The Great Conclave of Pandjoras
-Ten Years After Arrival-
Neu Antioch. Formerly the seat of House Sulkat in the eastern Dune Sea of Hassan. A great bastion of masonic stone, crackling lightning licking off of a thousandfold armament emplacements. Grand banners of serpent silk flowed from carefully crafted bricks, their insignia of intertwined snakes and blades once proudly displayed on dark fabric. Now, however, the dusken sun and sword fly from the highest battlement for those to witness the glory of House Varranis. Where once the citadel was forced to sit between gargantuan dunes and the Obsidian Reach, it now hovers through dusken sky upon prolific gravity shunts.
A thousand and one grains of black sand drip from sculpted orifices unto Pandjoras below it, graviton tempests and void serpents alike avoiding the sky fortress. Hulking, graviton-fed turbines hovered to a halt above the Korvaix-Tuturan Massifs, several other dark shapes beginning to grow closer to the leviathan castle.
Within the once austere halls of the Great Dune Marshals, bright glow globes illuminated large passages to reveal Pandjorans within. Sulkatian warriors in heavier variants of the Varranian-powered armor journeyed throughout on routine patrols, gravity spears tightly held in both hands. Their orange eyes were particularly trained for any threat, yet the men-at-arms were glued to the hassan that skulked their House’s home. The assassins of House Varranis, armed in their signature lithe powered suits, walked their former adversaries' halls with serpent silk banners in hand. In a callous display of superiority, Sulkatian insignias were tarnished, removed, and replaced with the sun and sword of Neu Alamut. Many Pandjorans would’ve ferociously fought against disrespect upon one’s domain, and yet the Sulkat house guard simply watched as their history was overwritten with sad eyes.
Across the entirety of Neu Antioch, Sulkatian and Varranian Pandjorans cautiously coexisted for a singular, grand council unlike any the dusken world had seen before. A pair of colossal, metallic doors etched with Pandjoras’ long history led into a great, circular chamber a hundred meters in diameter. At the center of the chamber stood a large, round table inscribed with an accurate map of their dark planet. Vast dunes, graviton oceans, House palaces, and beautifully sculpted icons emphasized the sheer majesty of it. Arrayed in a full sphere around the table were thirteen seats, each as unique and magisterial as the next. Great effigies hoisted from these magnificent chairs, reflecting the various insignia of the Exalted Pandjoran Houses. Each held a spot of importance correlating to the exact positions of their domains. Only one seat rivaled the rest in stature and size.
The Throne of Varranis. Stony, coiled serpents as armrests, a titanic slab of supreme sculpture for the backrest, and a lofty dais complimented by superior serpent silk filled its anatomy. A great effigy of House Varranis’ dusken sun and sword hovered over the throne upon a metallic pole, purposefully positioned to express supremacy. As if it were sculpted by a dusken deity of penumbral night, only the most worthy could sit upon the silken cushions. And so it was filled by none other. Zaphariel ibn Varranis patiently gazed down from his position at the table that he had crafted himself, eyeing imperfections and flaws to his critical regard. Unlike his usual appearance, the Malik wore an exquisite, void-hued robe fashioned from elder serpent silk and embroidered with his prophecy in ocher colors. A midnight cloak hung from his shoulders, cascading down his body past regal gloves with talon-tipped rings and imperial balgha with metallic tips. A marigold laurel complimented an eight-pointed, obsidian coronet that sat atop his dark, groomed hair. His appearance echoed the divinity of Old Pandjoras, further enforcing the image of a prophetic individual.
The Malik’s golden, serpentine eyes switched from his imperfect piece to those that stood beside him. On the right side of his throne, the old man of the mountain in an alabaster mask and austere, black robes silently waited. A glance from Muahad’s piercing blue orbs affirmed the former sheik of his quiet comfortability. To Zaphariel’s left, Ramses ibn Varranis stood with a dataslate in one of his armored fingers, refusing to part from his Varranian-powered armor. Unlike his mentor, the mature hassan failed to notice the promised dreamer’s scanning and pressed on with data surety. Beyond the three of them, another pair of Pandjorans sat several paces to his right-hand side. In a seat with blade-sculpted arms and legs, the Dune Sultan of Sulkat sat proudly with his eyes drawn to the intricately carved table. Skin as dark as the dusken sands, brown hair cut tight to his skull, and scarred facial features complimented the aging face of an elder. Two others perched to either side of the Sulkatian Malik, a younger boy with similar qualities and a grown man with an even greater plethora of scars accenting an unkempt beard. The great hassan peered at the effigy behind their seat, the serpent and blade of House Sulkat met his gaze.
“Will they arrive soon, Father?” The younger one spoke as quietly as one can in a wide chamber. The Dune Sultan nearly jumped in his seat as if shaken awake from a long dream, turning away from the etched table to the youth beside him. A warm smile formed across his lips, one of his augmented hands reaching up to pat the adolescent on the shoulder before beginning to speak.
“They will be arriving momentarily, Aswin, I’m sure some of the other heirs are keen to see you once more. Remember to practice your patience, my son,” The Dune Sultan’s voice was raspy and deep, certain syllables emphasizing occasional loudness in his speech pattern. Aswin, the apparent son, beamed with a smile and returned to an idle stance with small, giddy movements abound. As if noticing the attention drawn to them, the Malik of Sulkat inclined his head towards Zaphariel. “My apologies, Malik Varranis, my son grows weary from sitting idly and wishes to see his playmates once more.”
The dusken deity propped an elbow against the sculpted serpents upon his throne, leaning his chin into an open palm. A small smile danced across his lips, predatory eyes lowering down to the frivolous adolescent. Like an animal knowingly stalked by a predator, Aswin swiftly hid next to the Sulkatian Malik once noticed. The youth’s actions failed to affect his smile, perhaps even making it grow slightly larger in a wide spread. Fearful, curious eyes occasionally glanced back at Zaphariel’s larger serpentine orbs.
“No apologies are needed,
Asghar, I admire the spirit of our dusken world’s children. Though, I certainly hope Aswin will one day grow to be as legendary as Pandjoras’ High Sultan of the Obsidian Reaches. Your House’s expertise is unrivaled in overt war, a trait that will be necessary far into the future.” Zaphariel responded with a voice as sweet as honey and as soft as serpent silk, a wonderful trill naturally woven into it. He witnessed a physical response within Asghar as his words crossed the distance between them. Eye dilation, slight flushness, and short breathlessness. All symptoms that the promised dreamer had become accustomed to when dealing with all others aside from his adoptive father. It disgusted him.
Before the Malik of Sulkat was able to respond, the first of the other Houses arrived. Malik Zaphariel straightened himself out to witness every person that would cross the threshold into their council chamber. Asghar picked himself out of his seat, gaze readjusted to those that would enter his former home. The old man of the mountain silently watched with unreadable emotions. Ramses lowered the dataslate, taking a step towards the table to become the official announcer of their event. The mature hassan cleared his voice only once during the entirety of his announcements, a testament to a lifetime of endurance.
“We welcome the arrivals of the Pandjoran Houses to the Varranian-Sulkatian abode of Neu Antioch!
Glory to you, Malika-i-Zarmira ibn Gallax, and her heiresses Farahdia and Maharwa, of the Serpentine Dune Sea!” The hassan announced as a trio of dusken women sauntered into the council chamber. Impossibly thin veils of serpent silk complimented their forms while living void snakes of miniature size coiled around their bodies. At the forefront of their procession was a tall woman with a coronet of clinking, ophidian trinkets trailing across her celestial veil. Long strands of variously dyed hair fell beside an ethereal, gaunt face. A robe of similar fabric to the Malika’s headdress clung to her body, embroidered with gravitic oceans and gleaming stars. A pair of younger women, the heiresses, ambled beside her in heavier, exquisite robes. One wore their dark hair in braids, while the other wore their lighter strands in sleek, straight lines. All three carelessly displayed serpentine inscriptions and images upon their skin, a prideful tradition of Gallaxian tattooing.
The women seemed to glide across the chamber similar to the reality-defying serpents that lingered over their forms. All three passed by their beautifully sculpted seat to stand before the visage of Zaphariel, staring up with mesmerized eyes hidden behind majestic veils. In one fluid movement, the Gallaxian women dropped to their knees and bowed their heads low to the Malik of Varranis. None of the Varranian hassan appeared surprised, but Asghar seemed particularly perturbed by their sudden, humiliating genuflection. Malika Zarmira was the first to rise, her darkened lips opening to speak.
“O’ Master of Falak, the tamers of the Serpentine Sea come as requested for we are your humble serpents. As you have previously, please treat us well.” Zarmira spoke with utmost reverence, a soft and meek voice dancing across a serpentine tongue. The Malik of Pandjoras, guided by ceremony, lowered one of his talon-ringed hands to the Malika of Gallax. She pressed the dusken hand against her forehead, a momentary pulse of indescribable energy connecting the two for only a moment. Zaphariel held a small, thin smile playing on his lips, but he truthfully felt utterly repulsed by the exchange.
“Certainly, Malika Zarmira, I could not possibly begin to describe the necessity of your serpent pools and the quality of Gallaxian silk. I look forward to our continued interaction.” The Malik of Varranis responded as if perfectly spinning the words that Zarmira wished to hear. She trembled for only a moment, succumbing to temporary weakness from words alone. Both of the Gallaxian heiresses placed their soft hands on the Malika’s shoulders, assisting her and retreating to their seat with apologies on their lips. Zaphariel’s serpentine eyes watched as the Malika of Gallax sat upon an exquisite chair of reinforced, black glass. Their effigy, a pair of hands praising a serpent, hovered over the three women.
Another trio entered the council chamber as the Gallaxian women took to their seat. A tall, thin man in a majestic robe of embroidered Pandjoran sigils, runes, and bone trinkets led a pair of similarly dressed attendants. All three were cleanly shaven, silvery-green Pandjoran characters dyed into their skin on all visible parts of their body. Vials of penumbral sand slowly leaked onto Neu Antioch’s floor from across their bodies, swaying and clinking as they walked. The head of their process wore no coronet unlike the other three in the chamber, allowing their dusken skin to drink warm air. The pair that followed behind him, a younger woman and an elderly man, carried two heavy grimoires bound in serpentine flesh.
“
Glory to you, Malik-i-Azahar ibn Urahal, High Seer Kadar, and heiress Raaina, of the Spiral Palaces!” Ramses loudly announced as the Urahalian attendants crossed the chamber in a few strides, all three of their long legs propelling them to the foot of Zaphariel’s dais. Similar to the Gallaxian women, Azahar and his cohort lowered themselves and deeply bowed before picking themselves up to address the Varranian Malik. A broad smile, unfettered by any emotion chain, greeted the promised dreamer’s sight. It was only then within their proximity did he notice that the Malik of Urahal and his seers were purple-eyed, instead of bearing the Eyes of Hassan. A singular, great eye of ink was etched upon the flesh of their foreheads, eternally looking outward.
“Great Prophet! Brilliant Soul of the Dusken Sands! We humbly come before you in a show of gratitude! Your insights have proven beyond resourceful in our pursuit of knowledge! Please, take these grimoires as gifts. My daughter, Raaina, had spent thirteen nights and thirteen days pouring over
a thousand and one grains of black sand to craft these for you!” Malik Azahar’s words were rapid, manic, and filled with ecstasy. He wildly gestured with his hands for every spoken word. The heiress, Raaina, meekly walked forward to deliver one of her tomes to Ramses. Her other grimoire was delivered to Muahad by Kadar, the pair of elderly Pandjorans sharing a knowing look before reassuming their rightful positions.
“You honor me with your praise, Azahar, yet it is not I that should be honored. Your seers and prophets are essential to the future of Pandjoras! I accept your gifts, friend, and I will pour over them for thirteen days and thirteen nights. Truly, Malik-i-Urahal, glory upon your name,” Malik Zaphariel said with enthusiasm, intentionally leaning forward to incite a positive spark within Azahar’s soul. In truth, he despised the way the Malik of Urahal spoke with such fervent energy. Another individual he felt repulsed by, yet required for the sake of Pandjoras. The promised dreamer turned his attention to the smaller form of the Urahal heiress, who slightly cowered when directly looked at. A wicked grin hid beneath a coy smile on his lips. “I will personally thank you for these when the time comes, Raaina Urahal.”
Honored by Zaphariel’s words, all three of the Urahalians bowed their heads before moving to their assigned position. Their seat, a panoply of midnight serpent silk and carved skulls, was positioned between the Varranian throne and Ashgar’s Sulkatian seat. An effigy of House Urahal’s sigil, a skull and shining star, rose from behind to hang perpetually over their forms. As the southern seers began to relax, another group of attendants entered the conclave’s spherical chamber. Five hooded figures in modified suits of powered armor and heavy rebreathers strode from the entrance to their seat immediately. Tiny, modular graviton jetpacks were mounted to their backs, painting them as the one and only Nathazians of the western reaches.
“
Glory to you, Malik-i-Jericho al-Nathaz, and his attendants, of the Scarab Oases!” Ramses' voice boomed, reverberating against Neu Antioch’s reinforced walling. The Nathazian Malik, Jericho, inclined his head in the direction of Zaphariel. An average-sized, broad man without any prestigious iconography for him to stand out as the leader of House Nathaz. Only an obsidian brooch in the shape of a scarab, a pair of fierce eyes, and a burgeoning bodily form picked him apart from his cohort. Those that had accompanied him were smaller in stature, younger than their leader, and yet as disciplined as a Varranian hassan. No doubt, the promised dreamer thought, they were all his children.
“Malik Jericho! It is good to see one of the brightest minds on Pandjoras join us from Neu Constanoplis. We are always in your debt for the limitless amount of harvester dropships that House Nathaz prepares out in the Scarab Oases. Let it never be forgotten the gratitude I feel for the season I spent learning the Nathazian way. I look forward to your assistance in future endeavors, my friend.” The Malik of Varranis said with a trained smile, his words responded to with a deep bow from all five of the Nathazian attendees. Their House was a silent one, almost as hushed as the hassan of Neu Alamut. A strong people that spoke little and worked hard to ensure their livelihoods out in the dark sands. People that he would need for eternity and beyond.
Zaphariel watched as Malik Jericho carefully sank into a seat decorated with prolific scarabs for arms and legs, while a large backrest in the form of a harvester dropship held up his form. An effigy of House Nathaz’s insignia, an obsidian scarab mid-flight, hovered over their heads attached to a lengthy pole. Their perpetual silence only served to enhance the raucous arrival of two Houses at one time. Six individuals approached the council chamber, two of which pushed their way in as if it were a competition of sorts. A man and a woman, similar in facial structure yet vastly different in appearance, managed to squeeze through the chamber’s enormous doorframe. Each huffed as they awaited at the foot of the circular table, ready for their presence to be announced.
Ramses shared a look with his nephew, questioning as to which one should be announced first. The Malik of Varranis simply shrugged with a coy smile, raising a pair of fingers in response to the mature hassan’s silent inquiry. A sigh escaped from the lips of Zaphariel’s mentor, who prepared himself for a lengthy introduction.
“
Glory to you, Malik-i-Nader al-Korvaix, and his heirs, of the Western Massifs! Glory to you, Malika-i-Tayyeb al-Tuturan, and her heirs, of the Eastern Massifs! Do not degrade into infighting while in the presence of the other Houses. The Korvaix-Tuturan feud is known and it is not tolerated.” Ramses sternly stated, eyeing the pair of warlords that stood before their gathered council. The man, Nader, stood rigidly in ornate powered armor with a variety of melee weapons decoratively etched into the plating. Dusken skin complimented his smarmy smile, yet heavy eyebrows and slicked hair darkened an already-lined forehead. The woman, Tayyeb, apathetically idled with eyes narrowed in on Nader. A bodysuit fitted with a decorative tabard of ranged weapon embroidery complimented her slender form. A long ponytail trailed out of her hood, which hid similar qualities to the Korvaxian Malik excluding burn marks and kind eyes.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Malik-i-Zaphariel, you’ll have to excuse my twin’s disgraceful actions on arrival. If he were more like our mother, then Nader would be more patient than
a thousand and one grains of black sand.” Malika Tayyeb spoke first, bowing her head in apology to the seated form of the Varranian Malik. Both of her attendants, a younger boy and a grown girl, repeated the action of their leader. Ramses disappointingly clicked his tongue in response, clearly aware that her words were likely to spark an argument between the two Houses. Zaphariel lightly chuckled from the audible disappointment.
“Such ugly words from such an uncouth mouth, please forgive my sister’s transgressions and arrogance! If only our father had taught her how to properly forge and wield a blade, then perhaps she would be less volatile.” Malik Nader spoke next, bowing and swinging his arms up in a dramatic display. His tone was akin to an envenomed blade, overtly courteous and secretly venomous. Zaphariel was familiar with the act, one that he had played time and time again. A masquerade of emotions. The Korvaixian artificer was sloppy, however, at least in the promised dreamer’s eyes.
“I see the feud between your split homes is alive and well! Raise your head, Malika-i-Tayyeb, I would never have Pandjoras’ finest armament maker feel the need to prostrate herself. The sleepless, Tuturian workshops have always assisted ruin delvers and serpent hunters alike. So glory to you, Great Artificer!” Zaphariel said with laughter upon his lips, a toothy grin growing on his features. He approved of the candor in her speech, the ruggedness of her personality, and her worthwhile abilities as a master craftswoman. The promised dreamer made a note to keep her well within his pockets. The Tuturians raised their heads, Tayyeb adding a thankful nod with a bright smile before moving to her seat. A small throne of gears, barrels, and stocks awaited beside Zarmira and her attendants. An effigy rose behind it bearing the Tuturan insignia of a cog and a shield.
The promised dreamer could see Malik Nader’s anxiety build up like an overstimulated serpent, aware of the fact that his words had been ignored. Zaphariel hid a wicked, gluttonous smile behind his emotional masquerade. His eyes fell on the Korvaixian noble like an elder serpent to a relic salvager. “Worry not, Malik-i-Nader, you are similarly prized for your blade masters and weaponsmiths! Not a single Pandjoran could craft a monomolecular dagger quite like the Korvaixian gravity forges! Glory upon you, Bladesinger of Pandjoras.” His voice dripped with deceptive honey, intentionally kind and overtly flattering. It was enough to satisfy the man who attempted to play Zaphariel’s own game, a beaming smile influencing his smug looks. The Malik of Varranis hadn’t lied, the Korvaixian forges crafted the greatest blades from across Pandjoras. Though it displeased him to admit it their greatness, he would at least have this man dance across his palm like a puppet.
The Malik of Nader positioned himself opposite Malika Tayyeb, Jericho ibn Nathaz directly to his right. He found his crafted throne to be a mixture of metallic talons, blades, and other melee weapons. An effigy of House Korvaix, a saber gripped in a clawed gauntlet, rose above the Malik as a shining representation of their domain. The smug, satisfied man sat himself down with both of his heirs, a pair of grown men, flanking him. Conversation began to flow from those that attended, first from Nader to Jericho and then from Zarmira to Tayyeb. Asghar and Azahar idly chatted about issues in their conjoined domains. Boredom began to set in for Zaphariel when the next of the Houses arrived, all other dialogue silenced in lue of who had come to the conclave.
Five dusken women poured through the conclave’s great portal dressed in unnaturally elegant robes that flowed as if a gravity tempest had blown through. Weightless, light, and temperate in their attire, they effortlessly glided from the table’s head to Zaphariel’s dais in a manner of seconds. Each individual was as awe-inspiring as the previous, with a variety of rare cosmetics preciously applied beneath their flowing veils. Regardless of their individualistic schemes, all of their eyes were shaded by bright orange to accent already golden irises. The female that led them was small, lithe, and sublime in serpent silk spun in as many shades as the dusken world could offer. A coronet sat upon her head, stars dangling from gilded chains.
“
Glory to you, Malika-i-Fariyah ibn Abdullahar, and her heirs Inaya and Fatima, of the Gravity Ocean!” Ramses stated after shaking himself from the stupor of their arrival, the mature hassan had found himself stupified by how quickly they crossed the room. He peeked over to Muahad, attempting to decipher the old man’s attitude yet found the elder comfortably standing still. Curious orbs sought the Malik of Varranis for guidance, and yet only found a smirking deity playing a hidden game sat upon his throne.
“It has been too long, Malik-i-Zaphariel, your absence has been sorely missed in Neu Sallah. We appreciated your visits even when you were a young sheik traveling Pandjoras. Now, you call for us when we have endlessly called for you. Do you seek to play games, little hassan?” The woman who spoke, Fariyah, held a serious and ridiculing tone. One that had drawn the ire of those like Malika Zarmira and Malik Azahar. Despite this, her voice was as lightweight as
a thousand and one grains of black sand, yet as soft as freshly baked penumbral bread. She refused to bow before the great hassan, her attendants echoing her defiant actions.
“You’ve grown quite beautifully, Ayra Abdullahar, but you are decades away from being able to fool me. The Gravity Ocean is ruled by Malika Fariyah, but the Abdullaharian Coasts are lorded by a Malik,” Zaphariel said with a chortle, a smug smile dancing across his lips as the procession before him began to break. The one who had been called Fariyah jerked forward for a moment, surprised that she had been discovered so quickly. Slowly, all of them dropped to their knees in a low bow. All save for one of their numbers. “Or am I wrong,
Malik-i-Avdol of the Shimmering Coast?”
A hearty laugh gurgled from the remaining Abdullaharian standing, their hands reaching up to remove the veiled mask to reveal the slender face of a man. His androgynous form stepped forward past all four of his heiresses, stopping short of the Varranian dias to smile up at Zaphariel. Within a single step, the dusken deity had left his throne to embrace the other Malik. Both laughed to their heart’s content amid their conclave.
“A trueborn hassan is what you are, little sheik! My wife would weep silver tears if you hadn’t exposed our eldest daughter, yet she will cry a delightful song regardless for allowing us to attend. Glory to you, Zaphariel!” Malik Avdol released the promised dreamer, beaming with delight in an ecstatic tone that threatened to illuminate their world. The Varranian Malik felt no small amount of true joy blossom in his chest at the sight of the Gravity King. “You will have to forgive Ayra for the little test I put her through, her training isn’t complete and her sisters have already been promised to House Rassnar. She has grown quite aggressive in the absence of a suitor!” The Abdullaharian man stated with another laugh, aware of his daughter’s growing wroth behind him.
“Fret not, Avdol, you and the sirens will always have a place in my being for the time we’d spent together! I couldn’t possibly hold any ill-gained anger towards the finest diplomats across all of Pandjoras. Consider yourselves forgiven, by my name as Zaphariel ibn Varranis.” The Malik of Varranis stated, his tone dancing between playful and courtly. Surprised, Malik Avdol prostrated himself before the dusken deity with a smile on his lips. He rose once more, clapping the promised dreamer on the shoulder before guiding all four of his heirs to their seat. They found their decorated throne beside Malika Tayyeb, elegantly carved with half-women, half-serpent ornaments. An effigy of House Abdullahar’s sigil, the siren serpent, comfortably watched over their gathered forms as the next attendee arrived.
It came as no surprise to the conclave as the next to attend were a trio of individuals shrouded in dusken robes. Their raiments were devoid of ornamentation, sigils, or expression of gender. They appeared as a lesser form of the hassan, thin veils coating their visage where a cowl would naturally suit a Varranian asasiyun. Malik Avdol gave them a warm smile as they crossed the room, short bows of their head acknowledging the Gravity King’s gesture. Silent footsteps brought all three of the individuals closer to the dais. To Zaphariel’s surprise, his presence was completely ignored in favor of Muahad’s idleness. Three heads respectfully inclined to the old man of the mountain, their bodies prostrating before the eldest man on Pandjoras. The alabaster mask of the grandmaster hassan drew in a long breath.
“
Rushdi ibn Rassnar,” Muahad announced his name before Ramses had a chance to evoke the Rassnarian’s titles and domains. The old man of the mountain’s heavy cloth swayed as he stepped forward to gaze down upon the one named Rushdi. Piercing blue eyes witnessed a Malik without a crown, an individual that truly upheld the tenets of a hassan. Zaphariel watched with modest interest at their exchange, leaning forward to prop his chin onto one of his hands. “Former heir of mine, I am no longer your master. A Malik must not casually bow their head, or have you forgotten all that the hassan had taught you?”
“You misunderstand me, Old Man, I bow my head in defiance,” The Rassnarian stated in a gruff voice that dripped with venom, spittle freely flying beneath their lightweight breather. Rushdi removed himself from his prostration, lowering a pair of glaring, orange eyes on the Malik of Varranis. Hostility built up from the Malik of Rassnar, his focus entirely turning from old master to new heir. “The dusken sands have taught me that no man can tame Pandjoras, nor can a single individual rule over the hassan. It is folly to name this one the Malik of Varranis while the Grandmaster yet lives.”
“Calm your blood upon
a thousand and one grains of black sand, Malik Rushdi. Are you so guided by envy and jealousy that you would not seek a grander future for Pandjoras? Your hassan, even if they aren’t Varranian born, are legendary across the dune seas. I would see their legacy heard for thirteen thousand nights and thirteen thousand days to come.” Zaphariel chortled, initially laughing at the pettiness shown by the Rassnarian Malik before delving into his plans. For better or worse, House Rassnar has proven a firm ally to Neu Alamut and continued to train optimal assassins of near quality to the Varranian hassan. His rise to Malik had soured their House’s relationship, calling back to a time when Rushdi studied beneath Muahad. A playful smile plastered across his lips as the Malik of Rassnar’s face scrunched up in anger.
As tensions began to ramp up between Malik Rushdi’s silently fuming form and Malik Zaphariel’s overbearing confidence, the Gravity King rose from his seat to beckon toward the Rassnarian leader. “Come now, come now! This is a conclave of Pandjoras’ great houses, do not let a sour history bleed into our world’s bright future. Sit with me, Rushdi, please.” Avdol asked with a warm smile, utilizing their established relationship in a gamble to reel in the hot-headed hassan. It proved successful as Rushdi turned away from Zaphariel, his attendants quickly following after him as they approached their seat. A vastly smaller facsimile of the Varranian throne awaited, complimented only by plentiful, dark-hued sheets. An effigy of House Rassnar, the serpent-coiled dagger, rose behind to loom over the other attendees.
Tension ebbed away from the conclave as the Rassnarian Malik claimed his seat, conversation shortly returning between all of the members in attendance. Their dialogue lasted for only a moment as the next to arrive barreled through Neu Antioch’s enormous doors. An enormous man built as thick as an elder serpent’s body led a party of five others of smaller, similar builds. Dark bodysuits fitted to their forms, enwrapped by long stretches of midnight-hued serpent silk. The leader held a great smile on his face, one of such intensity that those that witnessed thought of him as simple-minded. A great coronet complimented by obsidian filigree sat upon his exposed, cropped hair. Zaphariel ibn Varranis knew, however, that this man was one of the most important figures on the surface of Pandjoras.
“
Glory to you, Malik-i-Aadil ibn Delukar, and his children of Nahyira, Shuhria, Khafifa, Azariel, of the Penumbral Fields!” Ramses boomed in an enthusiastic voice, content to deal with less irksome Houses in comparison to his prior announcements. The mature hassan lowered the dataslate as the Delukarian giant approached the Varranian dais, orange eyes eternally set on the Malik of Varranis. Zaphariel rose to greet Neu Alamut’s most generous neighbor with a fresh grin on his lips. Aadil thundered with laughter as the two embraced, the Malik of Varranis nearly disappearing in a mass of muscles. The two separated with a chuckle, Aadil’s giant hand remaining on the promised dreamer’s shoulder.
“Young Zaph! It’s been some time since we last met, I hear you’ve been relatively busy as a fellow Malik! You look a little gaunt! Has Muahad not been feeding you the knafeh that Nahyira and Khafifa have been baking!? Azariel, bring the young hassan his favorite halawa!” Malik Aadil spoke with a voice reminiscent of a harvester dropship’s heavy engines. Each syllable was a crack of torrential thunder, physically forcing more sensitive Pandjorans to recoil in audible agony. His infectious energy afflicted even his children, three of which were his daughters and one of which was the House heir. Zaphariel delighted in the Delukarian Malik’s energy, such that a look from Ramses had to draw him back to reality.
“Glory to you, Aadil! There is no need to worry, but I won’t pass up Delukarian sweets! I am thankful to the dusken sands that your joy has never faltered! Without you, our planet would be forced to dine on
a thousand and one grains of black sand.” The Malik of Varranis responded, watching as Azariel hefted a great box of food onto the council table. Plates, confections, and drinks were distributed amongst the Houses in even portions. For everywhere Aadil went, there was always the certainty of a feast. The Malik of Delukar granted Zaphariel one last smile before moving over to his seat, positioned directly to the left of the Varranian Throne. A seat heavily ornate with penumbral stalks and gluttonous, laughing faces awaited Aadil. An effigy of House Delukar’s sigil, the grain and sun, rose behind their forms. As the last dish was served, even to the absent attendees, the heirs returned to the side of their father with smiles on their faces.
And so they dined while they awaited the last three Houses to arrive. Mulled serpent blood, penumbral oat-roasted coffee, and distilled stalk whiskey were imbibed from shadowy glasses. Juicy serpent kebabs, umbral kanafeh with scarab bits, and azure rosen dates disappeared in a matter of minutes. Pastries, stacked nearly as high as Malik Aadil, were all that remained of the feast. Marble bricks of halawa glazed with scarab honey, thin cubes of dark cakes drenched in purified snake venom, and baked spheres of umbral dough dusted with tempest flakes decorated the feast. The Malik of Varranis received a single brick of halawa with a thin smile, sipping upon a goblet of ophidian vitae while the rest of the deserts disappeared.
A group of Pandjorans entered the conclave as the Delukarian feast began to die down. Three individuals dressed in ornate robes specifically tailored for ease of arm movements walked towards the council table. At the head of their process resided an average-sized woman with dark hair pulled into a bun, dusken spectacles, and a thin coronet that belied the extravagance of Pandjoras’ ruling castes. A pair of piercing eyes scanned the wide chamber beneath her glasses, momentarily halting on each House ruler for seconds at a time. An aging face pulled into a scrunched frown as her name was announced by Ramses.
“
Glory to you, Malika-i-Thanaa al-Tallora, and her heirs Zaniya and Laifah, of the Twin Lakes!” The mature hassan thundered after quickly consuming a piece of halawa, one of his hands still coated in bits of sticky honey. His eyes scanned the newly arrived before casting a glance at Zaphariel, who had leaned forward with a serious look.. A feeling of unease entered Ramses’ stomach as invisible tension built between the Malika of Tallora and the Malik of Varranis.
“The great thief of Neu Jerusal sits upon the Varranian throne? Has Muahad finally succumbed to his aging mind, or have you replaced him with an agent of your own, Zaphariel of Neu Alamut?” Her tone was fearless, a voice that dared to question where others would not. Thanaa crossed her arms as she awaited Zaphariel’s answer, aware of the angry stares given by many within the conclave. Curiously, the old man of the mountain was not amongst those that glared. Both of his pale blue orbs were focused on the Malik beside him, watching with interest to see how the promised dreamer would respond. Much to her chagrin, a toothy grin broke out across the dusken deity’s thin lips.
“How could I possibly pass up the information stored in Pandjoras’ greatest library, maintained by Neu Jerusal’s exceptional scribes? Should I have counted
a thousand and one grains of black sand, or instead delved deep into the valuable knowledge of Tallora?” Zaphariel’s voice was playful, toying with the emotions that played across Thanaa’s face. He couldn’t help himself from growing a wider grin as the dialogue continued, his voice as soft as serpentine silk. “Hate me as you wish, Malika Thanaa, but your vaunted tomes are the very reason I’ve grown as powerful as I did. I cannot thank House Tallora enough for their safeguarding talents, a set of skills that I would see continued.”
A broad variety of emotions shifted her face in several directions. Anger, frustration, confusion, appreciation, and surprise all flashed in a manner of seconds before Thanaa recollected herself. She clicked her tongue in defeat, offering a sudden bow of her head, and retreated to her assigned position between House Gallax and House Tuturan. A throne of sculpted parchment, quills, and Pandjoran sigils decorated House Tallora’s seat. A great effigy of the Tallorian sigil, the quill and laurel, idly lingered over Malika Thanaa’s silently fuming form. The Malik of Varranis calmly sank back into the Varranian throne, a thin, smug smile replacing the toothy grin previously worn. A glance at Muahad confirmed whether or not his actions were correct, yet the piercing blue eyes always seemed to judge every one of his actions. While his mind began to drift onto that subject, the second of the last Houses marched into their great conclave.
Three, majestic figures waltzed through the leviathan doorway adorned in magnificent raiments of brilliant orange and dusken black. Heavy jewelry jostled with each step, Pandjoras’ precious metals and obsidian glass echoing throughout the chamber. The man at the front of their cohort was a giant of majesty and gluttony, rivaling even Malik Aadil in quantity of meat. A pearlescent crown with thirteen points sat against a lion’s mane of hair. A pair of women clung closely behind him, one vastly younger than the other. They, too, wore exquisite and ornate robes bedecked with glass and jewelry of supreme qualities. The attendees halted just shy of the circular table, golden eyes lingering on Zaphariel’s enthroned form.
“
Glory to you, Malik-i-Saladin ibn Gallos, his daughter Miska, and his wife Qaima, of the Gilded Heights!” Ramses announced, raising the dataslate to ascertain House Gallos’ arrival. Immediately, the mature hassan felt a ping of disgust when his eyes rolled over Malik Saladin’s rotund form. Fury built up in his gullet the longer he stared, calmed only by a glance from Zaphariel. The great, golden eyes of his nephew seemed to share his thoughts exactly. He entered a state of oneness as the Gallosian ruler began to speak.
“Glory to you, Malik Zaphariel ibn Varranis! It has been some time since last you visited the illustrious halls of Neu Alepp! Your presence is always sorely sought by the Gallosian people, more so than other Pandjorans,” Malik Saladin spoke with a cocky, exuberant voice that echoed the luxurious raiments he wore. His eyes fell on every Pandjoran that complimented the chamber, an air of superiority building up around him with every second that passed. Only the dusken deity sat upon the Varranian Throne gave him pause, perhaps finding a worthy foe or ally in Zaphariel. “You simply must return with all haste, Miska has long awaited the days when you two would play together in the golden palace!”
The final comment was followed by a gleeful smile from Miska, the young daughter of Malik Saladin. The Malik of Varranis offered a warm smile back, momentarily reminiscing the time they shared. A smaller melancholy wormed into Zaphariel, keenly aware of his abhuman growth as Miska and himself were physically the same age. Yet, she was much smaller and much younger in appearance. His golden, serpentine eyes adjusted from the spritely girl to Saladin’s burgeoning form. Behind his emotional mask, the dusken deity felt unending disgust and fury over the Gallosian’s plumpness. A sign of selfish gluttony, one such trait that is abhorred in Pandjoran culture.
“You will have to forgive me, Malik Saladin. Many things have happened since last I stepped into Neu Alepp. This conclave is one such reason for that. I hope that the minor houses of Pandjoras have given you less trouble in recent years. I would hate to hear that my childhood friend was in dire straits.” Zaphariel replied with a tone that danced on a threatening edge. Sweat began to perspire on the Gallosian’s forehead, a worried look spreading across his wobbling face. Nervousness was apparent in the Malik of Gallos’ stance, yet it was quickly replaced with faux confidence as he straightened up. The dusken deity’s orange orbs narrowed as if he were a predator eyeing wounded prey.
“W-Well, the rabble do tend to stir trouble amongst themselves! No worries, dear Zaphariel, they have been handled for the time being. Your worry is greatly appreciated though! If ever I require assistance with the minor houses, then I shall call upon the greatest hassan of the dusken sands! Glory to you, Malik of Varranis.” Malik Saladin quickly spurted out in a tone that belied his faux confidence. He swiftly patted his forehead with an embroidered rag of serpent silk, partially unveiling a heavy set of cosmetics applied to his aging skin. The trio departed, bowing their heads and attending to their assigned position between House Nathaz and House Korvaix. A sculpted throne of filigree, jewelry, and glasses awaited them with an effigy of House Gallos’ sigil, a ring and a sun, lifted overhead.
Zaphariel observed the Gallosians for only a moment longer, silently planning for the disposal of Saladin Gallos. His thoughts were disrupted by the arrival of the last major House on Pandjoras. A single individual hobbled into their chamber clothed in a storm of dark robes, hissing mechanisms clotting the air around their form in processed gravity particles. A pair of circular, crimson goggles peered out from beneath their hood, accompanied only by an impossibly large rebreather fitted to their face. Mechanically driven legs brought the attendee forward to the final seat in the council chamber, each step slow and motor-assisted. The tapping of a metallic, decorated cane echoed each footstep the figure took. Several of the House rulers glared at the newcomer with eyes full of contempt and ignorance.
“
Glory to you, Malik-i-Saahir ibn Bahamut of the Fallen Palaces! We welcome you as the newest Pandjoran House to achieve major household status in this conclave. With your addition, we now number thirteen in total as it once was and forever shall be,” Ramses spoke with a smile, aware of the nature of Bahamut’s rise to power. The dataslate was sheathed into one of his various, armored pockets before turning to address Zaphariel. “My lord, all of the dusken Houses have arrived. Every minor House shall be represented by House Gallos. Those who are not present include the varying hassan clades of the dune seas, the valley clansmen of the void, and those currently operating harvester dropship incursions.”
The Malik of Varranis stepped up from the Varranian Throne with a great smile on his lips. His golden orbs scanned the room before falling onto the frail form of Saahir ibn Bahamut. “Thank you, Ramses, refresh your throat with a fresh drink. You’ve earned it. Glory to you, Saahir! I do apologize for pulling you from the great work to attend this council, yet I require you now more than I ever did before.” Zaphariel spoke with a calm, accepting voice. Serenity spilled forth from his lips, easing the tension in the chamber with words alone. A slight reverberation affected each syllable in his speech, noticed only by Muahad’s cunning ears.
“... You honor me, great dusken one. We would… never not heed the call of… our great founder. The ashen tribes… owe you their loyalty… on a thousand and one grains of… black sand,” Malik Saahir began to speak in a heavily modulated voice, momentary hisses breaking his speech after several words. His body shifted forward to his assigned throne, a great cacophony of cogs, gears, and scavenged metal carefully sculpted together. An effigy of the newly risen House Bahamut, the cog and shattered moon, hovered over his hobbled body. “The great work… will continue in the hands of your… most aspiring aspirants. Once this conclave concludes… I shall personally resume it… with great efficiency… my lord.”
Satisfied with Saahir’s answer, the Varranian Malik spread his arms wide in a gesture to each House ruler currently assembled in Neu Antioch. His golden, serpentine orbs scanned all of their expectant forms. He knew with calm certainty that there would be a great many opinions throughout their council. Regardless, Zaphariel prepared himself for every possibility should things go awry. The dusken deity’s smile grew to a wide, toothy grin at the thought of Pandjoras’ future, peaceful or bloody.
“
Houses of Pandjoras! I am Zaphariel ibn Varranis of the Caliphate House of Varranis and I welcome you to Neu Antioch for our dusken world’s grandest council! With the arrival of House Bahamut, I announce the beginning of the Great Conclave of Pandjoras! Glory unto us!” Malik Zaphariel roared, sending a course of rippling excitement through the gathered rulers. Empowered by the dusken deity’s enthusiasm, each ruler rose from their seat and rhythmically clapped in anticipation of their conclave.
Several moments passed before the enthusiasm in their council chamber dispersed, each ruler taking to their dignified thrones before falling silent. All eyes fell on the dusken deity as he sat upon the Varranian Throne. Both Ramses and Muahad stepped backward out of either respect or necessity. Zaphariel’s gravitas dominated every aspect of the council chamber, every word or movement from then onwards a deliberate action. The dusken deity’s serpentine eyes scanned each of the House rulers, halting momentarily on those he considered allies such as Houses Bahamut and Gallax. A silent breath inhaled through his nostrils, filling enhanced lungs with fresh air to begin a long-winded speech.
“For six years I have ruled over Neu Alamut as the Malik of Varranis. With Muahad, my adoptive father, as my witness, I claimed the gravity wyrm of the void as my own and finished my trials to become hassan. Soon after, I set out across the dusken world atop Falak to see our planet as it was. I must thank each one of you for the hospitality that you had shown me,” Zaphariel chronicled, inclining his head in gratitude to the thirteen houses of Pandjoras. He continued before any of them could express their emotional responses. “When I had returned to Neu Alamut after two years of traveling through dusken sand, Muahad and the hassan proclaimed me as their Malik. So it was that I began reforming parts of Pandjoras through my experiences.”
The dusken deity removed himself from his throne, stepping down the dais to the edge of the circular table laid out before them. One of his talon-ringed fingers pressed a Pandjoran-sigiled rune, activating a hololithic project at the center. A wide hologram of Pandjoras’ surface hovered over the thirteen rulers, wide marks and notes annotated in varying forms. Malik Zaphariel allowed them a moment to scan over the various paths, careful projections, and blurred locations that made up his plans. A small smile grew on his lips as Aadil, Thanaa, Azahar, and Jericho leaned forward with peaked interest.
“When I traveled across Pandjoras, I brought together all of the ashen salvagers to create the House of Bahamut in the Dune Sea of the Lost. Together, we delved into every fallen palace from Neu Alepp to Neu Jericho with Falak clearing the way. Many of these were reconstructed and tested for the sake of the gravity citadels you use today. Thus far, with the assistance of House Bahamut, we have risen Neu Antioch, Neu Alexandrios, Neu Sallah, and Neu Constanoplis. Even as we speak, Neu Damasc and Neu Maccos are in the process of gravity reinforcement,” The dusken deity said, carefully illustrating every subject with colorful displays across the hololithic map. Each city named by his lips was echoed by the associating symbol rising into the sky. His golden, serpentine eyes fell on the lords of those named citadels. Asghar inclined his head, Zarmira sweetly smiled, and Jericho nodded, while the remainder of the unnamed held a silent, neglected fury amongst themselves. “This is only the beginning of a long, serpentine plan that I have for the fate of Pandjoras. Already, between House Bahamut and House Nathaz, our world has become increasingly different in nearly a decade. Faster, safer harvester dropships, variations of grown crops in the graviton ponds, and much larger grav-rifles for elder serpents. These are only a taste of what our people can do! With enough time and focus, we could see Pandjoras covered in azure roses instead of choking sand.”
He felt their attention draw to him even more intensely than before, ferociously devouring every word that was spoken with the hunger of a starved man. Of the many, Aadil of House Delukar and Tayyeb of House Tuturan felt the most sense of accomplishment with their aforementioned projects rising as topics. The dusken deity was well aware of the other ruler’s disinterest, such as Nader of House Korvaix and Saladin of House Gallos. Rushdi of House Rassnar kept a loathsome stare upon Malik Zaphariel, never faltering in his perpetual envy. The promised dreamer didn’t worry about their current disinterest, for he knew well enough of their eventual certainty in his plans.
“All of these facts bring me to a single, important conclusion. I would see Pandjorans fill the void around the dusken world once more for we now have the technology capable of breaching the sky," Zaphariel stated solemnly, collectively watching as each one of the Pandjoran rulers suddenly widened their eyes in surprise. Those that had begun to falter in interest began to lean forward at the mention of intersystem travel. He accepted it as a small victory in a long, drawn-out war against his primordial foe. The Malik of Varranis continued, refusing to wait for several gasping responses to his statement. “House Bahamut, House Urahal, House Nathaz, and I have seen fit to reconstruct the harvester dropship from the ground up. Larger, focused gravity engines capable of blasting
a thousand and one grains of black sand into the atmosphere. The stars are within our reach, friends, we only need to grasp it within our hands.”
A myriad of murmurs and gasps rippled across the conclave in an explosion of excitement. The possibility of space travel had, once again, become possible for the Pandjoran people. Every dusken entity grew a broad smile on their lips, even those disinclined to share their true emotions. All save for one individual, Saahir, who simply stared at Zaphariel with an unknowable expression. The Malik of Varranis knew what the Malik of Bahamut was thinking through his crimson goggles. He had just lied before their conclave, a great and terrible fabrication of the truth. The ashen waster failed to raise his voice, nor did he allude to a disappointed expression. Behind the umbral sheikh’s masquerade, an ugly smile grew on his soul.
“Since the moment I was born in Pandjoras’ black sands, I had dreamed of the void. My one selfish desire, the true goal I want for our people, is to see the return of Pandjoras to the glory it once had. I would see what is rightfully owed to the dusken people and claim the length of space our ancestors had lorded over: The Star Serpent.” Zaphariel said with immeasurable glee, pressing one of the Pandjoran runes once more to switch the display. The map of Pandjoras disappeared, replaced only by several documents and ancient star charts. Each piece of data coalesced into a hololithic projection of a great and terrible expanse that stretched several stars like a winding snake. Unknown worlds, unknowable regions, and immeasurable depths filled the blotches beyond Pandjoras. Many narrowed their eyes in concentration, focusing on the raw data that the dusken deity has curated. “Our ancestors ruled from their palaces on Pandjoras and in great, leviathan ships that sailed through the void. They were of such great quantity that they cast shadows over entire planets. All of which brings me to the only, golden path for our world.”
Tension built in the air as every Pandjoran in the grand council hung on his following words. A swarm of orange eyes, occasionally broken by Urahallian purple or Muahad’s blue, stared at the dusken deity with endless anticipation. Some began to perspire, gravely desiring the conclusion that would bring their people into the void. Others leaned forward on their thrones with one of their aides unveiling dataslates to record upon. Several seconds passed before Zaphariel spoke next, intentionally allowing those around to perceive feigned gravitas.
“
We must unify the Thirteen Houses of Pandjoras.”
He had anticipated some level of outburst from the rulers of the dusken sands, yet they exploded in such a way that Zaphariel never would have estimated. Thrones burst backward as greedy, arrogant Pandjorans erupted from their seats. Pandjoran slurs that would turn an elder serpent flush red were tossed without regard for those present. Insults flew in dire protest against those with pre-existing tensions between each other. Malik Nader and Malika Tayyeb violently gestured to one another in open conflict. Malik Rushdi openly growled at the Malik of Varranis, earning distasteful words from Ramses. Malik Saladin pointedly insulted the House of Bahamut, vowing to never work with bloodless ashe wasters. Each House feud reached a boiling point resulting in the conclave doors opening to reveal Neu Antioch’s armored sentinels. A single, loud tap of a metallic weapon hit the tiled surface of the graviton palace, forcing the feuding Pandjorans into silence.
“
Silence yourselves. I refuse to allow Pandjoras to devolve into the violence of the Umbral Jihad. Become like the dusken ancients of old Pandjoras,” The old man of the mountain began to speak in a heavy, slow tone as he stepped forward. Piercing blue eyes harshly glared at each ruler behind his alabaster skull mask. An obsidian great blade was delicately held in both of his gloved hands, pointed downward against Neu Antioch’s tile. An ancient weapon with an extensive history across the dusken world. Eyes widened in fear at the very object that had cleaved legends throughout Pandjoran history. “
Or will you proffer your heads as compensation?”
As requested, a deathly silence wafted across the conclave of Neu Antioch. Where once a roiling horde of dusken individuals had furiously bit at one another, now only a hushed crowd of whimpering rulers bided their tempers. Satisfied, Muahad wordlessly stepped back from his position with the great blade slowly sheathed across his back. Azure orbs turned away from those Pandjorans in the conclave to rest upon Zaphariel’s nonplussed form. His golden, serpentine eyes had simply watched everything with vetted interest, having not attempted to halt their screaming. Aware of the old man’s attention, the dusken deity nodded his head in gratitude to his adoptive father. A responsive nod was returned before the Malik of Varranis spoke again.
“Your frustrations are justified, my friends. I proclaimed something that is equal parts selfish and selfless, yet I propose unification as it is the only way forward. There can be no star-spanning Pandjoran empire without the Thirteen Houses conjoining together. There can be no future for Pandjoras without unity.” Zaphariel said with a calming voice, easing the tension that Muahad had built up for him to disperse. Already many of their number had leaned into the idea of unity as he spoke, perhaps the silence had given them time to think about the future. Few remained stalwart and ignorant, such as Gallos, Rassnar, and Korvaix. Truthfully, however, he didn’t require a single one of their number to make his star empire. They were easily replaceable.
“Malik Varranis, perhaps I speak for myself in this endeavor, but none of those gathered here would see their identities - their cultures - wiped from Pandjoran history. I, for one, will not stand for my House being eradicated from the annals of this future star empire.” Malik Saladin stated, standing from his throne once more with his rotund body pressing against the council table. Fierce, orange eyes stared down Zaphariel, while a scrunched face of one severely insulted uglied his wobbling features. The Gallosian’s mere presence was enough for the dusken deity to feel bile rise in his gullet, yet Saladin wasn’t wrong in his speech. Several members nodded their heads in agreement, wishing to preserve their unique part of Pandjoran culture. The dusken deity shook his head in disappointment, his message misunderstood by the vast majority of the conclave.
“You confuse my words for a serpent’s song, Malik-i-Saladin. I don’t seek to eradicate the Houses to reform a new government. All Houses would survive under the banner of one - the Malik of Pandjoras. Allegiances will be pledged to the holder in the name of unification, territories will only grow in size, and our Houses will prosper across the Star Serpent. As it has been for time immemorial, so too will it within our stellar empire. Only Thirteen Houses will ever rule as the nazim of their territories, ruled over only by the Malik of Pandjoras.” Malik Zaphariel explained, leaning into the council table to activate another rune. The hololithic display began to savagely cut up equivalent territory along the projected expanse of the Star Serpent. House sigils, like those current in the council, hovered over different sectors as an example. “The Malik of Pandjoras will only hold the dusken world itself and all the closest territories around it. As the Star Serpent grows, territories will be divided equally and with merit as it has been for many millennia on our planet.”
Malika Thanaa stirred from her throne, straightening herself out as she regarded the Malik of Varranis. Unlike Saladin, the Tallorian held a more inquisitive air about her. Her golden eyes, however, held the intense flame of curiosity and excitement dancing between them. “These terms are, indeed, more acceptable now that we’ve had the chance to discuss them. Only one question remains to be answered: who will be the Malik of Pandjoras? Who, amongst our number, would rule over Pandjoras?” It was a question that Zaphariel had awaited since the moment of their arrival. A toothy grin plastered across his lips as Thanaa finished speaking. Fear, or perhaps awe, caught in her throat as the dusken deity eyed her down.
“
I, Zaphariel ibn Varranis, will lead the Thirteen Houses as the Malik of Pandjoras. I know I am not liked by some here, but I have walked over
a thousand and one grains of black sand to see Pandjoras for all of her beauty. Perhaps that is egotistical of me to say, yet I desire to grasp destiny as one would a void serpent. I would see the stars tamed by Pandjoran hands, just as Falak was tamed by my own.” The dusken deity said without any fragment of his masquerade, momentarily letting it fall away to speak his earnest feelings. His words were felt across their number, even by those Pandjorans that chided his existence. Zaphariel could feel their want, could see their anticipation, and could hear their breathing quicken as he spoke. He pushed them further, his lips spreading once more to speak of a glorious future. “
I will see the creation of the Illuminated Star Sultanate of Pandjoras and raise an umbral armada to spread our kind across the universe.”
To his surprise, Zaphariel watched as several Pandjorans pushed out of their seats to prostrate onto Neu Antioch’s tiles. His golden, serpentine orbs widened as he counted each of their forms. Sulkat, Urahal, Delukar, Nathaz, Gallax, Abdullahar, Tuturan, and Bahamut all bowed their heads to the Malik of Varranis. Even the old man and Ramses had bent their knees to either side of his risen form. Only House Tallora, Korvaix, Galos, and Rassnar remained unbowed, yet even they were beginning to falter after such an impassioned speech. The dusken deity couldn’t help but chuckle as he was humbled by the arranged Pandjorans.
“You honor me. All of you. Even those that have not bowed their heads, you honor me in the fact you so furiously resist against one aiming to claim power. Tell me what it is that I can do to become acceptable in your eyes. And to those who had shown their loyalty, what is it that I can do to cement our relationship?” Zaphariel asked, inclining his head in gratitude to those that had shown their loyalty so suddenly and fiercely. Regardless of their necessary involvement, the dusken deity felt inclined to hear their requests. He gestured to Muahad and Ramses with either of his talon-ringed hands, the former upending a large slate of masonic stone and the latter unholstering a dataslate primed for usage. He had planned for there to be requests, yet the Malik of Varranis hadn’t expected what was requested.
The first to request anything from Zaphariel was Malik Saladin, as he had expected. The Gallosian stroked his thick beard as he spoke. “House Gallos will bow its head in acceptance so long as every single ruler here is granted a gravity palace.” Saladin said, his jewelry jostling against his rotund form as he eyed the rest of the conclave. Some cast a distasteful look at the Malik of Gallos, but the Malik of Varranis had been prepared for such a request. The dusken deity nodded to Muahad, who began to quickly sculpt upon the gravity slate.
“I will do more than this, Malik Saladin, I will raise thirty palaces into the air for each ruler and their heirs, followed by minor Houses and their heirs. The great engines of yore shall blot the sky with majesty.” The dusken deity stated, earning him a broad smile from Saladin. The Gallosian bowed down to the tile in an offering of his allegiance. Zaphariel gave a respectful nod full of gratitude to the Lord of Neu Alepp, turning his attention then to Malik Nader of House Korvaix.
“House Korvaix will follow the Malik of Pandjoras if we receive equal, equivalent, and priority territories to House Tuturan. I refuse to fall behind my twin, nor will my House accept less than this!” Malik Nader stated, his insecurities freely aired to those around him. A troublesome soul, even his twin found the statement as revolting as Malik Saladin’s previous comments. The Korvaixian leered at Malika Tayyeb as if he had won a conclusive battle over her. Zaphariel intentionally mulled over the request for several seconds, a plan having already been formulated long before the man had even spoken.
“Granted, but I will extend this to each ruler of the Thirteen Houses. None shall be stronger than the other, save for the Malik of Pandjoras who rules over the dusken world. Merit and personal conquest will influence where one’s territory expands, but it will ultimately fall to the Malik of Pandjoras’ decision in how the Star Serpent grows.” Malik Zaphariel concluded the matter, watching as Nader contemplated the decision for a terse moment before bowing his head in acceptance. Malika Tayyeb inclined her form once more in thankfulness, swearing allegiance on her lips for the second time this day. The dusken deity despised their feud, yet he understood it drove their craft to greater heights. As Muahad inscribed the current proposal, Malik Rushdi of House Rassnar maneuvered from his seat to speak.
“You will not have House Rassnar become a part of your Star Sultanate, not while the Varranian hassans already fulfill a position that we are proficient in. Would you exile your hassan all for the sake of unity, Malik Zaphariel?” Malik Rushdi asked with venom dripping from within his rebreather, a pointed question that failed to move the dusken deity. The Rassnarian had fallen into the Varranian’s trap, one that he had set from the very beginning of their conclave. A sly smile grew on Zaphariel’s lips, drawing unease from deep within Rushdi’s spirit.
“Dear Malik-i-Rushdi, you think you are the only one worthy of a specific position within the Star Sultanate? You underestimate how long I have desired to see Pandjoras thrive. On this matter alone, I had spent thirteen restless days and thirteen restless nights deciding how each House would govern the Star Serpent,” Zaphariel chortled, thoroughly enjoying that his trap had been sprung by the old man’s former foremost pupil. Another rune was activated on the council table, shifting the hololithic view from the estimated Star Serpent into a list of all Thirteen Houses with their sigils. Roles, positions, estimated governed sectors, and several other factors were listed under each House. It was as if the dusken deity predicted that all of them would bow their heads to his unification. “Behold, I have devised how every one of our Houses will govern the Star Serpent!”
“House Gallax as the Star Sultanate’s Void Diva, Malika Zarmira personally leads her serpent tamers to examine all newly discovered lifeforms! House Urahal will skein the void with Malik Azahar as our Penumbral Archseer! House Nathaz has long governed our planet’s harvester dropships, it is only reasonable to grant Malik Jericho the rights to build the umbral armada and beyond as the Obsidian Shiplord! House Korvaix and House Tuturan will jointly lead security across the Star Serpent as the Spears of Pandjoras! Malik Avdol of House Abdullahar shall lull those scattered remnants of the Star Sultanate back in as the Dusken Emissary!” The Malik of Varranis was a blur of logistics, every title and duty spoken was greeted with fresh data translated into hololithic form. Heirs and assistants recorded new information with strained urgency. Malik Rushdi found himself backed into a corner as if he had unleashed a vault full of void serpents. Relentlessly, the dusken deity continued.
“Malik Saahir of House Bahamut will continue to develop new technologies and progress our civilization as the Ashen Hierarch! Malik Aadil of House Delukar shall wreath the Star Serpent in new, impressive crops to feed our expanding population as the Umbral Harbinger! Malik Asghar of House Sulkat has always marshaled a dusken army and for that, he will continue to do so as the Dune Sultan! Malika Thanaa of House Tallora has upheld the greatest administrative effort on Pandjoras, for this she shall continue to do as the Shadow Administrator! Malik Saladin of House Gallos openly lords over the minor Houses of Pandjoras, he shall continue to do so as the Dawn Lord!” Every administrative effort to keep up with Zaphariel ibn Varranis’ rant was in vain as he spoke with such speed and certainty that their hands failed to keep in sync. Only Ramses of House Varranis managed to keep a steady pace with the Varranian Malik’s incessant, breathless speech. Rushdi of House Rassnar merely bit his lips in silent fury, blood easily drawn from the endless torrent of words spawned forth from the dusken deity.
“And finally, Malik Rushdi of House Rassnar, you will claim all clandestine operations across the Star Sultanate as our foremost assassin and former hassan. You are the sole individual I trust with gathering new hassan and ensuring our empire remains free of outside influence. In this, I trust only you as the Shade King.” Zaphariel said with a toothy grin, small hints of reverberation evident within his voice. Defeated, humbled, and risen once more within minutes of the dusken deity’s speech, Malik Rushdi bowed his head in acceptance. Tears fell from the Rassnarian’s eyes, silently crying in awe of his new task. One final challenger remained to be confronted. The Malik of Varranis threw his gaze towards Malika Thanaa of House Tallora, who had just finished typing the last of the newly processed data. She met his gaze, rising from her throne to stand against the Varranian.
Malika Thanaa removed her spectacles, allowing them to sit against the warm surface of the council table. Without any stated requests, the Tallorian bowed her head in acceptance of fealty to the dusken deity. He narrowed his eyes, suspicion growing from the sudden genuflection. It was only as she raised her head once more that her lips parted to speak.
“House Tallora offers allegiance. We request only one thing from the future Malik of Pandjoras. To firstly verify, however, are you currently engaged to any member of the Thirteen Houses?” Malika Thanaa inquired, earning a raised eyebrow from the Malik of Varranis. His golden, serpentine eyes turned to regard Ramses, who simply shook his head in confusion. Zaphariel echoed the movement, earning a sly smile from Thanaa. “I see. Then as sand turns to glass, so too will our Houses be conjoined through Zaniya and Laifah, my daughters.”
Realization dawned on Zaphariel at the same time as the rest of the conclave. Another explosion of activity erupted amongst their number as a new conflict boiled over. Malika Thanaa of Tallora had proposed a direct tie to House Varranis through her daughters. Houses Gallax, Abdullahar, Galos, Urahal, and Delukar all immediately offered their proposals through their heirs. Ramses unleashed howling laughter, tears forming at the edges of his eyes at the sudden excitement in their council. Muahad releases a single, deep smirk as the Houses fought over arbitrary rights revolving around his adoptive son. The dusken deity watched the events unfold with a coy smile, yet he truthfully felt unending exhaustion for this singular moment compared to the rest of the gathering. As Malika Zarmira began to threaten Malika Thanaa with her void serpents, the Malik of Varranis raised a single talon-ringed hand to halt their feuding.
“I… shall accept. Not just to House Tallora. I will accept all of the heirs and heiresses from House Gallax, Abdullahar, Galos, Tallora, Urahal, and Delukar. May we find some level of peace in our Houses being united, hopefully for more than just matrimony.” Zaphariel finally spoke with a tone equal parts exhaustion and acceptance. Of the many requests he had planned for, several marriages from all of his closely allied Houses had not been one. He felt little and less desire for the carnal acts, yet the dusken deity understood the necessity of it. All of it was for the sake of Pandjoras’ unification.
With the final issue resolved amongst their number, Zaphariel ibn Varranis walked up his dais to seat himself on the Varranian Throne. The air around him became more solemn as each House stepped back from the council table to prostrate themselves to the dusken deity. An uncomfortable feeling built up in his chest. Loathing, revulsion, and exhilaration mingled together within his soul. He despised their genuflecting forms, yet the Malik of Varranis found himself drawn to their overwhelming faith. Pandjoras had no gods, either dispelled by the cataclysm or slain by the old man of the mountains’s hands in the eternal night. The power of belief was nonexistent in the dusken sands, and yet he felt empowered by their convictions. How could he wield it? His thoughts were interrupted by Muahad’s footsteps.
“
Lo, behold, Thirteen Promises have been made for the sake of unity. Intone thy fealty for Pandjoras’ unification. Prostrate thy body and spirit to the regent of the umbral sands. Bear witness and constellate thy will in eternal loyalty to the dusken one. He, prophesied by sand wyrd and sung by serpent alike, who claims destiny. Sing ardently in glorification of the umbral king. Glory to you, Malik of Pandjoras!” The old man of the mountain spoke ceremoniously, his voice a deep dirge that reverberated across Neu Antioch. An indescribable energy perforated the walls of reality with each syllable of his speech, seemingly tying his words from one existence to another. Whatever Muahad was doing, Zaphariel felt uncontrollable emotions dig through the fabric of his being. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes as the grandmaster of the hassan removed the coronet from his forehead. A new crown sat where the coronet last was. Eight horns split in even distances were decorated by thirteen, eye-shaped gems topped by a dusken halo lifted by a miniature gravity engine within the jewelry.
The Malik of Pandjoras, Zaphariel ibn Varranis, raised his head to witness the bowed forms of the Thirteen Houses once more. The piercing, blue eyes of Muahad turned away from the dusken deity as a multitude of voices mingled together to form a cacophony of allegiances. Their voices mixed into an ugly, saturated tone that disgusted and excited him in equal measurements. He closed his eyes to the world as he listened to their cries of loyalty. A cry of allegiance that he would remember for years to come.
‘
Until our blood becomes dusken sand, we give our lives to the umbral king! Glory to the Malik of Pandjoras!’
