3091 looked him dead in the eye and spoke this…

“I’m not threatening you but I’m a magnet for bad luck. Though I came to this planet knowing this, the curse upon me is real and you need to acknowledge that. I wish I was bluffing but I’m really not. A lot of shit is going to go down because of you. Because I’m so thoughtful I actually intended to leave within a certain timeframe. The longer you keep me the more I get to see this theory of mine come into fruition.”

After hearing the rambling speech directed at him Sinclair then showcased one of the few expressions he was capable of showing. A smug look filled his face for a quick duration showing just how much arrogance he possessed, his gesture laughing at just the possibility of being wrong.

“What a bunch of bullshit” he scoffed. As he began to turn away, the portal containing the prisoner began to close but he had much more to say apparently.


“I thought I was being courteous but I’ll get out in due time. I’m quite the commodity in the galaxy. And by the way… You should do some research on some of the origins of the pantheon you people on this planet live under. An uncle tom like yourself might be shocked to find out just how much it relates to class you seem to have left behind.”

It puzzled Sinclair that this mysterious man knew so much about him. It was clear his sources were of some of the best in the universe. Though most records of his birth have been erased he was once again reminded of the life he left behind long ago. To almost assure himself he was indeed right he decided to go back to the scene of the incident which was a rarity in itself. It was time to visit a place in which he had never analyzed but always respected.

The Shrine of Tsathoskr was Sinclair’s next destination…

Day 5 (Present Day)

It took sometime for Sinclair to reach the temple that bizarrely enough was a mystery to him. He didn’t have the freedom to just leave Gereza without supervision. When he did leave the howling sandstorms were at levels that made it almost impossible for air travel and so he journeyed land. With what looked similar to an ATV with a spherical protective dome of metal and exceptionally durable glass, Sinclair treaded the numerous dunes with relative ease. The dense and tough exterior of the vehicle weathered particularly well, dispatching a pair of grappler arms to regain balance whenever needed. Just a day after setting out he was closing in on his desired location.

As a basis of education the understanding of all deities were taught to him. He knew them well, and with the knowledge he attained he took one core principle to heart, Perce. Following this he never questioned the deity that was Tsathoskr or any of the others despite his primal beliefs. With that said, In the back of his mind existed a sense of fear he did not quite understand. That feeling of unease brought him to the temple opposed to the various others and that alone.

To fully live by Perce meant that with human nature in mind no one will truly understand everyone or thing and that it should be accounted for. In the wrong context Perce could be used to justify segregation and oppression, thus spawning the world he currently lived in. The fact that he arrested prisoner #3091 due to opposing the institution itself proved this entirely.

#3091 was the polar opposite of Sinclair. As he represented chaos Sinclair was a man of order. Little did he know however that as smart as he was, he had made a grave mistake, leaving the new detainee in Gereza alone. There perhaps wouldn’t be any fatal consequences but he wouldn’t escape the fact that capturing the man might have been a little too easy…

The pot was surely to be stirred. It was only a matter of when.

The soft, dry snaps of branches breaking underfoot accented the hushed brush of cloth over foliage. Muffled and mellifluous birdsong came to him from a great distance, his passing undoubtedly an event worth music. Polished and treated, a shaft of wood parts a collection of vines and a hooded figure moved out of the treeline to peer over a mighty precipice. Vast and verdant, the Veldt spread across the scope of his vision to meet the austere heights of Zöld'nach, the Jade Fortress, capital city of Q'ab. The city's scale was magnificent. Seemingly cut from the surrounding mountain range, veins of coveted shalam pulsed with energy, powering it and the surrounding midlands. The emerald effulgence peaked through the constant veil of fog and rain that gave the Veldt an unparalleled and terrible beauty. The weald permeated a sense of great age, wisdom and even greater... loss.

It must have been the torrential rains that gave rise to the notion. Ever since his arrival over two cycles ago, the deluge had not relented. Xo'pil had spent nearly the entirety of that time sequestered in his studio in Zöld'nach's Ayatel District; his patron having assumed he'd be afforded more leeway with his... eccentricities if he was housed in the artisan quarter. Although Xo felt it had less to do with sensitivity for his peculiar proclivities and was more to ensure that a lowly Azotl wouldn't fill one of the Governor's guest rooms with the heady musk his species had gained much ill repute over.

His chest rose as he drank deeply of the brisk air, much as he had done on his balcony which overlooked a terrace garden, its precise patterns etched from the very mountains itself. Often, he'd be lost in thoughts, seeking inspiration for the Governor's commission as his eyes traced the network of glowing capillaries of shalam that gave the rich topiary of the garden an uncanny semblance of life.

Here, the air was untouched by the heavy perfumes and incenses sold below his loft; the rich scents of cooking meats and pastries which sent him salivating. Instead, as the slits of his nostrils widened betwixt his brows, the heights of the Veldt brought to him naught but a heady pine smell and the musk of the beast he sought.

Turning away from the cliff, Xo'pil began his preparations. Removing the small pack from his back, he fumbled through its contents until he had produced a thin ream of scrolls bundled together. Passing the ream over his shoulder, Xo's tail unwrapped itself from around his waist and took the scrolls as he returned to rummaging in his bag.

"Ah... here she is." He straightened, in his hands were three orbs with concentric circles of varying size creating unique patterns that were in a constant state of flux. He gave them a playful juggle as he coaxed her awake. "Come on Epit'li, we've work to do." A burst of light flooded forth from the grooved patterns before fading to a constant glow, the AI's version of a stifled yawn as it awoke from standby.

"Be a beauty Epy, and do a scan for any Orana in the vicinity. Huilo is back at the studio compressing the code for the cognitomatrix, so we might as well make a few pieces to sell off-world and get one step closer to never setting foot on another Cizran planet again."

While Epy set off in three different directions, Xo'pil removed one of the scrolls from the bunch and unfurled it, broadcasting a live feed of the drone's information gathering. With a slap against his forearm the malleable screen grafted onto his polyfeed jacket. He stuffed the ream into an inner breast pocket and proceeded to deftly climb up the tree.

Xo would give the occasional glance to his forearm, reviewing Epy's work as he gathered various mosses and heavy vines high above the forest floor. It was this perspective, no matter which hunk of rock he was on, that always flooded his mind with memories of Azot and his youth. Wonderful times, before the Empire came.

An orange glyph, in form the outlines of transparent twin cubes coerced into predatory combat, each earnest to devour the other, pulsed on the deck as Eti entered the Tabriz Ruzgar’s command chamber. He approached, sat with legs crossed around it, subdued his non-tactile senses, and assessed the flow of air. Behind him, the lone aperture morphed and diminished to a seamless barrier. Atmospheric pressure shifted to accommodate the chamber’s new geometry. When the pattern stabilized, he opened his eyes and acknowledged the transformation.

Unmarred by corner, mark, or shade, the vaguely luminous white surface seemed, to the inferior sense of traditional optics, both infinitely distant and oppressively near. Yet, by touch, he knew it ballooned inward and braced him against the shock of eventual acceleration. Meanwhile, the glyph ascended, lifted by a column of permeable ferromagnetic fluid. With a well-rehearsed gesture, Eti slid his paws in the substance. Instantly, his brain synced with the ship’s computer and his sense of self dissipated. No longer did a diminutive synthetic companion exist; instead, Eti’s proximity sense derived from the bulk and power of an interplanetary vessel. He was the Tabriz Ruzgar.

Around him, the private bay of Ec-Shavar’s city-ship loomed dismally. He saw it clearly and longed to escape—to fly. A thought was all that was required. Powerful anti-graviton reactions churned in his bowels, his wings splayed, and he shot forward into the hazy gray atmosphere of Ganaxavori. As his velocity increased, the mountains and canyons below blurred into an indistinguishable pallet of blood-tinged silver. Still, it wasn’t enough. Repulsed at the thought of inveiglement with complex molecules, pressure waves, and evolutionary limitations, he rose up and dared the deceptive emptiness between worlds.

Conventional means of space travel were considered, by the followers of Zeme, Goddess of the World-Aware, open rebellion against nature. In a bizarre twist of logic, they weren’t wrong. Escape velocity required exertion of a force that would, dependent on the vessel’s mass, disrupt the planet’s orbit. Individually, that amounted to almost nothing; incrementally, without consideration, a sphere could be flung into the void or plunge into its star. The idea appealed to Eti, not necessarily relative to Ganaxavori, but perhaps Cizra Su-lahn, the Cizran homeworld. Moreover, the very idea of rebellion, its raw quintessence, especially against nature, was downright romantic.

Ganaxavori’s gravity well grudgingly relented, although, even on distant Q’ab, which just recently completed its nearest opposition in a millennium, Eti would not be entirely free. On approach, Ganaxavori’s superior mass accelerated the other planet into frightening proximity, but collision was impossible: the velocity with which Q’ab dashed through the void would propel it along an eccentric orbit until the might of their mutual star reined the smaller world back into the fold. Such opposition events were rare, achieved only after Q’ab settled back into regularity with its star and, thus, made possible another near-miss with its larger neighbor.

Back-lit by the blue light of its star, beams of which pierced through Ganaxavori’s red atmosphere and took on an entirely new disposition, the Ruzgar’s verdant destination coruscated with alternating shades of amber, jade, and ultramarine. Even millions of kilometers distant, detailed spectrography presented information about environment, mass, elemental mixture, and molecular compounds that could be extrapolated to differentiate Q’ab’s countless flora and fauna. Known values, none of which presently interested Eti. Instead, as the Ruzgar coasted along, Eti disconnected himself from the ship’s systems and watched as his processes turned inward and contemplated how best to navigate his fate.

I could finish Potan Mul’s task—if that it was—and assassinate Ec-Shavar. Poor option. Given current datum, odds of successful outcome are poor—not even if I self-destruct the Ruzgar with target inside is a kill guaranteed; nor is change of telemetry into local star an option, target might detect that. Detect escape pod ejecta.

I could run, but that would provoke suspicion. I would become a rogue A.I., a thief, and fugitive-property. Insufficient datum on sectors external to Cizran control. Within, detection likely; without, odds of survival poor.

I could …

And so on. Surface details of scenarios wrung out from a trillion variables emerged, were evaluated, and stored for later cross-analysis against others in a complex electro-cerebral matrix. Half the distance between worlds was crossed and still he wasn’t sure how to proceed. All he knew was that time to decide likewise faded.

The resonant voice of a male spoke out to a group of beings in a room devoid of sunlight.

“He allowed himself to be captured. Quite the institution he chose to hide in. I always considered Eal to be abnormally sharp but he should know better than to try to evade me.”

“So… what do you suppose we do?” an opposing voice spoke out.

“ We watch. If he needs help things are already set up that he wont be easily corned any more than he wants to be. I can’t say I’m particularly excited to see what will happen once he’s found but its an event that we’ll ultimately have to live with.”

---

Prisoner #3091 floated in what he identified as some sort of an odd void. He was expecting a simulated hell but in his cell there was only a deafening silence. Here he had no vision of anything; not even himself. Part of Eal’s intuition had told him his eyes were merely closed and maybe it was an illusion but that wasn’t the case. He was actually stuck abiding by the rules of this space. Spiritually he felt himself moving but he had no proof as he couldn’t feel anything physically. Not even the slightest of drafts existed within this space.

He couldn’t get a feel for time and as a result his morale sunk from a confident “it’s a matter of time I’ll escape” to “I guess this is it.” Weirdly enough after coming to this realization he gave a slight sigh a relief. No one seemed to call his bluff.

The chances he’d be released were near zero for what he committed and where it was committed but he was ok with that. What was odd was that he somewhat felt sorry for the Cizrans considering what he may have done. It was pretty besides himself to regret anything but nevertheless he did, at least briefly. After taking a nap he’d probably forget all about it. That is if it was possible in a place like this. Sinclair received a legitimate warning from him. Would he act on it however?

This was more so the end of a chapter than of the book. Eal Sermonde would very well see the aftermath of what he brought whether he was prepared to or not. He was just ignorant to that fact. Just like the fact that he wasn’t alone.

With his senses nulled he couldn’t hope to sense the creature physically but by the skeletal frame of his abnormal anatomy he became alerted to its presence. Apparently it was able to navigate the space he was confined within. Once it slithered out of his skull it was almost like it disappeared…

And just like that he was alone again.

His carelessness allowed him to forget about it near immediately as he paid it ultimately no mind.

---

It is instilled within young Killimarians the laws of their culture. For the most part they went unbroken. Today was different however. The males had typically occupied the west and the females east. Under no conditions other than marriage were they allowed to cross territories but one male had surfaced from a river within the east in the middle of the night. His beady eyes were focused and with his unannounced goal in site it was unclear what he’d aim to accomplish by entering the female warriors domain.

For the past several weeks it had become a trend that Killimari would abruptly disappear. With no reliable proof on any of the disappearances those who suspected the Killimaros had grown impatient enough to invade the western lands in hopes of finding answers. What they did not know is that the western end was having a similar crisis of their own. Several of the Killimaros had gone missing within the last couple of days in a similar fashion. Some highly respected, others common tribesmen.

One trend was present with all of the disappearances however. Most if not all of them took place once a member of the tribe appeared to be on their way to bodies of water, whether it being at a river, ocean or lake. Perhaps it was some form of newly evolved predator or maybe it was something completely invasive to their home world. Little did the Killimarians know, the threat was something they had never encountered before. To truly understand this it was best for them to meet but could they under the circumstances without the threat of an implosion of their very culture. Maybe it would be wise to look towards the moon for answers but not for a reason they ever expect. Their answers were in fact there and currently in orbit.

There it was. A baseball sized orb of silver matter functioning as some sort of satellite or receiver. Drifting between between the planet and its moon, it would go undetected as it didn’t do much to separate itself from any odd object floating in space. At least not yet. Its relation to impending crisis on Killimara had yet to be understood.

---

Now feeling slightly disturbed, Sinclair was back at the scene of the crime; The Shrine of Tsathoskr. Somewhat bewildered by the environment, he lurked deeper as his curiosity of the god and its followers rose by the second. Sinclair was well educated in the sense that he knew not all stories of religion were fine and dandy but here seemed to be the extreme. Murals that contained death and rape appeared to be acts of religious sacrifice. The overall milieu was one that most unsettling. The deity itself Tsathoskr appeared to him as something he’d hope he never cross path with. His agnostic tendencies assured him mentally this would never happen but then again nothing is certain.

The universe was one giant uncertainty in his eyes. Who was the say one day he’d never meet something similar in nature. He definitely didn’t plan for it, just like he didn’t plan for any of what was ahead for his future. One event after the next, Sinclair was bound to see what was prophesized. The traces of Eal may have disappeared within the cell in which he confined himself too but traces of him were left on his coat. Whatever Eal Sermonde was hiding from may end of finding no one other than the unsuspecting Warden of Gereza first.

Still studying the temple for clues of what the prisoner eluded to, Sinclair was taken by surprise by one of the temples priests who laid his hand on his left shoulder. Urging him to lean down to his level, once Sinclair did he gave him the news.

“An assassination has taken place among the high caste...”

In the eyes of those who had yet to evolve, space was irrelevant, meaningless, and for all intents and purposes, practically non-existent. Nobody knew, or had they heard mention of the word ‘canvas’--a mere metaphor used by more advanced races to describe the cosmos. Nobody knew of the vast emptiness separating the desert world of Kilamara from its volcanic moon Deimobos, nor did they know of the great nothingness between the other uncounted, unknown, and unnamed planets, let alone what lay beyond the star system they all inhabited.

Nobody knew and nobody cared, because they didn’t have to.

Those small, sweet, innocent insects crawling and frollicking in the forest were so fortunate when the radiation hit them--passing through their bodies and leaving their cells unchanged--left alone to continue living out their existence uninterrupted, and without the burden of sentience to bug or distract them. Unbothered, they wandered the world without sleep, hunted without sleep, mated without sleep, never once having suffered the strain of anxiety that those above them thought constantly of; thoughts of tomorrow’s next arduous journey that would determine whether they lived, or died and with the eternal blanket of sleep to cover them up.

Ignorance is Bliss.

For those who had evolved, space was not only relevant, it was crucial to the Kilamaran way of life: learning how to use the stars to navigate the forest at night, to cross the vast desert in search of a mate waiting for them on the other side, to hunt for beasts great enough satisfying their appetites, and proving their worth among fellow tribespeople. All these talents granted by their increased brain capacity came naturally to them already, albeit with a higher level of skill involved. The setting of traps, engaging in cooperative herding efforts to ensure a bountiful hunt and to manage their livestock as opposed to simply hiding in a burrow and waiting for a meal to come along, only to end up having to engage in a fight to the death with thieves and scavenger bugs. Not everything could be perfect though. The laws established by their chiefs prohibiting premarital interaction and visitation among members of the opposite sex created what was deemed an unbearable and more over, unneeded restriction for Kilamaros and Kilamari alike; in a world where there were other tribes scattered throughout the east and west sides of the continent constantly warring over territory, such seemingly arbitrary laws could not be given time to even consider. Free-minded spirits fled to places where authoritarian minds dared not tread, eeking out a living across the sands, and making all Kilamarans truly divided.

The advent of cultural segregation and its gradual evolution weakened the Kilamarans as a race if they were not weak already. Deimobos, it was said inspired fear, paranoia, and blood-lust--made people feel an unnatural revelry in the savagery of combat--mutilating the corpses of their adversaries, desecrating their lands by engaging in acts of cannibalism and defecating their remains all over the huts and pathways. The red and orange sphere in the sky became thought of taken as a second sun of evil, casting its maniacal light down onto those who were not of sound mind, and turning them to those ways of darkness and cruelty, fueling the hatred that managed to overcome all. Kidnappings occurred within the desert villages, ordered by forest chieftains who sought to replace the members they had lost through years of bloody conflict. More-often-than not these vicious kidnappings were thwarted by a superior experience in desert travel, however, whenever the warriors did manage to succeed in their mission, rumors would quickly spread of those who refused who to take up arms and “fight for their people”, being tortured or killed outright as punishment for their cowardice and treachery.

In the end, everybody knew, deep inside they knew, the suffering was caused by their own inability to handle the gift of sentience and the power it bestowed upon their souls.

Knowledge is Agony.

For the beings who had surpassed evolution, ascended into a higher form, space was a vast expanse of endless opportunity, cosmic terrain that had yet to be fully mapped out, and held great secrets which needed to be discovered. The negative emotions Deimobos supposedly conjured up within the tribespeople and desert villagers was merely a myth--baseless hearsay derived from their desire to explain away the petty conflicts they regularly engaged in. One day though, all bad thoughts would be purged by the Fire Stone Towers protruding from the dunes, and their incomplete bodies melted away by the molten rivers and oceans flowing throughout the Moon, forging them into something far better than their odd and inferior blend of anthropomorphic and arthropod forms.

Everything would be reforged, purified, and refined. Still, such ascension could not be achieved without the will to make it happen. Each Kilamaran who partook in the journey had to commit to the task of their own choosing, having to endure strange mixture of searing physical pain and mental dissolution on being transported from the Fire Stone Towers to Deimobos where they were stirred and churned within the cauldron of the moon’s superheated core, taking days to give birth to the newly Redeemed Warriors. Upon emerging from their fiery wombs, their heads were long, smooth flaming orange, three sets of pitch-red eyes planted on the very top, center, and below the jaw where their burning retractable mandibles lie, flanked by protected by a crown of blackish brown spikes growing out from the sides, curving upwards from chin to cranium. Lava poured over their chests, hardening into a crusted armor with a single glowing Fire Stone embedded within the sternum, the flow of magma visible within as it passed through ridges, gaps, and plates that allowed them to retain flexibility. Below the abdomen the Redeemed Warriors largely resembled a bloated praying mantis, their spread wings resembling firestained glass, exposing the yellow flow of Deimobos’ streaming blood beneath a soft and transparent layer of sub-skeletal flesh, accumulating into a large gland at the rear wrapped around a sharp stinger, carried upon strong piercing limbs more fitting to a crustacean than an insect.

From thereon out, their lives would change forever, as they were given the choice by those who ascended before them to either leave Kilamara in search of greater answers to their existence, return home and work toward ending the violence, or stay on Deimobos and train inside the temple they had built dedicated to the worship of Aredemos.

Presently, one of the Ascended Warriors was on a trek through the desert investigating the disappearance of Kilamaros and Kilamari. He was a diplomatic figure named Kirri who had burdened himself task of maintaining peace between the two gender exclusive east and west territories, having trained for years inside the Temple of Aredemos. He had returned to the desert to investigate the disappearances of numerous tribal leaders and commonfolk alike. It didn’t take long for him to find the victims corpses. “Punished” for the crime of premarital sexual activities, others the byproduct of zealots who found the mere existence of the villages dotted throughout the sands to be a blight and an insult to their way of life, genital mutilation serving as evidence and proof of their motive to the act of doling out “justice”.

An act like this would not be tolerated by Kirri, anger swelling in his chest as the stone embedded in the center began to glow, the exoskeletal plates along his legs splitting open and the gland wrapped around his stinger expanding as it became saturated with red fluid. Freedom from tyranny delivered by an ancient authority was something he would kill to protect, nor would he allow war to spread into the desert like it had throughout the forest. He had heard rumors that most of the murders took place near water, and given that Kilamarans were not afraid of venturing into the desert to kidnap “traitors”, he took off in an explosive eruption of volcanic matter from his legs and rear, the sound audible from hundreds of miles away, leaving behind only a trail of molten glass as he sped towards the nearest oasis.

"Xo'pil-tzin," darkness had settled when an androgynous and synthesized voice undercut the dull doldrum of thunder that seemed to bore into his mind. His response, thought picked up by subdermal implants which vocalized the unconscious tremors of his throat, was an inquisitive grunt. Rarely did Epit'li use honorifics.

The faint glow of the broadcast screen cast a diffused orb in thickening mists as Xo checked on her feed. She had traveled some distance from him, following a steep decline in the landscape that formed a gulch between it and a rising mound of trees and stone. It was here that Epy had come across a series of ruins. She had begun the task of mapping out the structures when from within range of her microphones she picked up the cry of an orana.

"There is some interference and I can't triangulate the source of the call."

Xo was already en route, the unusual length of his limbs lending alacrity to his movements along the boughs of the Veldt. Epy initiated surveillance measures and retreated some distance into the canopy, awaiting further instructions while he closed the gap. He came to a halt, bare soles pressed against the bole of an arboreal titan. The visuals on his forearm ran through various filters as she continued to process the data, a real-time map of the ruins and surrounding woods appearing at the left of the feed. The source of the call was located an estimated 300 shari inside of the hill.

Ping me, he thought and she complied, emitting an inaudible sound wave visually represented as a ripple on his screen. It bounced off of stone and plant, granting him a topographical overlay of the area. Xo leapt from the treetops, landing silently amongst tall grass. He retrieved an impeccably white rod from his sack and gave it a twist, a ring of light dancing along its length only to rise into the air with a dull crack before dispersing.

An ill breeze crept forth from the depths of a crumbling archway as he explored, his fur bristling with every cautious step. The remains of a shattered portcullis leaned against the opening, shielding it from cursory glances. Pebbles danced amongst the stones in his wake, the sound of their falling audible only to him in the constant rumble of thunder. Here. Epit'li descended from the eaves and hovered above his head and at either side, emitting a halo of light that cast a brocken specter against the rising hillside, its form distorted by the mist and trees.

I want a five shari lead and a five shari tail along with my escort. With each command, the corresponding modules fell into formation and they began to work their way into the structure. Time had damaged much of the stonework and little could be gleaned from its carvers.

Pity. If these are early Qush ruins I might've found artifacts from the Plinharim War.
Pindrahim, Epy corrected.
Whatever. The last work commemorating a century long genocide against twelve-legged mollusks netted a fortune.

They had entered a vestibule, half-flooded and teeming with wildlife. Small amphibious creatures were plucked from the waters by half ni long centipedes that dangled from budding mangroves. Beams of Epy's light gleamed off their carapace, the only betrayal of their camouflage.

With preternatural grace, Xo scrambled across the twisting roots and wove his way across the antechamber, the soft hum from Epy mimicking his movements replacing long-distant birdsong and rolling thunder. His path ended with fallen stones that blocked the following hallway. Xo'pil examined the rocks for a moment before climbing up them. There was an opening just wide enough between the collapsed rocks and the ceiling for him to squeeze through after shouldering the rod he had been holding, the polyweave of his jacket bonding instantly to it.

Breaking formation, he sent the AI to explore ahead while he worked his way through the uneven length of the hall. He cursed internally at the sound of his pack dragging behind him and swore he heard a chuckle from her. Left in twilight, he continued to crawl on his belly, occasionally having to painlessly dislodge his shoulder or elbow from its socket as he went. After some time he fell forward onto the remains of a column in a chamber far larger than the previous yet equally as dilapidated. His steps were muffled slaps against dampened stone. The humidity made the air oppressive and his senses were flooded by the heady scent of fungi and stagnant water. His head swam and he pulled the lapels of his jacket closed.

Ping.

Once more Epit'li emitted a sonic wave, only to be met with a series of guttural bellows and the waters began to imperceptibly roil.

Tzin..

Initiate neural uplink. <<Uplink established.>> I want active cloaking on the polyweave and need you to activate the hard light converters. Xo gave the shoulders of his jacket a tug and as he pulled away, the material duplicated itself until long enough to be pulled over his head as a hood. He immediately disappeared amongst the stones of the fallen column, repositioning himself along the wall farthest from the pool.

There, in the center of those columns we have detected a nest. They seem to be buried beneath a mass of... fungus. Origin unknown. It's emitting a bioelectric field that is interfering with my sensors.

Xo'pil's gaze scanned across the waters and through the haze saw the faint glow of the fungus through swaying reeds. He deftly scaled the wall of the room, his digits finding every crevice and pulling him upward in bounds. With a powerful push he soared over the now frothing waters and reached out, gripping a column that rose from the depths and connected to the ceiling. He wrapped his tail around the pillar, freeing his hands to retrieve a set of goggles. Securing them beneath the hood, he set a marker over the mass for the AI to convene on at his command. Being fed data through the neural interface from all three of Epy's nodes felt like having a knife wedged into his brow so he restricted the feed to the center module.

Xo worked his way to the center of the room, barely pausing at each column until he was one leap away from the submerged ring of pillars. The fungus was bioluminescent and gave off strange readings, seemingly pulsing with life. He removed the rod he had affixed to his shoulder earlier and gave it a reassuring squeeze before bounding once more over the waters, DANGER immediately streaking across his feed.

Epy had been designed with several runes layered throughout her interior and was augmented by a highly advanced probability engine which gave her limited precognition with responsive synaptic impressions. Normally she would have given him an earlier warning, but the feedback from the fungus delayed her functions.

HARD LIGHT! HARD LIGHT!

Three beams of light were projected the orbs, forming a hexagon with the density of 20 on the Mohs scale. He twisted in midair, gracefully landing atop the shimmering construct as the quivering mass of reeds erupted into the raging form of an orana. It crashed against the impromptu shield and let out a roar in confused agony as Xo flew upward from the force, , a cloud of spores filling the air.

He twisted once more, turning his form to cling at the ceiling with all four limbs. Firmly gripping the stone with his toes and using his tail for balance, Xo'pil took aim with the rod and shot forth a burst of electricity, the crack from the discharge reverberating through the chamber. He fused the lapels of his jacket to the hood in a vain attempt to keep out the spores but he had already begun to cough violently.

His world began to reel, sound seemingly catching up to him in waves as he went between bouts of total silence and deafening cacophonies. His thoughts ran away from him and he fought to focus on the thrashing beast beneath. He giggled as he noticed that what he had mistaken for reeds were actually large quills pocked and emitting the shrillest of whistles as the orana snapped at the air, sensing his presence through some unknown means.

Find me a way. A way out. Ooouuuttt. Amongst cresting waves of a wine-colored sea, a tangerine sun melting into the horizon. Son? I have none. That's what he always said. Too clever, he thought. Too worried about the then I couldn't appreciate the now. Kinesic override. I remember riding that first shuttle as a stowaway. Azot finally looked as small and constricting as it had always felt.

Consciousness was slipping away from him as Epit'li's kinesic system engaged with a constriction of the polyweave. As he stood upon a precipice, staring out into an inky darkness he wrangled one last thought into coherence.

Don't forget the eggs.

Hours later Xo'pil's provincial attache waited nervously for him in his quarters as the time for Ec-Shavar's gala drew nearer. He rose with a start as Xo's body stumbled into the room, his polyweave suit rent and partially in tatters. The material was already in the process of repairing itself as Epy disengaged the kinesic override and immediately shut down, the orbs clattering around him as he too fell.

"Tarq..." the attache sighed.

Ultimately, each option Eti reviewed was inferior to the one lain out far in advance of Potan Mul’s presumable ascendance to the nether. Inevitably, the time of decision arrived, yet uncertainty irked him as a specter of a future that typically presented itself in readily discernible patterns, repetition, and bureaucracy instead suggested uncertainty. Merely a high probability his schemes would meet with complete success existed; not absolute confidence.

He grunted and initiated the process that would abandon him to the fates.

“Approaching Zöld’nach,” the Tabriz Ruzgar intoned audibly.

The message and an attached countdown likewise levitated in neon orange glyphs on the viewport before they diminished to a corner. With mind-sync temporarily suspended, such primitive measures were advisable, although not strictly necessary. The ship was fully capable of autonomous activities and the route familiar. Eti merely wanted to mitigate the risk of either being detected by surveillance or the ship’s modified logs being tainted by his own memories

Even with those precautions and others in place, Eti was nervous, although such yielded no external sign. He merely nodded as a reflexive action. His mind was otherwise occupied: a self-destructive algorithm running on his systems meticulously overwrote all information with respect to Potan Mul’s activities in this sector of space and rendered indecipherable Eti’s dreams of autonomy. By the time they landed, neither Eti nor the Ruzgar would have a clue what really happened to Potan Mul nor, if they were told, would they be able to explain why. He could only hope he would somehow stumble across the data storage device hidden on Q’ab in a manner that would allow him to complete his coup without incrimination.

Below, the planet, no longer a cosmically-estranged glint, overwhelmed the viewport. From the midst of its expansive grasslands pierced a lance of mountains sculpted in a brutal panopticon that lurched inward upon a perfectly circular caldera like the barbed teeth of a massive eel, its throat a gargantuan red lake. A blight on an otherwise verdant sprawl, yet necessary to the protection of its inhabitants from the great periodic deluge. Distortions flickered in a dome above Zöld’nach, a clue to the shield emplacement that defended the city along its interior fringe from more deliberate manifestations of danger.

As the vessel neared, in the middle of the lake, which visibly bubbled from the city’s power source, the magma column far below, presented a docking platform. Meanwhile, along the caldera’s fringe, in the shade of the lithic overhang and built into the semi-dormant volcano’s very walls, the architectural style of Q’ab’s natives and conquerers presented in a fusion of ancient ruin and concrete brutalism. Were it not for the aesthetic of the native illumination—a sea of fireflies, foliage aglow in bioluminescence, and strands of pastel fiber optic—one might well assume these were natural features, an abandoned quarry, or the like.

The ship landed, Eti sat up, and the chamber relaxed its hold on him.

He felt a premonition that something important was about to happen.



“Impound this vessel, contents, and pilot drone,” Ec-shavar commanded the guards as he entered the hangar, “and queue them for processing.”

Eti stood behind him, genuinely baffled, but didn’t question the decision. Sure, being called a drone was definitely insulting, but no more than the degrading nature of his own existence. Instead, he focused his attention on why the order was given. He felt it must have to do with his mistress’ disappearance. Death, rather. Yes, Potan Mul was dead

How? Eti wondered.

The Ruzgar didn’t know.

The observer watched carefully. Never complacent, he had no visible set of oculars but saw clearly. On Killimara there was an impending crisis. These events he would continue to oversee. The mischievous works of an outside force were dangerously at hand and a hellish future was not so far. For as long as time itself the existence of a spiritual adversary was common. The origins of each, however, were vast in differences. In particular, this being's existence was once that of a mortal. That did not stop souls from worshiping him as a prophet.

His days as a mortal counted for less than a tenth of its existence. Decades turned into centuries under his path of lichdom. Now thousands of years old, the being known as "The Lich" or "Kaan" had far exceeded that of what people understood a demilich was or could be. It was hard to categorize what he had become at this point. Currently, deep within Killimaran waters his body could be located. Perhaps he was what the orb in space was trying to find. In his current state, he appeared dauntingly lifeless.

Though his works were already at hand he was still and without much movement within the gentle tides. Eventually, Kaan washed upon the shore, revealing his unpleasant exterior. Most of his body was encased in dark, moss-stained robe garments with tattered ends. With skin was as rotten as his pernicious spirit, his malformed image was common for that of the undead. Kaan bore a saltwater pruned face absent of eyes and a lower jaw that was fleshless. Other than his set of sabbatic goat horns he was majorly humanoid-esque through he was uncommonly large. Common instinct was to withdraw in his presence but who could know? He only appeared to be an alien carcass. In hopes of solving the crisis, they could only move closer to death itself. Fortunately for Killimara, he was within a weakened state. As to why remained unknown but his works were very much already in motion.

Death had appearances in many forms. To soon be relevant to all of Killimara was it in the form of pestilence. The rejoice in the expressions of Killimarians on both sides as clan members one by one began returning to the villages and settlements. All bore a similar story of dread of being held captive by a set of the opposing side. This was not a lie, at least in their minds. Internally they bore a contagious stigma of hatred programmed subconsciously. The hatred spread from soul to soul not by convincing but through contamination of an individual's aura. To simply put it, being around those who souls were polluted was enough to plague their spirits. To infect their feeble minds was not a difficult task. Ensnared Killimarians were perverted with visions and emotions that evoked hatred upon their poisoning. Nothing outright blatant changed about their anatomy or mannerisms but many of their purposes were one they were not currently insightful of.

There was one enormous problem with the arrival of several once thought missing Killimiarians however. A few of their bodies had already been recovered. Of those who were once “missing,” their anatomy would be different but not enough to notice without autonomic analysis. Inside many of the Killimarians in both tribes were groups of doppelgangers, now coexisting and perpetuating the bid of Kaan, reigniting a circle of hatred that was once thought to be dead. Rumblings of a civil war were becoming common chatter amongst elders but how? The leadership of both sides was wise beyond their years. The sheer thought of civil unrest was enough to bring back memories of an unstable time; one in history that was marked by relentless combat and bloodshed and yet anger grew amoungst many who had no been cursed. Being noticeably “missing” was not a prerequisite for being infected with the Lich’s curse. It could happen in plain sight.

“Apotheosis is within my grasp…Gain life my brood.” his hissing voice exhaled. He was seemingly talking to nothing but a set of three lifeless Killimari corpses. Perhaps they were not quite dead but they were soon to be as his ritual commenced. With the end of a few lives, others sequentially would be created. Using the remainder of their life force he birthed another set of creatures far more vile and insidious.

With the creeping rise of a deeply rotted left arm, he immersed the bodies in a dastardly aura before igniting them within an intense amber flame. There they burned in place until the time was right, always growing and never wavering in strength. Only once being discovered by the enraged Kirri did the flames die down revealing a group of charred skeletons in their place. There was no Lich in sight, however. The skeletons varied from the typical Killimarian build with their thicker bone structure and their now much larger size. They had evolved. Reaching forward, the middle skeleton pulled its body upwards. It was a staggering nineteen feet and increasing at that. The others followed as their root like muscle tissue grew out of their frame in a manner similar to tendrils, ripping the earth and creating minor seismic activity. Releasing a shrill roar of coercion that stuck with enough power to shatter the trail of glass the Killimarian left behind, a blast of amber flames and molten bark exploded onto the forest. Within the destruction left behind smaller hands began to erupt all around within the vicinity of the explosion . It would be seen what kind of damage a blast capacity could do to the warrior itself but his sturdiness would be tested. Whether he survived or not, the Hellseed's muscle-root like like tendrils pursued his body with apparent intents of impalement.

---

An hourglass of dark sands could be seen reaching its climax.

"Yes, Potan Mul is dead Silexies. What do you suppose we do?"

"Over time I've grown fascinated with the concept of destiny. Destiny perhaps rids us the trouble of dealing with him ourselves because it was simply his time. I ask you now, what do you suppose we do?"

"..."

"That was not meant to be answered, young apprentice. Your expressions remind me of my own before I understood the flow of fate. Soon you'll inherit the will and discover kismet. For now, observe. Vhadgeid, we will move forward with the next objective and save our resources. Time does no wait. I will fetch the Instrument."

He then sent a message ripping across space itself to a certain individual. For a brief second Sinclair could not comprehend anything at all as his mind was flooded with information. The sensation was comparable to being struck with a minor jolt of electricity to the brain. Not a word was said but the message was clear. Report back to him. That was the will of Silexies.

For normal Kilamarans, the rippling waves of heat rising off the scorching sands would prove far too great a trial to pass, but for Kirri - a being some saw as being made of fire - it was as if he were a strong fish swimming through a powerful current. Compared to the volcanic inferno that was Deimobos, this barely qualified as a refreshing breeze, the smell of which had become gradually rife with the stench of his own rotting people. Through the Fire Stone embedded in his chest, he could feel their spirits crying out in agony, inciting a desperate amount of effort to accelerate beyond his usually controlled speed, the trail of glass he left behind becoming a small forest of of jagged towers in the process.

Approaching the edge of the desert, Kirri slowed himself atop a raised field of dunes dotted with palm trees. The stench of death violated his nostrils, forcing the entirety of his long face to cringe up, the curved spikes protruding from the sides pressed against the back of his skull, small dark spines lined together in a narrow squint over his pitch black eyes as he observed the skeletons with horrified disgust.

Kirri knew not the art of necromancy, this was his first time beholding of such a thing in action, however, it became plain through his concern for all Kilamarans that this magic lied at the interstice between the realms of the living and dead.

Then came the sudden explosion.

Pressing forwards once more, deep crimson flames spilled out of the Fire Stone in his chest, wrapping his body within its shielding embrace. The amber wave collided with his barrier hardened into its namesake shape, cutting through the blast, meanwhile Kirri's legs bent, pressure mounting in the glands situated at his joints. Beneath the armor, his spikes bristled, bloody tinge cracking their way up through bone and flesh alike, his insides undergoing a process of destruction and reconstruction. The split claws on his hands and feet split farther apart, sand being siphoned into his roiling interior.

Before the flames ceased their assault, Kirri released the pressure in his limbs, unleashing an explosion that rocketed him toward his corrupted Kilamarans, bringing a wave of tidal dunes with him. The constant vibration of unknown impacts against his crystal exoskeleton gave little information as to the context of how they were attacking him, and so he allowed the desert wave to consume him entirely, several feet of sand melting around his form as he passed the still-growing colossal skeletons. Breaking free from the wave, glowing yellow cords protruding from his split digits and extended back into the sand which he had partially buried the creatures within.

Kirri's armor then fell off, revealing his sliced and bruised skin and scorched innards, self-inflicted lesions on organs and muscle tissue which mattered for naught as he had ceased his existence as an organic being from the moment of his ascension. The spikes on coming out of his head grew in size, bristled once more, and Kirri let out a throaty hiss as he tugged on the cords.

Ignorant to these beings' levels of intelligence, the Redeemed Warrior saw little need to speak with what he perceived as minions; his roaring battle-cry breaking the grainy quiet of falling sand, voice still hissing with heat and molten saliva as the stinger on his back fully extended, stretching the full length of his body which at present was a mere sixteen feet long.

Dissonance inundated Eti’s auditory cortex with agonizing, deafening, blinding, and ultimately debilitating disorder. Cacophony became his universe. Rather than spaceport, lake, city, mountains, sky, and stars, an infinite unsolvable maze of madness fused periphery with horizon. Behind, the knowledge of the Ruzgar, ordinarily a comfort, was usurped by the specter of panic. He fell aimlessly, a helpless observer to his own meaningless doom.

Compulsory external shutdown protocol was nothing so crude as an electro-magnetic pulse. It was a countermeasure integrated into his root physiology. Not merely his, but all machine-ai engineered on Cizra Su-Lahn. At its essence, it was akin to the manner living things, with seeming randomness, react with horror to snakes, spiders, or, irrationally, the number three. Yet this went well beyond that flight-or-fight instinct. He could never reliably identify the source. The exquisite torture drove any ability to observe it from his mind. Excruciating in the instant before sensory overload occurred, the sudden pain nevertheless cowered beneath the shadow of uncertainty of whether it was to be his last living sensation.

“Living,” he muttered sardonically, “as if the concept of alive or dead even applies to machines.”

That’s how he knew he was alive; well, functional anyway.

For those who are temporarily deactivated, there is no white light at the end of a tunnel nor world going dark; no fading away of consciousness. It is nothing like falling asleep. Existence halts, abruptly and without gaps in awareness before the moment of reactivation.

In a single excruciating blink, he transitioned from standing brazenly in spaceport to leaning limply against a wall like a rag doll. Unlit, the chamber was, with the exception of himself, empty and without obvious means of egress. He was alone, unarmed, unclothed, and without a notion as to what happened to him or his ship while his consciousness was suspended.

He didn’t move, but neither did he waste time. Eti was busy trying to infer his reason from being here from the facts present in his mind.



Ec-shavar mulled over the report on the mindscan of Eti Naris and data download of the Tabriz Ruzgar. While present was a cornucopia of illicit detail on Potan Mul’s activities on behalf of the empire, there was little that lent itself to an investigation regarding her probable death. Nothing explicit about what she was doing in the star system, where she might have gone, or how she might have died. Yet her death was a near certainty. With the information gleaned, Potan Mul’s reputation would be ruined and she’d be executed were he to some day resurface.

Assassin, traitor, spy, thief, and other monikers were applicable. Most interesting was the cultivation and corruption of her companion into a conspirator and killer. Ordinarily, the machine would be destroyed, but it was Potan’s official heir, for some vile reason, and technically should be sent to the home world where it very well might not survive the bureaucracy of Cizra Su-Lahn’s utterly impossible courts.

What remained unsaid was what caught Ec-shavar’s interest. Potan Mul’s victims were all members of the high caste and all, though it was seldom a matter of public discourse, condemned by the priesthood on the suspicion of being heretics and members of the long-outlawed extinction cult Hez-Karaz: fanatics who drained the heavenly well and weakened the whole with their unsanctioned practice of sorcery. There was no direct link between Potan Mul and the priesthood, but the implication was obvious. She was their hand when it came time to mete out judgment.

“She is the one who tried and failed to kill me,” snarled Ec-shavar, “Not acting alone, but on orders.”

His talons tightened into a cudgel-like fist.

“A declaration of war against my divine right to rule this system.”

Far outside Cizran Space

"You know, kid, I just really don't get it. You've been at this for years, thousands of them I know about, and millions more than that likely. So...why do you keep doing it? What keeps you going forward, when you should have slipped into obscurity long ago?"

"Well, I don't really know, old-timer. Really, I haven't the faintest clue how I continue to push on in the face of adversity many would have already faltered beneath. How I continue to trudge this path of mine, through the cosmos and the very depths of space-time, to find the things that I seek. Though, I have to admit that the money isn't too bad, though it's not really the main reason for such excursions into the unknown as I make."

"Money? MONEY?!? You're probably the richest of all the denizens of the vast Multiverse, and that's saying something considering the vast wealth I've attained, and I know you've got at least a hundred times what I've got." Of course, the truth wasn't too far from what the man just said. Considering that his empire stretched nearly eighty percent of known space, and the money coming in from all the trading with what remained outside of their reach. Not even counting the new civilizations found nearly every hour, lurking in the shadows as they were, adding to their already boisterous sum of spendables.

"Yeah, well, you can never be too rich. I scarcely could afford to buy everything you own and continue to live in such lavish comfort as I have come to enjoy, you know." His eyes lingered on what passed for his friend, though how you could truly be friends with such a hedonistic, gluttonous fool was beyond his comprehension. Still, for now he was a friend, the only person he could rely on for steady work in this corner of space. Of course, the stars called his name nightly - seeking to bring him home to their embrace in the depths of uncharted lands and territories, far beyond his current scope.

"Don't make me laugh, child, we both know your wealth is already far beyond what any other might consider 'comfortable living'. In fact, I've decided it's time to end our arrangement. You're growing far too wealthy, and amassing far too much respect from the locals of my system. See, when that happens rebellions aren't far behind. And, really, that can't happen. Ever. So, you see...we're going to have to kill you and spin a story that paints you as a bad person, perhaps you're the reason behind all the recent attacks on our system, using a private army of monstrous creatures in an attempt to gain favor...yes...that'll do quite nicely, I think. GUARDS!"

The last word a scream that reverberated throughout the throne room aboard a ship approximately ten times the size of the Sol System's sun. It echoed for what seemed an eternity, but long before it ended a hundred armored troops, shock-lances and swords at the ready, stormed into the vast room and surrounded him. Pikes aimed for his body, their eyes filled with hatred, disgust, and deep, deep within them the fear that their death was upon them. They'd heard the stories, they'd known of this man for a thousand years or more. His exploits legendary and his conquests many. Yet, on the order of their king, they ran to what many, in their hearts, knew was their inevitable death.

"If this is the way you truly feel, Artur, then perhaps it is time our agreement was terminated." A single hand arose, its fingers clasping around the hilt of a sword whose blade stopped just the other side of the hand-guard. Once those fingers entrapped the elongated, elegant hilt the shadows all about the room began to pulsate. It was like they teemed with a life of their own, reaching and stretching.

Many of them moved, only to be replaced with others that moved away as well. An endless cycle, an endless source of power that stretched out until they slithered along his legs, working their way up his muscled body to become tendrils that latched against one another at the end of the broken blade - forging it anew.

"Your people hate you anyway, they always have. That's the only reason they cling to the idea of me, to the idea of a savior. Because you do nothing but oppress them, of course I'd have done the same if you weren't paying me to do otherwise."

The guards, as if to surprise him, launched themselves all at once. Their encirclement tightening rapidly, of course the only result of this was that these seasoned "veterans" made the fatal error of tripping over themselves in their rush to end this, and hopefully come out as the victor. Instead, though, the man holding the shadowed blade, which was currently twice again the length of his body and easily fifty-times his weight, dropped to a knee with a spin. The spin brought the sword around, cutting-edge first and caused it to extend outward. In a matter of one graceful movement, all motion stopped. His head was down, raven hair hiding the grey of his eyes and the slant of his angled face. For a moment nothing moved, no one said a word. Then one bloodcurdling scream brought reality crashing back around them.

Torsos slid from their place attached to legs and waists, blood pooled beneath bodies cleaved clean in two. The guards, who rushed so vehemently to accomplish their given task, were no longer living creatures - merely two halves of wholes that would never again be replicated or replaced. Canting his head upward, letting his hair part around his face and looking down his crooked nose toward his "friend", he let his eyes focus. The dour expression on his face unchanged from moments ago, he walked the length of the chamber until he planted one foot against the gellatinous throat of the other, holding the blob against its chair and cancelling whatever power of escape he might have conjured.

"Never betray me. That was all I said when this endeavor began. You knew what would happen if you did, and yet you refused to take heed of my warning. For that, for your ignorance and your insolence, you shall die now. Goodbye, Soguts."

With those final words, he slammed the blade home through the other's skull - siphoning from its very existence the essence with which it survived. In a matter of moments, with all of its considerable power gone, the gellatinous ruler of the land lay dead beneath his boot heel. Slinging the remainder of the blood and the grime from his blade with one motion, the shadows dissipated and he replaced the broken hilt into the string of souls, now numbering well over a hundred million, which contained it to his back.

Several years later. Cizran Space.

"How did I even agree to this? We find some signs of life off in an uncharted portion of space, and here I am again. Invasion and conquering are getting old, maybe next time around I'll try my hand at diplomacy."

The thought alone was enough to bring laughter from the depths of his throat, though there seemed to be no actual mirth invoked. The words he spoke, though he did speak them, carried no sound. Given the fact he was currently floating his body through space, without any protection (though he needed none), explained the lack of sound quite adequately. Still, he was being paid handsomely to investigate, and if need be subjugate, a few planets. Even after all those years, it still wasn't the money that drove his desires. He'd learned some time ago that money, while good for its own purposes, was far from the motivating factor for his actions. Instead, he realized, he loved the feel of life draining from bodies. The way their eyes shone brightly in that scant moment before all life was extinguished. He loved the sensation of death at his fingertips, and the way shock painted their faces every time. Putting it quite simply, he loved the very act of killing for the sake of killing.

Besides...he was good at it. Probably the best, really. The intention of showing diplomacy didn't really exist beyond the joke made inside his own head. The thoughts that drove him caused a slight change in his demeanor, and with it a change in the speed he traversed the darkness of space. Seeking out the first of many targets, he followed an energy signature quite a bit like the Liches he fought in the past. He felt it from hundreds of lightyears away, though only in that moment because it exerted energy to manifest certain creations. Though he wasn't aware of that fact personally. He only knew that more and more energy was exerted from that single area, and that was where he'd begin his subjugation of Cizran cultures.

"One, two. I'm coming for you." He sang to himself as he breached the atmosphere and began his descent into Killimaros territory. His pace quickened as his eyes, and his mind, scanned the planet. A distance off to the right, and behind him (perspective), a fiery red aura manifested and an explosion leveled the landscape. "There," he said, and the sound of his own voice surprised him, as if he'd forgotten what it could sound like. Given the time he'd spent in space, he likely had forgotten the very sound of it.

Adjusting his fingertips brought about an adjustment in trajectory, and with a single thought he accelerated his body to a velocity that would tear asunder the entire planet should he impact it at his current rate of speed. However, his target was not the destruction of everything - at least not yet. Instead, he simply wanted to arrive expeditiously. Those glowing creatures were a sight to behold, however, and he longed to see them up close - preferrably before they were completely destroyed by the guy with the stone embedded in his chest. Yes, even from the current distance, he could clearly see everything happening as if he was right up on it. Just before he would impact one of the Hellseeds, he turned his body and flipped around - letting his velocity slow to a much less devastating rate. His foot slammed into the largest of the creature's heads, and though his speed wasn't what it had been moments before, it was enough that he tore through the creature like a bullet through human flesh.

The creature itself split completely in half, and in that single moment his hand drew the sword and a million shadows coelsesced to form the blade of Caldecise, immediately beginning to purify, siphon, and transplant the energy contained within the vicious, nasty looking creature he'd just killed. The result was that Lysander himself drained and changed the energy source, pulling more and more of it within himself - bolstering his already incredible power. Standing at the base of what, moments ago, was a mighty creature he turned his head toward the guy flying directly at him, though moments ago it wouldn't have been him.

Swinging the massive sword around, the shadows formed a nigh-impenetrable barrier around himself so that any adverse effects of the other wouldn't actually cause him any harm, though a quick scan of his power told him that his threat level was fairly low to begin with.

The Violent beginnings

Hellseeds spawn in clusters. To ensure survival it is crucial to extinguish each outbreak before a horde is established. Kirri knew not what he was up against but his actions gave hint to a history of combat experience. He intended to deal with them early. This was wise but there was a heavy chance his efforts would be in vain.

A dark scarlet aura consumed the skeletons as they continued to grow exponentially. Kirri exploded towards his hellish adversaries within sand but became ensnared by the field of muscle and root esque tendrils that protruded forward from the collective. Their drilling extensions were relatively unhindered and powered through. The Killimaran warrior was found through the intense levels of energy Kirri proudly leaked out. The natural heat he exerted grew sweet to them and so he became their prime target though another was present.

It then became a power struggle of the creature against creatures and surprisingly the Killimaran faired well. He demonstrated great strength by still being very much capable of moving but the longer he remained wrapped around his limbs the less he could resist. Kirri would not have the capability of getting near them as their strength was without a doubt increasing.

Despite how dangerous the situation looked, someone apparently wanted in on the action. Descending at a violent pace, the warrior made it as easy as possible to notice his arrival. When the haughty sword-wielder first dispatched into Killimara’s atmosphere at absurd speeds he foolishly alerted any and every possible thing that could be of threat to him. The first was the drifting orb in space.

That orb was Panident and currently his body reflected the entire surface of the planet he was facing. Through the image he focused his attention to follow the descending man to the point of impact with crystal clear clarity. Lysander proved not to be the anomaly he was searching for but still he remained tuned into the altercation for the time being.

The leftwards skeleton eerily turned upwards as the swordsman pierced Killimara’s sky. The largest acted upon its vision of its peer showing an impressive act of unity to set forward a counter with no external showcase of communication. With time to prepare the lessening of the blow was not much of a feat.

A thundering shot was administered to the dome of the largest monstrosity by the bombarding warrior’s foot but the natural reaction that was an energy veiled headbutt equalized the blow and then some. The concussive blast created when these forces met blew away the sand down to the Hellseeds rooted ankles. This consequentially revealed Kirri as well. Despite coating its dome in a shell of its arcane energies a river of cracks spilled down the skull of the largest Hellseed probably much to the warrior's delight.

The fighter for a brief moment did have something to be pompous over but he wouldn’t have much time to think about it before he was humbly launched by the same headbutt and into the raging Kirri with enough force to break his bones if they collided. Every second that passed the proof of the battle scar he inflicted vanished. Its active osteokinesis reconstructed its wounds well past new. Probably in shock, Lysander immediately had to deal with the large Killimaran struggling with the tendrils who out of rage was prone to attacking anything.

The Hellseeds beside the apparent alpha began their menacing trudge forward planning to literally pick its two opposers apart. Meanwhile, a slew of much smaller skeletons began sprouting up within the remnants of the destroyed forest. They began the same pursuit of power as their peers in an army forming right on Kirris watch. The first chapter of the invasion was underway.

Currently, Killimarans had no idea what was taking place. They were too busy up and at arms over this impending civil war fueled by their hatred of one another. These fiery emotions where much out of their control considering their warrior nature and when amplified by an external force things were bound to become explosive. So explosive that already a group of about fifty Killimari took it upon themselves to begin the ambush a small set of migrating Killimaros within the northern forests bordering male territory. They ambushed group after group exterminating many of the opposite gender with no goal in site.

The battles did not last long. Despite being at a numbers advantage, something within these female warriors was remarkably different. Their whole demeanor was off and the way they went about was more barbaric in nature than what was even known to their race. Turns out this had been going on for days. Rotting corpses were found littered throughout, mutilated, hung and even sodomized with weaponry until they were skewered through the mouth in what could only be taken as a cry for war. This tribe had even become cannibalistic. The leader of the female militia was heavily demented but her followers never faltered and remained steadfast behind her. She was the prime example of what could become of those infected with Kaan’s lease of hatred. The once diamond like gem inscribed within her chest was now black and her heart was cold. There was no turning back…

Something stirs here, beneath the limpid waters of a primordial lake. Its stirring is sudden and violent, in stark contrast with the placid surface. Its depths are one of the first sources of life on primal Q'ab and the events which transpired were to set the scene for millennia of evolutionary change.

The placidity is disturbed by something alien and nameless. It reeks of brackishness; of decay. In its wake all is consumed. Its presence is keenly felt, eukaryotes fleeing from the churning waters; their escape is futile. Something stirs here, and now it emerges.

A roiling mass of microbes erupt forth from the surface. It rises to its full height in the lake and its splash echoes within the silence of a barren landscape. Its shape flows, a viscous nightmare of liquid flesh washing over the embankment and spreading outwards from the now fetid pool. A patina of putrefaction is left behind it as it moves forward in violent lunges, seeking fodder for its corruption. Its hunger, no... my hunger knew no bounds.

An intricate latticework of light emblazoned itself across his consciousness as he faltered from the waves of information that crashed against his mind. Xo'pil could not begin to fathom the intricacies of the attempts being made to communicate with him; all he knew was that it felt like his psyche was fraying as he struggled to differentiate himself from the alien presence he felt within.

He... It continued to undulate across the terrain, single-minded in focus when an explosion erupted forth from the heavens, stellar detritus streaking across the sky before bombarding the planet. Its slick flesh, awash in an unguent ooze, shone bright when the form of a massive ship suddenly breached Q'ab's atmosphere. More explosions closely followed suit, and for the first time a new sensation bubbled to the surface of its mind. Fear.

"What... what is this? What am I seeing?"
"Tzin..." The voice bubbled forth, the speed of the sound distorted so that its pitch slowed and changed.
"Epi! Where are you? Where are we?"
"Tzin, is that you?"

Tentative feelers brushed at the fringes of his delirium. And for a moment, he was no longer there. He was elsewhere, returned to the ruins he had been exploring. He passively observed himself as his body rushed through sunken chambers and blocked passageways. He watched as he sent the form of a snapping beast thrashing with a vibratory blast from a wand. It flailed helplessly as it fought to upright itself. His hand reached out to push back an ancient barrier when something like a dark and polished stone crashed into his mind, shattering the image with ripples like the disturbed waters of a wading pool. The shadows of the room began to spiral and he clutched desperately at his train of thought. A black thread in an even blacker landscape.

The cold shock of mental immersion leaves me drowning in its alien intelligence and bottomless memories. Its thoughts, a diatribe scrawled in light, slams into my mind and sends me reeling before its terrible force. I sank beneath infinite fathoms of rapidly distorting fractals of energy.

It was here that he felt it. It had changed. It pulsed with a timeless, geologic rhythm. Eons had passed and he once more found himself on Q'ab. The presence he strove so hard to define had evolved, becoming the supreme architect of all life that arose. No longer was the planet a barren hellscape; lush vegetation blanketed the entirety of each continent. To it, all life seemed like threadlights of argent splendor; clusters of swirling orbs suspended in a vine-wrought cosmos. The sensation was mesmeric and overwhelming. The presence held no contradiction; only the pulse. Q'ab pulsed and shuddered with life and death; tide and magma.

Xo watched as it dug savage furrows deep within the planet's mantle, enriching the elements that would one day become shalam. He watched as it spiraled down to the ocean floor, catalyzing tectonic shifts that caused volcanic peaks to surge forth from the churning sea. And from one of these freshly birthed peaks was belched a beam of radiance that dissipated in the upper atmosphere. He strained as he attempted to decipher a narrative from the flood of information when once more his surroundings melted away.

"Tzin, our neural interface is degrading at an alarming rate. Energy levels are nearing critical."

I feel the prison of corporeality once more, essence tethered to being. My hands, not beneath my control, reach into my satchel and remove three discs which are immediately thrown and explode upon impact. Then, in a blinding instant, the solid earth is tugged from beneath my feet and something monstrous, without hands, lifts me up and shuffles me like a deck of cards. And I am gone.

The physical world unfolds into a shape beyond mathematics. I try to close my eyes, but I have none. I was a signal flickering through a vast network exchange of roots and tendrils. A golden orb, recoiling between bumpers of pulsing crimson. I become lost in a gallery of oppressive and uneasy forms my mind is too flat to grasp.

I begin to flex my muscles and the mountains ripples like water. Fledgling cities fall to my stirring. I bunch my fists and the soil convulses. My offspring that I had spent countless millennia guiding sought refuge from the madness. I shrug my vast and buried shoulders and the seas are upturned. The skies crack with streaks of lightning as torrential rains pour down upon me. I lift my head to the heavens and scream, and from my mouth erupts an apocalyptic stream of energy that tears through the atmosphere and is sent to seed the heavens. Substance and space melt before me as I travel with the beam on its epic trek. I am humbled by the vacuum's awful assault of nothing and nowhere.

Time buckled and I know not how long I journeyed before I found myself hurtling towards a gaseous giant. It was in the same apocalyptic throes long distant Q'ab had been in. Its atmosphere was obscured by billions of reflective particles that caught me in their splendor, before magnifying my essence and sending nanoscopic bits of it across the vast expanses of the universe.

For a moment I understood just how very small my largest thoughts had been. And I knew terror.

I hear myself thinking, asking.... what is this? And in my mind, another answers.

"Doom."

Its voice tolls, deep and sad and alone.

And I am awake.

Long since, Eti’s eyelids barred his mind from the blasé corpse-light of his prison. Possessed neither of darkness nor depth, the dingy walls metamorphosed betwixt antipodal chimeras of claustrophobia and agoraphobia. With vision, his mind reeled, severed from reality as a consequence of his synthesized empathy. Even so, blindness failed as a remedy, tortured as he was by unnatural stillness. He clung to gravity. Tepid, solid, the cell wall bowed his spine with a seamless curve that integrated ceiling with floor. Propped up with all the liveliness of a doll flung against a toy chest, an illusion heightened by the forward slump of his head that set chin to chest, his goal, unaware of how long he was to remain, became the preservation of energy.

With the ease an actor exchanges Aeschylus’ masks, the silence faded. Subtle, but undeniable, his ears twitched, aroused by the faintest stimuli. In his mind’s eye, a memory of Potan Mul’s gardens bloomed. Eti stood on a balcony, gazed out across the moonlit splendor, and listened to the rain patter delicately on ferns. Stakes suspended wind chimes that sang a chorus of hollowed wood, metal, and stone. Beauty bred by power, it was a microcosm of Cizra Su-lahn and reflected the calmness of the temples in Samarra, the planetary capital.

Intrigued, his left eye rose. Geometry broached the nakedness of his enclosure. Pools of pitch caressed another’s edges, sourced from nowhere, yet swelled with the force of concentric rings born by each improbable drop. Inevitably, a crisp-edged wedge of darkness carved the vaguely luminous cell that imprisoned him, an opposite to what one might expect were a door to be thrown ajar. Ostensibly fixed after its initial parlay, Eti watched and waited for the precursor to mature. Ordinarily, the outcome would be predictable; however, as was his captor, so, too, were his own circumstances rather beyond ordinary.

Presently, the distinct flatness fumed, as might a mound of soot-veiled coals, and its aspect arose in tenebrous likeness to an inverse pyramid. Three meters tall and two wide, within its admixture of components, Eti detected tracers of inky blue-black orbiting clouds of metallic gray and blobs of restless ferrofluid. He recognized the form as that of a golem, mindless matter awakened to action by another’s will. Absent context, it easily may have been the thrall of any sorcerer, but he knew, without having asked, to whom it belonged.

“Before you is represented a token of the will of Ec-shavar, Governor of Q’ab and Ganaxavori, Sovereign of the surrounding system, and Lord of the stars that bleed their light throughout.”

As the hammer strikes the forge, sparks erupted from its epicenter, pursued closely by the din of metal on metal. An object clanged against the floor in front of him, warm from its recent ejection from the creature’s interior.

“Your temporary identification. Insert it into your cognitive interface,” the golem chimed, its words, in contrast to its forceful bearing a moment prior, unsettlingly musical. Even its stature was diminished, as though, its heraldry accomplished, it relegated its energies inward toward less perceptible tasks.

Eti plucked the chip between two crimson-tinged claws and gave it a cursory glance. Streaks of silver in harsh geometric rigidity impressed the slate gray surface. It was an enslaver, although the variety or complexity of which he did not know. With a shrug of resignation, he realized that if Ec-shavar wanted to harm him it would already be so, although, in spite of that, he still hesitated to comply.

“I will be kept in this chamber until I accept this condition?”

“That is accurate.”

“May I analyze the limiter?”

“You may.”

Permission received, he concentrated on the device. A band of light roved up and down its surface and his eye chroma shifted as he directed the multi-dimensional scan. While no surprises were evident, it didn’t contain any mutable properties, which, in turn, indicated it was virtually tamper-proof. Granted, an attempt to do so likely wouldn’t be favorable to his long-term prospects. Moreover, it function was such that it merely limited him to certain sectors of Zöld’nach and suppressed violent and subversive conduct.

In short, it was completely ordinary; akin to what a common thug might be implanted with while imprisoned. Whether such indicated his own unimportance or Ec-shavar’s ego, he couldn’t say.

“How long?”

The golem remained silent.

Waiting was pointless, given his position, and Eti only hoped the predicament was temporary as he thrust the chip into a soft spot behind his ear where the adaptive architecture of his skull formed an ad-hoc interface with which it connected the chip to his cognitive processes.

“Follow.”

The thing drifted along at a leisurely pace as it led him through the compound. They passed numerous golems, ais, and even some organics; most mindless drones, but a handful doubtless victims of forced service. Presently, they arrived in a dimly lit chamber with a tinted viewport that overlooked the caldera. As always, a strata of ever-present steam nearly obscured the spaceport, almost a kilometer distant at the caldera’s center.

Behind Eti and the golem, the door slid to a silent close, as, too, did the cover of the viewport before them.

As he soaked in the chamber, Eti realized that, even by Cizran standards, it was exceptionally opulent. However, what impressed him the most an almost shrine-like alcove that dominated the space. Within it was an engraving. Certainly not of Cizran origin, Eti wondered whether it might be a restoration or reinterpretation of Qush architecture, although none with which he was familiar. No, he decided, it was far too ancient for their evolutionary record to claim. The central feature of the cosmic backdrop was a single star going nova. Spears of radiation erupted from its poles, slicing the scene in half, while its exterior billowed forth a cloud that exposed in vibrant shades of magenta and ultramarine the destructive wave of otherwise invisible destruction. It was a force in the verse that nothing could survive. Yet, as he peered closer, to his amazement he observed shadows; not indistinct, but of silhouettes eerily familiar. One shade, in particular, boasted its intimacy, as his by proxy was the religious election of Potan Mul. There was no logical explanation as to why such an entity should be represented in this particular work, but there was no doubt that he saw Tsathoskr depicted therein.

Eti Naris shook his head, bewildered. For a moment, he felt he was there, adrift in cold vacuum, not warmed, but rent, by energy of a star’s death. Gods vied for a soul he felt he did not possess, drank in devastation, and exulted in—in what?

Entropy.

Chaos.

“Ordinarily,” the golem rang, “purpose-tainted mechanizations such as yourself are destroyed. However, you are the heir-apparent of member of the upper-caste.”

Jarred back to the present, Eti saw a shape arise from the base of the shrine and position itself opposite them behind a massive shalam slab that functioned as a desk. Although the figure remained cloaked, he felt its presence, and realized who it was.

“The estate your mistress formerly possessed cannot be allowed to descend into ruin. Neither can you properly take possession of it without the support of an upper-caste executor.”

There was a pause, as if to let the weight and implications of the statement sink in.

“A delegation representing our interests is to return to the homeworld and educate our supporters as to the growing importance of stability in this sector. Along with them will be sent some regional flora and fauna, archaeological and geological novelties, trade sundries, and a handful of dissidents. You and your small vessel shall be included in the transmission. There, our representative will claim, on your behalf, your former mistress’ holdings, and place them under our protection.”

His fur bristled and Eti blurted out, “I would become your property!”

The monotonous notes of the golem chided, “It is already so.”

Another pause, this time tinged with the illusion of sympathy, then it added, “Within the imperial core and upon the estate grounds on Cizra Su-lahn, you would be indulged as a socially elevated entity and afforded autonomy sufficient for self-deception.”

Against the backdrop of rough-hewn shalam, a tile was illumined. It displayed a contract wherein he would be signing away his mistress’ estate and accepting his role as the property of another. He merely needed to enter the access code, which Ec-shavar knew he possessed from his mind-scan, and apply his improvised bio-signature.

Eti didn’t have a choice.



For planetary impactors, mass multiplied by velocity represents their potential for devastation. That cold fact confers a substantial risk, mitigated, in part, by the observational satellites of the Cizran defense network. Collated on the homeworld of Cizra Su-lahn, mobile observatories track the speed, mass, and direction of quadrillions of objects in the night sky, some merely motes of dust. Far-flung outposts, such as Kilamara, are no exception as beneficiaries of this vigilance.

At least, inasmuch as it is convenient.

As a wake of ionized gas traced a scar in the void and its superluminous provacateur resolved to pierce Kilamara’s atmosphere, the Dira Var-sha, a Cizran dreadnought on patrol in the sector, drifted into orbit a million kilometers off the system’s gravitation center. No effort was exerted to warn the natives of the impactor that, minutes later, struck; the contentious wretches were considered unfit for cultivation as a civilization. Moreover, the object itself was queer; small, fast as light, and erratic in its trajectory.

Aboard the vessel, scientists surveyed their sensors and data feeds, saw the atmospheric breach, and were subsequently perplexed by the lack of destruction.

Sitting patiently on a gigantic pew meant for beings more than three times his size, Sinclair was focused, head down and hands clasped. Camouflaged among a group of worshiping Cizrans, he had no intention to pray himself. Before him was a dangerous tool of destruction that stood almost mockingly in his face as much as it did triumphantly. To Cizrans it was one of many great religious monuments they were unhesitant send their blessings to. They did so by allowing the pillars to drain their spiritual energy. Sinclair on the other hand had other use in mind as he began projecting his mind into the Konul.

The plethora of Cizran voices around him grew muffled by the seconds. All voices were reduced to ringing echoes before vanishing entirely and just like that he was alone.

Slowly, his eyes managed to open. There was nothing ahead of him but a faint dimness shrouded by a purple miasma that protruded everywhere within blackness. He treaded the fog until he came across a dim archway of light. Once entering he was now in the presence of his superior.

When he crossed the plane the word “Ichor” was spoken and echoed through the space but it was not merely a greeting for it was a name; Sinclair’s actual name.

“Ichor, stand tall and do away with that form. No need to masquerade before me” an elder Cizran spoke. He was enormous in size and though he was eyeless he hawked over awaiting action. Sinclair abided, though his facial expression displayed slight grievance. A visitor to this realm he was, so did as was asked.

The opening of an argus number of eyes and the formation of tiny obsidian like scales were the first to reveal itself. Dagger like appendages exploded from his elbows and spinal cord as his physique grew noticably burlier. Despite being very much humanoid esque, Sinclair could never be mistaken for a human under any logical circumstances. In this form it was clear that he was indeed a Gnosis, a race thought to have been wiped out by the Cizrans a little less than a century ago. Reasoning to why he was assimilated secretly into Cizran culture only Silexies could explain.

Leisurely, the gigantic upright scorpion with a complexion resembling that of keystone rose off his throne of Konul stones. Silexies stood about fifteen feet but with a narrow frame. The majority of his appendages deceptively folded across his plated chest beneath his robes. A braided cape of stingers dragged behind him like that of a king’s robe. As he began to speak they unraveled, expanding until they mimicked that of a peacocks train; Many of which curved outwards, floating around the vicinity of Sinclair who stood stone-faced. These were not to intimidate him, only to analyze the warden with greater detail as Sinclair knew.

“You’re are uncharacteristically uneasy, Ichor. I sense uncertainty. You were successful in your task, yet you stand before me as if you have ill news. Brief me on your qualms.”

Refusing to fold, Sinclair assured Silexies his curiosity would lead to disappointment. He truly believed what Eal spoke to him was pure nonsense. And of course, what reason did he give for him to believe him?

“The being I was sent to retrieve is incarcerated and that’s all I have to report.”

“Very well, you stubborn soul. You enjoy making things difficult” Silexies laughed. Despite his playful tone it was clear he was expressing satisfaction noticeably more than he should considering the insignificance of the task. Something about this news excited the elder but it was out of Sinclairs place to ask.

“Did you catch the name of the soul”

“No.”

“Straight to the point as usual” Silexies thought. Sinclair to him was the greatest asset within his possession. He was entirely loyal, yet Silexies knew what Sinclair wanted to do more than anything was to end his existence. He would never dare to cross him however. Call it arrogance or just plain ignorance but Sinclair was around simply because like many Cizrans the scorpion felt he was completely untouchable; and for the most part he was correct. Attempts to assassinate members of the high caste were seen as futile which is why the news of Potan Mul’s passing was such a spectacle. Even if successful there wasn’t much an act like that would do. The Galactic Empire of the Cizrans was too large, too organized and too powerful.

With this in mind, suddenly the elder Cizran’s playful demeanor could be seen as a mortifying reminder to the sole survivor of a race who once served the Cizran’s with honor. The only hope he had of other Gnosis survivors predicated off the fact that they cannot die from natural causes and even then, they would be wise to stay off the Cizran’s radar if they weren’t on the planet at the time it was impacted by Konul strike.

The entire genocide of a race weighed on the Gnosis known as Ichor who was almost too impatient. He abided, maintained and even helped improve Cizran society in hopes of one day finding a lead which would help him end it all but as Silexies knew, that day would never come…

All of Ichor’s eyes focused the elder, intensely awaiting another task he’d eventually have to carry out. His superior was unpredictable and he did not disappoint the warden today as Silexies began his perplexing rant instead of assigning a task.

“Science is often at war with itself. As I see it, the wiser are those with doubts. It’s ok to question it all when the one constant of this universe molds all other variables seemingly at random. What I’m speaking of is chaos of course. It is the true God and I am close to finding the item I desire that will allow me know all leading up to revelation. Then omniversal kismet will be of my knowledge and the Cizrans will bring order to the entire universe until the great end…

“…”

“I received a vision from God that assured me what would be granted to me. You don’t seem convinced. Let me show you only a small reason why you should always be uncertain in all.”

A bevy¬ of stringers whipped forward and began clawing into the air itself between the two. The faster they danced, the louder a noise resembling restless tapping on a thin sheet of metal became. After a few seconds it was clear a rift was forming within the dimension and before Sinclair one of Silexies extensions disappeared halfway into a fold in space. Violently a figure was ripped out before the rift closed and was dropped lopsidedly on the black mirrored floors.

Staggering much, the being rose to his feet. His groggy demeanor suggested he had been somehow sleeping. Slowly he turned to Silexies while yawning uncontrollably. Rubbing the back of his neck in response to his fall he brought his head upwards. When his eyes landed on the Cizran profanity casualty escaped his mouth.

“Fuck.”

It was an accurate abridged summary of his thoughts and it too was inline with what Sinclair was thinking as well for many reasons. The man with his back to him was none other than the prisoner he had recently banished, Eal.

Eal Sermonde had a way for finding undesirable situations. This was no exception. He turned to see Sinclair in his native form and to his surprise he immediately recognized him. “So that’s what you were hiding” he joked despite being in the situation he was in. Intuition told him this was no dream but he did not fear for his life either. What good would it serve them to torture him either? His sense of pain was near none though the Cizrans probably weren’t aware of that.

His deduction skills were not quite on par with his peer Merse but something told him attempting a two on one would not end well for him despite the elder Cizran’s age.

The space containing the three individuals was now home to an almost eerie silence and because of one reason. Silexies uncharacteristically stood bewildered. His expression didn’t say so but he wasn’t quick to speak. He was staggered at the fact that he couldn’t read the thoughts or even the intent of the man he ripped from his dimensional cell. The further he searched the deeper he felt he was drowning in an endless ocean. Someone or something deity like protected this being. Somewhat sidetracked, Silxies wanted to know and so he asked.

“Who shields you?”

It was a spectacle to Sinclair to see his superior stumped. Eal raised a brow; growing smart alecky the second he realized he had some sort of leverage.

“Ahhh, you tried to read my mind. That doesn’t really work on me because my mind is uhhh... how can I say this, like a key to somewhere else. You wouldn’t understand. It’s not like I chose it to be this way but it pretty handy. My spiritual landlord, Noire, doesn’t like unexpected visitors.”

What in the hell was he talking about? With that said however, Silexies deduced some sort of clue to what was going on but he still didn’t know enough. What space was powerful enough to independently exist within an opposing realm an individual like Silexies could manipulate? That was a serious question for another time. He had to focus his mind on his original task however considering he summoned Eal for another purpose entirely.

His most recent vision informed him of a valuable cartographer possibly nearing Cizran parts of space. Afterwards he conducted his research through the Cizran networks and it turns out a record of this individual existed. Considering Eals reputation of recklessness they were bound to meet. It came true but he wasn’t perhaps as ready for the encounter as he suspected.

“What is the meaning of this, Silexies” Sinclair shouted.

“You broke what you yourself identified as a cardinal sin very few Cizrans themselves are capable of.”

Mentally scoffing, Silexies quickly replied to his lash of anger. “I will not be punished in the eyes of god. It is justified. As for you, do not question me further as you are merely a decorated pawn.”

Sinclair’s anger regressed from external to internal. Any physical showings would further evoke the elder’s wrath. For now he’d remain an observer. This is not what he thought he’d be doing at this moment but he did find the situation amusing.

Silexies snapped back from examining Eal’s anomaly of a body. He was done trying to figure out his abnormal anatomy. He brought his large frame down into his throne once more before making his demand.

“Aldaraia...Eal. Bring it to me. A series of visions I had long ago lead me to believe the holy palimpsest had been discovered years ago. It should be floating around space, constantly lost but found again. Your knowledge of the galaxy and considering who you work for makes me think you already have a clue where it is or at least came across it.”

“Why do you even think I know what it is?”

“I am not wrong”

“He’s right” is what Eal Sermonde said in his head but denying only increased the chances he’d get thrown back into a dimensional cell which he honest had many second opinions about revisiting. He was absolutely right. More than Silexies could have realistically known.

“You’re not wrong” is what he’d say but he’d follow with words that would incite the elder Cizran’s rage.

“I recently had the book but I dumped the damn thing on a random planet on the way here… It is cursed. And more than me. That’s pretty hard to do. There’s something wrong with it, seriously. I carried it with me for a month straight and every place I visited turned into a shithole. I wanted to see if it was just me but since none of you folks mentioned it I guess everything is going fine and dandy in religion land. The worst part is I believe something fed of the chaos that brewed around me and was close to manifesting itself.”

“You tossed the holy document aside as mere rubbish…You…will… fix this.”

“I have enough problems as it is though. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with what it was going to whip out next but I suppose it hasn’t moved far from where I left it. I have a hunch things aren’t going too well there.”

Silexies was far from satisfied with Eal’s actions but he did give him the information he desired. The book was within his reach. Now was the time to act.

“Where is this planet exactly?”

“Some place where these gigantic bugs, train for war all day. I don’t remember the name but I can supply coordinates” Eal replied.

“Good. Go get it.”

“Huh? I thought I was a prisoner or something.”

“Well I didn’t say you’d go unaccompanied.”

In that moment Sinclair realized he had been thrown into becoming this detestable human’s transporter. He gave a sigh and once he opened his eyes it was clear he was no longer within the realm that housed Silexies. It was night; all of the worshiping Cizrans were gone. He looked at the far end of the pew to see Eal shrugging. Back to his surrogate appearance, Sinclairs professional demeanor returned as well.

“Put on these cuffs.”

You unevolved clod. You short-sighted, puerile, simpleton.

Domnik boiled as he looked down at the featureless monolith. What did you think would happen?

The slab resembled a thick legless table made of unmarred black marble. It hovered in place nearly a foot off the ground. Domnik’s hands crushed one another behind his back as he resisted the urge to scowl at the sarcophagus. Somewhere, someone in the room that nobody cared about droned on of the life and deeds of Maela’gast. What their eulogy didn’t mention was that he was destined to die. His ideology ran against the culture of the high caste--against the empire. Fighting against the values of Cizra Su-Lahn was dangerous, even for a Cizran.

The battle between sermon and empathic lamentation raged, but the only sounds Domnik heard was his own angry cursing, the clicking of his hooves on the steel hanger floor, and the dull buzzing of tinnitus. He returned to his seat and viewed the podium: a white menhir contrasting the darkness of space behind. The backdrop, peppered with dead stars, gave the six armed priest a sense of mysticism. His lower two arms carried censers that frothed over with an aromatic mist, and his upper four raised to the heavens as he proclaimed Maela’gast’s ascension to the great Cloud of Ghot.

Domnik wanted to release the humming energy locks and cast the priest into space. Nobody respected Dalanar, nobody respected the Cloud of Ghot, and nobody respected this asinine priest. Maela’gast embraced many religions, but he was no stranger to derision.

“And we commit mighty Maela’gast’s essence to the Great Cloud of Ghot, so he may feed Dalanar’s Forever Nebula...A beacon for your journey.”

“To saunter straggling mists,” everyone but Domnik replied.

An almost inaudible click signified the shifting of the maglocks, and the stone jettisoned through the force field into space. One day, many years from now, that stone sarcophagus would reach the Ghot Cloud, and join thousands of other idiots who worshiped Dalanar.

Domnik rose from his seat with an internal sigh. He had heard a saying, though he could not recall from where it had originated. It was time to “make nice”.



The Veldt quaked.

Normally he would be out of breath, but today he was tireless. Filled with fear and overtaken by pure instinct, the golem effortlessly tore through underbrush. A tree screeched as he sundered its trunk with his powerful spaded hands. The xylem splintered like an exploding hand grenade as the excavator stampeded forth. Bounding forward, not even the precipitous hundred meter drop off a sudden cliff stopped the stone creature. The golem performed a suicide dive, falling could be its doom. As the golem landed head-first it somersaulted forwards, becoming a disincorporate avalanche that razed the verdure. Consolidating was second nature, and as the rocks came together the golem continued its dash.

Though the golem was a veritable force of nature, panic spurred its charge. Mind-numbing, sight-blinding terror was what pushed him forward like a horde of a thousand horrified aurochs trampling through a market. The golem was a fleeing contradiction; golems were simply objects. Tools to be used, much like one would enter a code in a computer, light a fire for warmth, or pull a trigger to kill. Muddy urges born from instinct pooled together and from this muddled mass of desires a dialogue formed. The primordial stages of consciousness occurred as these thoughts flooded into the stone golem’s head, faster than it was capable or ever meant to process. From this coalescence of desire a reason as to why was developed.

Danger.



“Anual’budai.”

“What?”

A membrane flickered over the troglodytic reptile’s slitted eye, “It means stone swallower…” he hissed pointing a sharp claw towards the distant hulking golem.

The gigantic stone golem paid the susurring quidnuncs no mind. It wasn’t capable of doing so. With deliberate movement the stoneswallower reached for a delectable vein of lustrous green shalam. The afterglow illuminated the golem's face as if it were a candle held beneath the jaw. Using its powerful three fingered hands the anual’budai fractured the minerals effortlessly and shoveled the glowing gems into its gullet. The feast continued for most of the day, as the golem gorged itself on the sheet of shalam. Only when its crapulous stony stomach was swollen from its gluttony did the stone swallower begin its trek.

The anual’budai patiently trundled through rolling hills and the thick forests of the Veldt for nearly a week before it reached its destination--the emerald city of Zöldnach. A marvel which the golem took zero interest in as it trudged on stump-like feet and dragging knuckles.

As the creature carried out its mindless function it waded through busy streets, oblivious to the peculiar scents of the open market, the hawking of low-caste hagglers, and the claustrophobia that went with thousands of people crammed into a singular space. The stone swallower just walked until it reached the Artisan’s district.



Ulu’qol’s six eyed arachnoid face lit up, as much as his beady soulless eyes would allow, upon sight of his shipment of rare and valuable shalam. With sponsorship of Ec-shavar and the rental of this golem, he was able to craft his masterpiece. The seventeen foot tall statue of the governor was sculpted with pure shalam, and the alakast secured the effigy under the strictest of sequestration. It would be his gift to the lord-governor: the cizran’s countenance immortalized.

In the past week Ulu’gol had worked tirelessly; manipulating alakastian laser-chisels with his deft feelers the alakast shaped the likeness of his ruler’s face to the perfect detail his eidetic memory provided him. He simply needed to ballast the base, touch up, and his masterpiece would be finished. Just in time for the feast in Ec-shavar’s honor. He rubbed his mandibles together anxiously and watched the anual’budai with alien curiosity. His four forelimbs crossed behind his back resting on his abdomen in dignified posture.

The streets thundered as the massive excavation golem entered the square, and vomited up the contents of its distended boulder-belly. Glowing green shalam skittered across the floor like gems from a cutpurse’s stolen satchel, and Ulu’gol lusted over the shards. When he shook himself from his trance he glanced at the stone swallower who hadn’t yet left.

To the perturbed alakast’s surprise the golem’s heavy brow was raised, mouth agape, and eyes flaring a lively turquoise, its gaze was transfixed on Ec-Shavar’s countenance. The golem’s expression mimicked what Ulu’qol might believe to be astonishment. His mandibles chattered irritably as he hissed, “...leave.”

A heavy stone fist collided with the statue and a brief but furious fulmination ensued. The only reaction Ulu’gol could offer was a half-second scream of apoplexy combined with terror before the golem’s considerable fist squashed him. The golem flailed furiously and indiscriminately, backfisting a hovering rickshaw. The transport rolled and smashed violently through a storefront as the golem bounded as fast as it could from the artisan district. Throngs of people created a deadly crush as the golem stampeded through cramped passageways, trampling all under digitigrade and knuckle.

By the time anyone could have reacted, the stone swallower escaped the city in a hysterical furor, and left a trail of destruction in its wake.

Entangled within the Hellseeds muscular extensions, Kirri reacted in two simultaneous ways: the space between his clawed toes split, his limbs inflated, and began to drain the sand beneath his feet up through his legs. Appendages swelled, his carapace regenerating over his exposed organs as the excess accumulation of mass caused tripled the Warrior's size and caused a gradual, albeit rapid increase in power and resistance against the colossal skeletons. The spikes on his arms and legs expanded in length, girth, and density, curving out into a compact overgrowth of thorn-armor which hooked into the Hellseeds' flesh, followed by a fierce tug, cutting himself free and gaining distance, the thickening yellow cords which he had leashed to the monsters through his fingers remaining in-tact.

Then, Kirri saw what appeared to be a bright burning meteor descending through the sky. The distracting light coming off the object nearly caused him to lose focus and become caught again -- but in noticing that the object was on a collision course for one of the largest Hellseeds, the Warrior instead coordinated his forearms around the monster's muscle as it reached for him, wrapping it around both arms. His skin sliced apart as he instinctively tapped into the fire stone, barricading it from his head and torso with an explosion of red crystalline growth.

For all the Horde's incredible might, caution was not one of their strong suits, though it was to be expected given their great numbers. In any case, the Warrior had seen his opportunity -- pulling back as hard as he could, a crack spread down the length of the Hellseeds' necks - a direct result of the yellow cord Kirri had attached to him. Through this connection, the Kilamaran had direct access to the Monster's skeletal structure and the minerals composing it, weakening it on a molecular level to such a degree that when Lysander slammed into it, instead of receiving a punting headbutt which sent him hurling toward the Insect, the Hellseeds' neck snapped as it reared back. The Insect yanked a whole cluster of Skeletons to the ground with a tremendous impact, using the weight of the largest one to bring the entire group down which shattered their upper-bodies, letting out another triumphant shriek as the wave of ensuing sand rushed over him from the massive shock-wave.

He wasn't done here though. The Fire Stone in his chest tapped into the bodies of the Hellseeds, bypassing their very souls and formed a direct connection to the spirits of those Kilamarans who had been so malevolently corrupted. Kirri had never seen anything like it in all his years. The image he received of Kaan was a blurr, still-forming in his mind but he now knew where he was and held an idea of what was happening to his people; severing physical ties with the Monsters and rocketing toward the Lich's location. Whether a threat was foreign or familiar, the Kilamaran would end their existence, just as he had ended the lives of other violent perpetrators, his rage echoing within the Fire Stones embedded within all who had ascended like him.

--

The Redeemed Warriors moved throughout the desert in a maelstrom of fire and glass, their mission quite simple: exterminate the plague of beasts wreaking havoc on the other tribes. Recently an ascended Kilamari named Targira had discovered one of the smaller desert settlements slaughtered beyond recognition, the hatred present in these crimes made evident by the way their face and genitals had been dismembered mutilated. More than likely this village had been only recently established, for it was the norm for Elder Lords to stomp out these rebellious formations as soon as they arose.

Following the trail of destruction and carnage, Targira could smell the ichor floating on the humid air, the stench of venom and saliva mixed in with it. She knew that war was once again upon them. Ordering her troops into a V-formation, she and the rest of her group sought to catch the assailants in a pincer trap, their stingers poised to their sides as they sought to impale these evil-doers through the mid-section. It wasn't until they were close enough that Targira's Fire Stone reacted to the leader of the attackers with a burgandy glow, prompting her to move ahead of the pack, crystalline blades piercing the carapace on her forearms as she furiously propelled herself at what as now nothing less than a savage beast.

He experiences a terrifying moment, (or is it an age?) in which the light of reason is extinguished, only to awaken to the soft kiss of light as he is thoroughly scanned. A set of dulled golden eyes whose lids still feel heavy and strained from untold horrors slowly open. A chill wind whistles through the surrounding garden as a frighteningly complex system of binary switches provides him with an all-encompassing yet confining illusion of what life truly is. He has walked the tightrope across the gulf that exists between mortal and the divine. He had communed with... something. Not with words, but with images; each a reflection of a greater illumination. But before he can begin to reflect on the gravitas of what has been imparted to him, he becomes keenly aware of presences in the room and the splitting pain that came crashing down upon him.

Xo'pil's vision swims in and out of focus as he begins to take stock of his surroundings. The room is filled with the hunched forms of several Q'ush as they quickly conversed in their native tongue, a rapport of hisses and clicks being exchanged between two while the others await a decision to be made, gawking at the masterpieces that adorned the room. If Xo was more familiar with their language, he would have found amusement in their confoundment as they deliberated on how best to begin transporting the pieces before them to Ec-Shavar's estate. Forked tongues slipped between thin lips as their eyes darted back and forth, reflected in them a cascading pattern of light. Its source was an aqueous amphora, its dimensions in an ever-shifting dance as crystalline rings orbited it upon a twisted axis. A curious claw was extended towards it, only to recoil in anguish as the vase's caustic components scalded its owner.

"Like most objects of immeasurable beauty, it is often best to admire from a distance lest the cost of such beauty immediately become apparent."

The voice, or more over the approximation of a voice, brings with it all the quality of an orchestral production. It began with percussive intensity that melted away into melodious intonations. Xo rises from his recumbent position as the speaker makes himself visible. In the center of the room, behind the startled saurians, was a scintillating shaft of sanguine and across its surface rippled a wave of transmogrification. The soft beating of countless wings whispered to them as the pulsating form of Plangó Felho'Te-vesztø fully manifested itself.

"I've already made all the necessary arrangements for transport. Outside are two kukull who will handle your duties. Leave us."

There were no objections from the crouched Q'ush as they vacated the room, attempting to console their injured companion. Their presence was, in turn, replaced by that of witless automata. Without instruction they immediately set themselves to the role of stevedore, albeit in a disconcerting fashion. One of the golems was composed of a viscous ferrofluid, Xo surmised, as he watched it envelop the floating amphora and encase it in a translucent orb within its bulking mass. It slithered on towards the next piece until it resembled a band of glowing jewels suspended in churning ink, until it oozed its way out into the courtyard, a magnetized patina left in its wake.

The hushed warble of Huilo's anti-grav thrusters distracted Xo'pil from his musings as he wondered if he could dismantle the golem and use it for a future sculpture. The dual-pyramidal drone had not ceased in monitoring his vitals and was expressing its concern over its conclusions via a series of chimes that went ignored for the time being. He stood and faltered, his legs giving out beneath his weight as he steadied himself with an outstretched arm.

"I would tell you to rest but we've hardly the time for such pleasantry. You're the absolute talk of the city, little prince, or at least part of it. First you go off into the Veldt without so much as an upstream for the feeds only to disappear tor days.Then you show up looking like you've been through Ghot, clutching a cluster of eggs and surrounded by one of your toys, undoubtedly broken."

His thoughts turned to Epit'li. The last memory he had of her was her voice beckoning him as he was in the thrall of something awful. He began to protest, seeking to voice his concern when Plangó continued.

"You've been unconscious for hours while this one here dutifully fretted over you. We have little time before we must be elsewhere and I would prefer if you be as straightforward as possible. I will ask as simply as I can, what happened?"

And so Xo'pil began to recount what he remembered to his mentor, pausing often to collect his thoughts and find the words that would best describe what he had experienced. At times this proved to be a difficult task, yet he found a familiar sense of satisfaction in the process, as if it were a sudden surge of inspiration when brush met canvas. The fluttering mass was a polychromatic dreamscape as it listened to the Azot's tale, its thoughts only hinted at in the shifting hues.

"You've given me much to ponder, little prince, and I am sure there is no need to say this, but for posterity's sake I will be blunt. Tell no one else of what happened. It'll be a simple affair to concoct another tale to explain your disappearance and sudden return. Zöld'nach has been privy to several events in the past few days that'll aid in our deception. Just yesterday a kukull suffered some sort of paroxysm and smashed our dear Ulu'gol. Not into a paste, mind you, but close enough to crack that stubborn Alakast's carapace. Do be kind to him, tonight, I hear he's ever so embarrassed. Nothing new to show for his labors, armed only with what pieces he'd brought with him.

A minor tale of debauchery and artistic excess should suffice in obfuscating the truth of your journey. By tonight the sycophantic lot will be tittering behind your back while fawning over you. Try not to grimace."

With a kaleidoscopic burst of light and warmth, the beating wings were consumed in a whirling inferno and Plangó's presence was gone, replaced with the faint scent of smoldering incense. And just like that, Xo'pil was alone.

***

Moments later a similar eruption only inversed began to coalesce and through sheer tyranny of will Plangó Felho'Te-vesztø manifested himself halfway across the city, shadows dancing across the opulent furnishings of his quarters before coming to a halt as the effulgent entity fully corporealized. Stepping out from within the non-euclidean depths of diaphanous insects was a being made of starstuff. The bulk of his form was an atramentous void that absorbed the resplendent glory of the burning pillar that was but an aspect of his visage. Bands of swirling cosmic might streaked across the inky expanse and trickled across the surface of everything he interacted with. A tablet of volcanic stone was grasped in its hands and the motif engraved upon it was one of renewed importance: a beam erupting from an orb swept up in a maelstrom, the terrible likeness of abyssal horrors encircling the beam.

And the soft sigh of satisfaction echoed slightly through out the chamber.

***

The torrential downpour that so regularly enveloped the Veldt and the lower expanses of Zöld'nach had diminished to a fine rain at this height, and as Xo'pil sat peering through the viewport of the shuttle he was on he mindlessly traced the fine bands of shalam that shone through the mists as rain met the heat of the caldera the heart of the city had been built around. They continued to ascend until all was engulfed in the somber miasma and for minutes they flew through darkness until cresting a ring of cragged peaks, to which they were suddenly met with several brightly lit landing pads, a number of shuttles already in the process of depositing their wealthy cargo.

He was led across windswept runways, the occasional bead of rainwater crashing against the force-field emitted by the escort drone that directed him to a series of lifts that descended into the brutally majestic manse of Ec-Shavar. Xo'pil's eyes widened as he anxiously tugged at the cowering tips of his cloak's collar. It seemed more like a nightmarish vista than a home; illuminated spires which sought the starry heavens protruded from artificial pools of superheated liquids. Espaliers of fiber-optic vines strangled the hewn-stone walls of the Cizran-made valley, their sprawl interrupted intermittently by reflective lenses of magnificent size. And in the center of it all was a trio of domes, each adorned with an apocalyptic array of weaponry.

As he sought to take in as much detail as possible he was momentarily engulfed in darkness as the lift descended past the estate grounds and into an underground rail system. He groaned and, for the first time in what felt like too long, Xo felt like himself.

"What's next? Moving stairs?"

***

After an uneventful ride through drab tunnels, Xo'pil found himself at the center of festivities. Or at least at their threshold. He stood before two massive doors of masterfully carved shalam. Its glow was muted through a talented frosting technique that gave it a subdued sense of horror. Or was it the subject matter? As the mineral's bands of light pulsed along the door's surface, it illuminated a familiar scene of devastation; depicting a dread Konul descending, death in its wake. To its side stood the hulking form of a gilded arthropod, prismatic patterns glimmering across a massive golden claw. A highly modulated voice bubbled up from a set of mandibles as it requested his credentials.

Xo involuntarily shivered as he provided it with his invitation; and with the slight hint of brine it was taken in a vestigial claw that appeared from its abdomen. This was followed by a mighty groan as the doors began to part and he heard his name being announced to the guests within. Gathering his wits, he stepped forward into the throng and was immediately lost to a myriad of sensations.

Immediately past the doorway the space had been dedicated to the flesh-sculptors of Cizra Su-Lahn and their various apprentices. He wandered past masses of conjoined viscera, pulsating and throbbing with the rhythm of tribal drums, a fine marriage of the two cultures. He stopped and falsely admired a titanic set of lungs transformed into a series of bellows that produced horrid belches. Xo reached out and took notice of a passing tray, removing from it a mouthpiece with capsules protruding from either side, one filled with a swirling cloud of vermillion vapor while the other held an emerald mist. Turning a valve, the two chemicals were aerosolized and inhaled deeply into Xo's lungs.

Waves of euphoria washed over him as he wound his way through the now vibrating multitude. It felt as if the fringes of his being were becoming more fluid, latching on and mixing with the ever-shifting sights and sounds of the enormous studio. He peered through the violent haze of all these beings, brought together into one room and let loose upon a phantasmagoric pilgrimage. He saw freshly injured Ulu'gol, hovering with the aid of several servitors as he was encircled by a troop of garishly garbed forest of admirers; half-heartedly answering questions and acknowledging compliments. As Xo nears he overhears a shrill voice ask for an explanation to a series of dyed meats that were suspended by gossamer webs and giggled at the unenthused response of "social integration".

Before he could move closer and engage Ulu'gol in a bit of exasperated dialogue, the sound of trumpets filled the air as every head turned towards the source.

"Esteemed visitors and delegates, artists and patrons, your host, Governor Ec-Shavar!"

“Bajaga Garul, get hammer!” Tarhara Maka squeaked, its secondary sinistral arm, which terminated in four needle-thin fingers, extended in expectation.

Quick as beta-decay and ever obedient, its spore and apprentice scuttled on five reticulated tentacles to the tool rack. Moments passed, and even the mites on the wavy glass walls felt the swollen intensity of Tarhara Maka’s ocular tic, a chartreuse pulse from a singular central eye that briefly overwhelmed the forge light. Once in position, Bajaga Garul scanned the numerous instruments and moved to select one, but—

“No, pointy-face, not that—other!” squealed Tarhara Maka.

Time ebbed, but that was merely an irritant rather than an obstacle. Intricate and ornate were the two preeminent qualities that distinguished these artisans’ workmanship, not timeliness. The present labor manifested as a truncated japa mala, a chain of polished beryl just lengthily enough to wrap a Cizran-sized fist and engraved with a trilogy of black lines that danced tribally across its surface, bringing unity to the individual pieces. Closer inspection of the lines revealed three passages from Ci’zaria su-to Tóth, rite of the Sacred Form, a banned scripture, which began:

What labor transcends the reeds and wake, denies streams dilute the sea or storms harass the somnolent sand? One is not the whole. Rebuke all gods; decry the fading star and waning soul; strip bare divinity and inward curb the tide of time. Ascend beyond the broken light. Carve heresy into bone. Absent these, effort is meaningless; persistence is meaningless; passion is meaningless—the chasing of the wind, the flooding of the sky, the victory of the slaughtered. One is not the whole.

Were their commission divulged, these two tiny artisans would be doomed to await eternity in the portals of Gereza.



Upholstered in virthian slath hide, a stool, one of twelve, and the only occupied, gripped his rear with a thousand spongy fingers; likewise, an under-lit translucent gneiss counter chilled his elbows. The space was mellow with a lazy instrumental, sweet incense, and metallic cinders. In it, Eti was almost drowsy as he sat alone, hunched over, his chin cupped in his paws.

The tavern was called Elsewhere and framed an intersection with four similarly titular houses: Nowhere, Somewhere, Anywhere, and Where To Find It. Located in Zöld’nach’s Ayatel district, they weren’t all bars, or even fronts that pretended to be, although most boasted ties to an unsanctioned marketplace. He wasn’t particularly finicky in where he drank and merely remained in the first that made no effort to seduce him into service as a sex slave, which made Elsewhere his third port of call.

Elsewhere lent itself to a sporting motif complemented by a holodynamic mural set behind rows of bottled alcohol across from the bar. Portrayed was a slath bull, the dingy brown of its striae interrupted by dangerous neon orange and further camouflaged by layers of dirt, peat, and broken vines that clung to its horns and hide. It lunged through a mire, spears in its back, propelled both by terror and millions of rock hard cilia along its belly.

Above him, an inapt lantern lurched on its chain, its chassis an amplifier of its tiny alien inhabitants. Most beings evolved to suit the needs of their environment and were unable to detect the noises emitted by Kantencans, but Eti was engineered to perfection, at least inasmuch as his capacity to serve his master was concerned. The exchange amused him and the longer it went on the less successful was his attempt to remain composed. Within minutes, with an almost untouched pitcher of machine-infusible liquid kilowatt, colloquially known as milk, before him, he was seized a fit of snorts, coughs, and giggles. Viscous white drops clung to his whiskers and snout, shook free, and landed on the bar in a weirdly infinite pattern.

Then a Q’ush disturbed his private moment and claimed the stool at his side.

“You returned, just as you said.”

The query chilled Eti’s laughter, which died at his lips. He glanced around the establishment just to be certain he was the only other occupant beside the automated tapster. Empty. Unless, somehow, the Q’ush referred to the Kantencans, but his suspicions led him elsewhere.

“Excuse me?”

“You sat just there and implored me to return here at this now for each traversal until we again met,” began the Q’ush, its finger, marked with the patina of abuse, directed toward Eti’s stool.

Eti gazed at the Q’ush blankly. He didn’t recognize the creature; however, he did not doubt its claim. Weirder things weren’t unknown to him in his exploits with his mistress.

The Q’ush raised a finger toward the lantern, the remaining trio of digits contorted in a sinuous green web; a gesture that lent further suspense to the moment as the unnamed intruder continued, “That I may escort you, contingent on your mistress’ absence, with his token to our Lord to the gala. You told me, your memory, I ought highlight the pathology of your whims. Not so unpredictable. You would be here, seated there, just so, unslaked, forgetful, late.”

With that, the Q’ush stood up, plucked the lantern off its hook, and made for the exit. There, it glanced over its shoulder, gestured for Eti to follow, pointed, this time toward the wall, and prodded, “Your hat.”

He hadn’t come in with a hat, but, as he looked at the rack, he noticed something vaguely familiar. For whatever reason, Eti assumed he had misplaced it; a very unusual event for a being such as him. Yet, there it was. Secured by an bio-rejection discharge field, it was gaudy, rusty, bedecked with a bandoleer, and undeniably his style. He picked it up and followed the strange Q’ush out of the bar. In the back of his mind, he noted that it felt heavier than it should. Not by much, but enough to perhaps look into later.

“Mind if I join you at the gala?” Eti asked, although he already knew the answer.



Pillars of molten glass issue from celestial apertures tessellated in a nepheline vault and drown the wailing gullets of bestial statuary chained to abyssal pedestals of polished basalt. While colossal, a predatory silhouette diminishes the otherwise daunting cleansing chamber’s scale. No sculpture, the figure, restless, obstructs and contorts the searing gamboge glare, casting the space in writhing cacodaemonic umbras that shift upon the floor and walls as a host of menacing imps parading around their prey.

Substance decays into the pure experiential as a solitary scream gilds the portrayal of Nattini’s Consiglieri Fraudolenti in truncated horror. Gravity, panicked, flees; motes of ash ascend to drift in an accretion disc of otherworldly limbo; and the fiery columns arc and deform into a multitude of serpents-turned-ouroboros. A low vibration permeates the space and crescendos in a relentless wave of noise that whelms the senses.

In bedlam’s midst, Ec-shavar looms, his carapace lashed by ropes of liquid fire. Yet, corporeal pain neither dulls nor quenches the cerebral din of his ruminations, failure after failure to ascend mounting in his mind. I will become a god, he insists inwardly, the frailties of his genetic heritage lain bare by force of mind and will. Deftly, his mind sharpens to a scalpel and cuts away the flaws. Suddenly, it is as though a third eye manifests. He feels the tempo of life throb throughout the Jade Fortress, Q’ab, and the entirety of his cosmic domain. He senses the decline of his servitors, the threats from within and without, and the nearing of the heavenly interstice. Urgently, he carves into the limitations of his empathic organ; let him die in the minds of his brethren while he walks amongst them, invisible yet omnipotent.

I will be a god.

The whole is not one.

Ec-shavar collapses, the session ended. Within the cleansing chamber, silence and darkness takes hold; the pillars, once more mated to mouths of dead stone, dim and harden.

After a while, he stands up. Something is amiss, he realizes. His hold on a kukull—gone. A small matter, he dismisses it.

He has a gala to attend.

Standing up, a cape of living flesh cascades from his shoulders and conceals three of his six legs. His translucent teeth flash for a moment as he tastes the acrid air. It tastes of progress. After that moment is spent to assess his surrounding, he departs. He does not walk long, for the very chambers of his manor shape to speed his passing. Soon, trumpets are blaring and obsequious fools kowtow in honor of their governor, their lord, and their god—he, Ec-shavar. Everyone fearing him, obeying him, celebrating him; everyone except for Plangó Felho'Te-vesztø.

“I sense a weakening of your spirit,” opines his Cizran guest.

“To the contrary,” Ec-shavar retorts, “never have I been so mighty.”



Magnificent, imposing, boundless—all these described the Hall of Records in Samarra, Cizra Su-lahn’s capital. She worked there, but never saw it. Instead, it was her lot in life as Cizran slave to toil twenty-three levels beneath the grand edifice in a labyrinthine catacomb of soul-crushing cubicles and dingy offices. Despite this, the work was rewarding. While rare, a Cizran misstep in the complex dance of bureaucracy was not unheard of; even rarer, yet vastly more exciting, was when one of the masters were systematically dismantled by the system. Such was the dramaturgy for which she, and millions like her, lived.

With that in mind, Junior Audit Servitor #397 sat promptly at her desk.

Her thumb still tingled from the sting of the biometric access scan, her morning coffee—in its inveterate skull-embossed red mug—was warm and aromatic, and she was eager to trudge through another dull day of audit logs.

Today her information portal scheduler notified her that Gareza Prison Complex was slated for an ad-hoc review. Another biometric scan confirmed her security clearance and, within minutes, the data dump finalized. JAS-397 cracked her knuckles, cleared her mind, and dived into what she knew was going to be an extensive review. Most of the data dump involved videos and documents pertaining to prisoner booking or release, which she reviewed to make sure every iwas dotted and every t was crossed. Then, three-quarters into her shift, she came across something unusual. There was an alert that a cell in sector 12E9, block A3, quadrant 2 temporal stasis briefly malfunctioned. No inspection report was filed; indeed, no documentation of any kind accompanied the automated alert. She sighed. There was no reason to get excited; practically every time this type of incident arose, it ended up being a fluke—cosmic rays, electromagnetic surge, unexplained anomaly. Even so, she made a note to file an official reprimand requisition against the prison maintenance. That done, she decided to undertake a review of that cell’s live information feed. She signed, opened up the video feed, and saw … nothing. Nobody. Maybe it was just empty. She checked the logs. Prisoner 3091, self-referenced as ‘Eal Sermonde’ , was booked over twelve days earlier. No release record. She went from live to backup feed, opened up the date, and confirmed his presence in the cell. Ugly little man. So, sometime between then and now he managed to escape.

She gasped audibly.

Appalled at her lack of discretion, JAS-397 covered her mouth and glanced around to see if anyone noticed.

No, all her fellow servitors were assiduously engaged in their work. Just as she should be. Next step was confirmation. She put the feed on fast forward; it would stop automatically when it caught up to the present. She didn’t have to wait that long. Within the last three days, he vanished. She isolated the exact minute, played it back on slow, and watched.

What she saw next shocked her to such an extent that she stood up in her cubicle and knocked over her chair.

“This is it,” she said aloud, throwing circumspection to the wind.

“This is really happening.”

She locked her portal and practically ran—which is to say, strode at a brisk pace—from the cube farm to her manager’s office.

There was paperwork to file.

Mountains of it.