Ezekiel

Tales of Azeroth: Flames of Chaos

Ah I see, there were multiple references in the post suggesting that things were happening faster than they did in canon (like returning to the dragon isles) so presumed it hadn't been that long since the divergence. Given that the events of Legion have already happened in the main timeline I suppose this now makes more sense. I'll admit it's a bit of a shame for me because I feel like the masters of the Legion could be interesting characters to still have bumping around but I get the decision.

I'm thinking I might combine the elf idea with the dragon idea to play something of a more formalised alliance of Kaldorei and Green dragons protecting Kalimdor from the new arrivals of the Alliance and Horde, as I would imagine the orcs and humans that fled the North would still have ended up there.

Also interested in something to do with an alternate group of Sunfury Elves and/or Kul Tiras but I'd be happy to wait to see what other people want to write or maybe even collab those with someone. Don't want to hog all my favourite bits right from the bat.

Tales of Azeroth: Flames of Chaos

Let's go!

I imagine I'll do something dragon related, but I am also a big fan of all shades of Warcraft elf and then also Kul Tiras.... decisions decisions.

The removal of the Legion as a unified body brings up the question of if fel magic/demons are still a thing at all? I think cutting them entirely out wouldn't be ideal, I find warcraft demons and fel a pretty fun play on the usual fantasy demons/corruption tropes and it would be a shame to completely remove them. Blood elf vibes for the win.

EDIT:

Collecting my thoughts a bit more on this, I'm not sure why the One Legion thing would mean that the Legion in this timeline would be cut off, as we see in WoD and both Karazhan instances its not that the Legion is only interested in main Azeroth its that they are pan-reality. Until the Legion is defeated on Argus in the main timeline surely they would still be a substantial threat?

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

Memphos

"Witness Glory."

Aristagorous halberd remained aloft for a moment longer. The Thunder Warriors around him misinterpreted his call as a triumphant warcry and the call was taken up, screamed into the faces of the dying as the last resistance of the bastion crumbled. Their commander did not, however, reference their completion of the objective, but instead the prying eyes settled upon him. Gene enhanced senses greater even than his warriors made him alert to the observation, a corona of light from the burning outer city framing the Custodian, even as he finally lowered the weapon, surveying the city yet to come.

The outer defences of the city in most places were in the process of, or already were, overwhelmed. Slithers of resistance remained, but few outside of the Sigilitte's predictions, areas of the city defended best by the natural defenses of the craggy delta, or around key points of cultural and strategic importance.

"My Lord, the Northern Bulwark has surrendered and beg your mercy." The voice crackled over the vox, distorted by the distance involved and the intensity of the fighting, but clear enough. The equipment secured by the alliance with the Achaemenids was already proving useful.

"Tell them to be thankful it is the Emperor's mercy they fall upon and not my own, for he has granted them freedom. Remind them it was Aristagorous who conquered them by the death of one in ten."
With but a collection of words the Custodian signed the death warrant of a thousand souls of the enemy's largest collection of forces outside of their central districts. He spared them no further thought as he continued to regard the battlefield beyond, plotting how more would fall to his army.

"By his will."

There was no further communication as to the matter, no doubt that it should be done. The Custodian was in no doubt that the greater fighting was yet to come, but this was still a moment to relish, the first great test of the Imperial Army now that it could be called such a thing. This was not a conflict to unite scattered tribes of the mountains, but the destruction of a civilisation. This was what he had been made for.

"Come then, Memphos, show me the wrath of your Dynast-Kings, give me your fury."

---

“Do you see now? Do you see the threat this Usurper presents?” The man’s voice was frantic, robbed of its usual authority as Dynast Amsi watched the distance, the fringes of his human vision alight with the fires of the burning outer city. It seemed some great distance now, but in the haze of industry and the desert, visibility was no great scope, the enemy were close, and closing. “This heresy confounds the will of the Sacred Bloodlines, it is the duty of your alliance to aid us.”

The being he addressed was anonymous, cowled in dark robes of black and red, their voice modulated into an even drone when they did speak, concealing both identity and form. Even still, an element of amusement could be sensed in their response. “Desperation is unbecoming, you shunned our alliance for many years before this.” The accusation brought further fear to the wizened features of the Dynast, one of many in this, the oldest of the Dynast Cities, simply another branch on the sprawling tree that was the ‘Sacred’ Bloodline. He would sell his sister or wife for survival if need be. Made all the more convenient that they were likely the same person.

“What does the Patriarch wish of us? Anything that is ours to give, for his aid.” The hooded stranger regarded the frantic noble without comment for several long moments. Despite the meeting taking place among the high pyramidic spires of the inner city, they were far from the frantic turmoil of the command centres. This was a deal made in darkness, and it would beget further darkness.

“Fall beneath his will, bow to the inevitable, and we will fight this Invader for you.”

“You would have us trade one invader for another?”

“The Patriarch cares not for your customs, he respects the power of your ancient blood, this Emperor will shatter you, cast down your temples and impose his order. Perhaps once you could have secured freedom, but the cost is greater for begging our aid now.”

There was bile and hatred in the noble’s words as he gave in, but none the less, he did. “Then do so, save us, and Memphos will bow to your Patriarch.”

“There was no offer of salvation.”

---

As the forces of the Imperium pushed on, the nascant regiments, mercenaries and drafted forces alike, alongside the gene enhanced warriors of the Thunder Legions, resistance began to increase. The density of enemy forces, and their quality, began to exponentially rise. No longer the mad zealots conscripted and thrown into the way of the enemy, but trained soldiers. Still, the advance did not halt, the mortal men unable to hold back the force of the assault.

The a scream howled out from the central spires, despite the volume, carrying over the vastness of the city, even abone the roar of conflict, it seemed to be of a singular, harrowing, voice. A moment later and the sky was rent by an arc of lightning, surging from swirling sandstorm of the air. Ozone stung the tongues and throats of all, yet this was the least of it.

Forces of the Dynasts continued to fight and die, but they did not halt, something foul crackled in the air, the death of each enemy soldier followed by a harrowing repeat of that same scream, ripped from their own throat, before they pushed on all the same, mindless, in their desire to pull down the invaders, foul, baleful energy burning from their eyes.

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Summerhall.

The Serpent’s Dragon

In the long years of the marches there had rarely been a peaceful reason for the Sunspear sigil to fly. The blazing red on bright burnt orange was a sign feared as much as the personal sigils of the Dornish lords more likely to be raiding the lands to the North. Quarrelsome as they may be, the citadels of Yronwood and Starfall still knelt beneath the Sun.

Thus of all the arrivals of the great and good to Summerhall, the banners of Nymeros Martell caused a stir through the camp. There were other Dornish in attendance, but they came as part of the assembled Northern parties, guests of the Crown to secure the alliance which had finally brought the Dornish, in part, into the fold. It was not a vast train, no doubt smaller in many ways than less contentious houses, a set of three wheelhouses, and accompanying Dornish riders. They had taken ship from Sunspear, landing in the South of the Reach before traveling North to the tourney. The mountain passes between Dorne and the Reach were not necessarily safe at the most peaceful of times, roamed by raiders and Bandit Kings, and this was not the most peaceful of times.

“Is it a relief, Princess, to feel the cool air of home?” Opposite Daenerys sat the tall figure of Prince Nymos, the younger, previous estranged, brother of her lord husband. She had never felt hard done by in her marriage to Maron, despite being her elder by some years he was still a handsome man, one who had aged well into it. A fact she had teasingly suggested made her fortunate for the years he had lived before her. Nymos was another matter, he was shockingly beautiful, an easy charm that seemed to work on men and women alike. She could understand now, how cut off from his family and wealth, he had still attained great heights of success as a leader of men. It did not help how he reclined in her presence, a casual display at odds with his largely respectful words.

“The climate is pleasing, dear brother, and I can admit to being happy to see my loved ones after so long, but Dorne is my home now, the home of my children, I will miss it more while we are here than I ever dream of King’s Landing in Sunspear.” Despite her words, her eyes still remained out the grated window of the rolling home, watching the sloping hills of the Reach drift by. She had not seen such uninterrupted green in such a long time and no matter how pleasing to the eye the younger Martell brother was, he could not eclipse the Reach in the last hints of bloom.

The slight hum of approval her words earned from him did fight for her attention though, but not in the way she was sure many young maids would find. It was so similar to Maron’s, the little exhalation of vindication. She smiled at that, warm affection for her family now that the brothers were reunited, she understood what a chasm in Maron’s life Nymos’ rumored death had been. “Considering what we were told about you Targaryens when we were young, my brother is very fortunate to have you for a wife, Princess.” He paused, studying her in a appraising manner which would be entirely unwelcome on someone not so achingly appealing. “They sung songs of your beauty, but they failed to capture your soul, that is the true fortune.”

She laughed gently, a noise as pretty as any of the songs, “You are too kind, but I should have expected it, Maron is the same. You are both far too charming.”

“That is because you have earned our kindness, Princess, we are different in many ways, but we are both warm in love, and bitter in vengeance. It is the Dornish way.”

“You may call me Daenerys if you like, Dany, if you are feeling particularly familiar.” She sat back against the rest of her seat, finally pulling her attention fully back into the shady interior of the wheelhouse, as the glare of the Sun obscured the countryside from her.

“I prefer Princess, lady-sister, it helps me to behave.” He grinned, and that did make her flutter, although it was an interaction only approved because the pair both loved their mutual connection greater than any fleeting heat might eclipse, “And more importantly, it reminds the rest who you are. You are a Princess of Dorne now, Daenerys of House Targaryen, that means something far more than the trappings they aware their women here.”

“Martell. Prince Nymos, that is my house.” She corrected him, but the smile that touched her lips was far from reproachful.

“Of course, Dear Princess, you have earned that more than any others not born to Sunspear.”

Any further interaction between the pair was interrupted by the sudden swell of noise as the Dornish train advanced into the tourney grounds. The noise of human habitation had been building for a while, but is suddenly surrounded them, bouncing between the walls of the wheelhouse. Much of it was far off background sound, knights and their servants preparing for the martial display to come, further away the smallfolk encamped in their wider, sprawling, accommodation as they readied to watch the events of the coming days. The most intense portion of the noise, however, erupted from those clearly responding to their arrival. As far as she was aware, her attendance was widely known, but she considered now that perhaps the connection that this would mean the formal presence of her marriage-house had not quite sunk in.

Finally the wheelhouse came to a halt, a brief, but heavy, knock on the frame of the carriage all the warning those within received before the main door opened, blazing light into the shady confines. She was well used to such things though, and was quickly standing and at the doorway, accepting the chivalrously offered hand of Ser Corbray from the ground to assist her down the stairway.

If the arrival of the Dornish had sent a rustle through the camp, the sight of her pulsed like a wave. Princess Daenerys had been the darling of court in her day, Nymos had not exaggerated the songs, but Northern Westeros had not seen her for what, in the standard of courtly gossip, had been an age. Her beauty had not faded, but blossomed, the mother had surpassed the maid. Silver-gold hair shone in the light, and her choice of gown would not doubt echo through the consensus for some time. She had, of course, chosen Dornish lace, bone-white trimmed with red detail in a style that drifted about her in a way that was entirely Dornish, yet suitable for the more conservative tastes of the North. The red had been a choice of caution, those who wished could read it as Targaryen or Dornish Red, but all the same, it made its mark.

Nymos followed a few moments behind, just as Daenerys thanked Ser Corbray for his assistance. The murmers through the crowd already assembled were of a more hushed nature, a Dornish Prince was a dangerous, exotic, sight, but still certainly an appreciated one. His outfit stood in contrast to her’s, black, and finely cut, the leathers trimmed in details of the same shade. He gave a nod of appreciation to Ser Corbray as well as he stepped clear of the wheelhouse, before offering his arm to the Princess.

“Princess, it does seem they remember you.”

His voice was loud enough to carry to the onlookers, but nothing was quite loud enough between them to eclipse the surge of cheers his words had taunted from the Westerosi.

From Ashes We Rise: The Galaxy At Large

While human still battles across the wastes of its own cradle, the galaxy does not sit quiet, these are those stories

From Ashes We Rise: The Galaxy At Large

While human still battles across the wastes of its own cradle, the galaxy does not sit quiet, these are those stories

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

Among the howling peaks of Hymalazia the air had almost remained pure. The heavy corruption that scoured the planet, unable to rise to the pristine height of the great mountains, the pinnacle of the world.

Here three figures remained, stoic against the howling winds which could rip a mortal man from the mountain and cast them into oblivion. One stood, surveying both his companions and the world beyond. From these peaks, the world stretched out below, an unending view of dust and smog wreathed landscapes, many of which had once been the great oceans, now retracted to what the world that had been could only consider poisonous saline lakes. The world that was, would be his, and by extension, all of humanity. The true sons and daughters of mankind who would rule the stars.

The standing figure was a being of cosmic proportions, a towering giant wreathed in supernatural power, howling as loudly in the mind as the wind did in the air, clad simply in the dark armour of his people, and nothing more, against the biting mountain cold.

The kneeling figures were barely less impressive, humanity writ large, albeit in a starkly different manner. One had stoic features, at odds with the savagery of the armour he bore, the other embraced it, a warlord of epic proportions, ready to strike at those who would risk his master’s ire. Both were wrought from the same genetic perfection, but they embodied different aspects of the forces beneath the command of the towering godly giant. One would lead the belicose legions of the Thunder Warriors, the other would command the noble forces of the Custodians, even if both were ultimately drawn from the latter’s number.

“Aristagorus, we have received the response from the warlords of Gyptus, from the self-proclaimed Dynasts of their ancient cities.”

“What tell the wordsmiths, Oh Emperor?”

“They have seen the fealty of the Achmaenid Empire, and described it was weakness. Many of our servants were slain for the peace and unity they offered in good faith.”

“Unleash us, Sire, let us show them the folly of their arrogance.”

“Your request is my will, you shall take the Imperial Army, take my Thunder Warriors. Cast down the dynasts, take their riches as your spoils, yet those who bend their knees may keep their lives. That is the will of your Emperor.”

“So shall it be, in your name.” As he spoke, the wilder figure, Aristagorus, rose from his kneeling posture, bowing his head to the Emperor once more, before noding in familiarity to the other figure, still upon his knees. The dark tan of his skin casting back the gleaming of the mountain Sun. “When next we meet, it shall be in our shared glory.” Then he strode down the mountain, a bulwark against the raging storm.

The remaining figure, Valdor, remained in silence, as immune to the bluster of the departing figure as the mountain itself was from the storm, no matter how it raged.

“I have another duty for you, Constantin Valdor.”

“Speak it and it shall be so, My Emperor.”

“A matter of greater finesse. The Terrawatt Clans of the North have sought my aid, the barbarians of Ursch threaten them, and so they may yet be brought into the fold. We are not yet positioned to wrest the North from the hated-Patriarch, yet we may aid and appraise. Select those you trust with such duty, and find your measure of these Clans.” The Emperor, a corona of ligth from the storm about it, spoke with as much force as the wind. “It is a matter of less honour, but its execution is as important.”

“The only honour I seek is your own, the only glory I seek is humanity’s birthright.”

“Then be about your duty.”

—---

[The Delta Nilus] [Siege of the City of Memphos]

“Turn back! His Divine Majesty Commands You!”

The battle cry, or prayer, it matter not, was fiercly meant, screamed from the lips of a true believer, as one of the robed warriors of the enemy crashed down upon their target.

“Your gods are not here, little man, just me.” Aristagorus’ fist met the warrior as he lunged through the air, catching him before he could land, let alone land a blow. The gene-enhanced armoured fist of the Emperor’s Champion caving through rudimentary armour, blood, and bone with ease. Where once there was man, there was suddenly red mist, the baseline human bisected by the force of the punch alone.

The tribune fought bare faced, his helmet clamped to his side, as he and his warriors pushed through the outskirts of the ancient city. He relished the taste of war, the adrenaline of perceiving the war with his true sense. His features were handsome but harsh, bronzed skin bare of any hair, with eye nearly golden in their vibrance.

All along the Delta Nilus, so named for the ancient river which had once fed this ancient land, now simply a spider’s web of barely fertile channels in the desiccated desert, battles were raging as the forces of the Emperor, along with his new Imperial allies, pushed against the cities of the Gyptus. The enemy were not strongly united, the towering cities of the Gyptian Dynasts each wielding armies and wealth in their own right, but they were dug in, and to turn them out of each city was a battle of fierce intensity. Memphos was the largest of the Northern Gyptian cities, boasting the grandest of the great Temple monuments in the region. To cast it down would be a great victory, a triumph of the Imperial Truth over this heathen religion.

Aristagorous cared little for the complexities of his creator’s vision or beliefs, but he did for the opportunity for conquest, to lead his warriors in glory and to hear the lamentation of his enemy.

With brutal efficiency, he lead the Thunder Warriors with him through the building, they were warriors unto his nature, ethused by the slughter yet not entirely lost in it like the savages to the North. Mortal men fell before them in such close confines with ease, no amount of desperate prayer or begs for mercy would save them. Their overlords had refused to kneel even when the armies of the legions massed beyond their city, now the fools would pay the price for following the wrong lord.

A victorious roar of triumph left his lips as he bursed through the final doorway onto the roof. The heavy side arm he wield in one hand barking with great force, the stub rounds boring clean through the first two assailants. The target of the strike, the automated artillery defence gun which continued, even as its defenders fell, to pound away into the night, was finally silenced with the throw of his spear, the weapon crushing into the firing mechanism and finally ceasing the attack. As he did so, a resounding crackled chorus of vox reports in his ear informed him that similar strike groups had cleared their targets, the army could continue its adance.

“Move into the city, let them know the folly of defyin us, men of the Emperor!” The order was simplistic, but the plan had been constructed to greater detail before the strike. Now they would simply claim what was their right.

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Collab with @Ruby

Questions, Answers, Dreams

The Day Of The Tourney

The tournament ground was abuzz. In the bright light of mid-morning, the very day that the tournament was set to begin, the Blackfyres had arrived.

The call had carried through the assembled throng, passing from servant to servant, knight to knight, lord to lord. With fanfare to match the Targaryens from which their line drew, the sons and daughters of Daemon Blackfyre had arrived in force. His eldest twins had lead the way, garbed in the red plate that they had styled for some time, accomplished knights as they were in their own right, receiving no small share of the glory of adulation in their arrival.

Even that paled next to what was to come, a wave of anticipation that rippled through the throng of already gathering small-folk and attendants that suddenly crashed into life at the figure many had travelled great distance to see. The armour that clad his body was black, darker than night, contrasting with the flowing red of the tabard atop it. His features were concealed behind a helm, but it was instantly recognisable, the temples flaring into the wings of a dragon, which trailed into the rim of the visor, ending in two draconic mouths. The third head was formed in engravings on the crest of the helm, catching the light such that even with the darker colour, the visage was clear. The cheering begun before he was even in sight to most, the first cry of his name drifting to him as he spurred his steed into motion, from trot to canter, leaving behind the wheelhouses which brought the non-riders of his assembled retinue.

“DAEMON! DAEMON!”

It was a greeting the rivalled any of the house of the dragon, and to many, he was. A true blooded Valyrian Prince, born of a Princess and Prince-to-be-King. A monarch, if not for chance.

“DAEMON! DAEMON!”

The cries continued as he moved into the first clearing within the tent-city of the tourney grounds, riders, his sons among them, fanning out to create a cordone around their sire, Blackfyre banners unfurling in the morning glaze, the soft wind enough to stir them into life above the thunder of hooves. The cheering reached crescendo when the Blackfyre sire halted his steed and pulled his helm free, held under one arm. The same wind that caught the banners threw back the silver-gold hair which framed his royal features, violet eyes as deep as any Targaryen’s had been for generations sparkling with mirth at the well wishes of the crowd. Each individual those eyes passed over felt a momentary, personal, connection to Daemon. He had that ability, an easy, effortless, charisma which burned as brightly for the commoner as it did the high lord. In those moments, the strain of life faded away. The endless struggle for vindication. The love of the crowd didn’t discriminate between Targaryen and Blackfyre. But it was a fleeting love.

Then that gaze fell instead to the view of Summerhall, rising majestically over the camp and tournament grounds.

Reality came crashing back.
“I will go to the palace, announce us to our hosts.” Daemon spoke as the eldest of his son’s drew near, handing the lance he bore in his other hand to him as he did so. “Behave yourselves, the first lists are not long hence.” The comment was made with mirth and it brought a laugh from Aegon.

“As you say, Father.”

---

The mood was far quieter close to the palace, set back as it was from the nearest open space where the tournament could be struck. Still, the sound and smell of so much human activity reached here, passing over pristine gardens, bouncing from perfect artistic stone. There was nothing quite like Summerhall in the Seven Kingdoms. To many it represented everything that the Targaryen lineage had fallen to, that they wished Daemon to replace and rebuild, but he did not think so.

It was a dream of what could be, the kind that had taken Targaryens from lords in the sea to Kings of a continent.

He swung himself out of the saddle of his horse, handing the reigns to a particularly attentive page boy.

“Good, hard work builds strong knights, you’ll be a ser yet.” Daemon smiled to the lad, pressing a coin from his saddlebag to his palm. “Make sure you don’t lose her.” He jested, although the young man hadn’t quite recovered from registering just who’s steed he had collected. He was still standing in place when Daemon began his walk through the last of the gardens to reach the entryway to the pristine palace. He did not rush, drawing in the beauty of the gardens. Once could get lost for a lifetime here, and spent it all in idyll beauty. A thought for another lifetime, perhaps.

He stepped through the open doors, the atrium was cool, the palace built first to deal with the heat of Summer, as would suit a structure raised in the heart of the Reach. He imagined in winter’s a cold mist would settle on the land, great fires would have to be lit, but it would never be a harsh cold, not here.

Already he could hear the frantic muttering and scrabbling feet of servants, scurrying from him to inform someone important enough that the head of the black dragon had arrived. He did not mind the pause, it gave him some time to inspect the majestic atrium, with the roar of human activity a long way off.

“Quiet.” He breathed to himself, enjoying the moment.

The page that found her was white, and out of breath. She didn’t let him finish, the moment he got the name and location out she had turned and was walking, but the pace wasn’t unusual. Casual, her face a pleasant thing of secret smile and beauty. There was no surprise, there was no stress. In a way, it was the strangest happy feeling she had ever felt. Like some relief that’s unimaginable, until it was here.
And it was here: it was time to begin. Finally.

A gown of pale purple sandsilk that draped over her shoulders in wide straps, dragon fire embroidered around the sleeves and bodice in gold thread. Golden dyed sandals were on her feet, strapping up her leg, disappearing under the bottom hem of the dress. Her Valyrian hair fell behind her shoulders, artful tumbles with no hard curl, shining like she was a princess afforded the ability to take great care of her appearance.
The scent of her would’ve hit him before her voice came up from behind him as he looked about the atrium: like lavender, but sweeter, and fainter. “Hello, Daemon.”

The tone of voice behind the greeting was soft, but not out of sweetness or the dictums of manners. This was a deeper softness, the profound nostalgia of a heart greeting something it had been sadly waiting for. The affectionate melancholy was there in her eyes and on her eyes, behind a small wisp of a smile and purple eyes that had seen Daemon before.

“Princess,” It was a more formal greeting than her own, but it held no less warmth, spoken a little too quickly after her own to be a reaction to her words, but instead to the felt presence of her, both the air of the scent that dance from her, and the motion of her approach. He turned his head, but made no effort to address the direction of his form, no need to address the proximity of her unless he should turn to do so. He allowed that state to linger for some time, before he did act, turning to face her, and dipping his head in a proper, courtly, greeting. Still, he stood close, closer than the dictats of royal respect should allow.

She was very much like the breeze that danced about these halls, drifting in and out of the life others lived. His life, a fleeting glimpse of her. He wondered, in a moment of artistic indulgence, if she lived as others did when not observed, or was she some fae creature to ever skirt the mortal world? If that could be true, it would be in her.

“I am sorry to have arrived unannounced, but there were delays on the journey, I thought it best to make myself known sooner, given the time of the tourney draws close. I cannot say I am too dismayed, however, that it is you here to greet me, and not your uncle.” It would be a stretch to say Daemon hated any of the Targaryens in truth, for all that his cause set him against them, but of all of them, the least complicated of feelings was with Maekar. There was little warmth there. “It has been a long while, and this cooling sun shines a little brighter for your company.”

“…no, you’re not,” she said it in a whisper; a secret between just them that she, beyond all his natural doubt, knew. “Although that answer’s the question of if you’d like me to fetch the Prince of Summerhall for you.”

No. No he would not. It didn’t matter. She knew it didn’t matter. She waited, waited for the surprise, waited for the bits of it all that she couldn’t see. Like words on a book’s page that were ink-blotted or blurred by stain. Or as she described it to Aelor: like trying to see when a drop of rain has hit your eye. Squint, and you’d see enough, but some of the details were all but impossible to make out.

What did he want? Why was he here? Why was it important that she was?...what did he want from her?
The realisation cut without pain, a shock, but not one that disarmed, instead confirming some of what he came to seek. A recognition between them that cut away, rather than add to, the barriers between two souls.

“I am told you still dream, that you study our past as you always have.” It wasn’t so much a surprise he would still have knowledge of what occurred within Summerhall and the Red Keep, not least from his mother, who despite her want to roam freely, was still a fixture at one royal court or another. In the years of his half brother’s reign he had seen less and less of the twins, fleeting glimpses. The familiarity should not have been there, but it wafted freely from her, as gently as the folds of the silks she was clad in, bringing yet further truth to the validity of his suspicions.

“Our house has been shackled by a fear of what we were, or a lack of understanding. Magic, dragons, dreams, those were the true three heads.” His voice was low, not so much as to be conspiratorial, but quiet enough to be clear they were for her, and not the benefit of wider listeners who were no doubt about at all times in such places. “Show me.” He spoke those final words without demand or desperation, an understanding that they were matters of her understanding, and not his own, no matter the stock he already placed in them.

“Some nights I dream only of a door in snow. Then it grows dark, I feel a cold that has cruel intent, and all I see is falling snow…but I belong there. I’ve been there before; I will be there again. In the dark, with that cold, in that snow.”

Lavender eyes had faded from his as her words dove into the depths of dreams, seeing what she had only dreamed as if it was just over there beyond him. When her words ran out, she went silent, though her eyes stayed there for moments longer. Watching that snow fall. It broke when her eyes fluttered under full lashes and darted down, to the stone floor, before sweeping right, then left, head turning to even peek behind her, before she found the tips of her toes in those leather sandals, bringing her mouth closer to his ear before she revealed a whisper more hushed and quieter than most desperate secrets.

“The water wizards and the dragon lords, the longest shadow the world has ever seen looming in the east…wait.”
She was gone with impressive speed, all but running out of the space and through an arched doorway, disappearing like a silk wraith around a corner. For the near run, the soft sound of her footsteps against the stone floor would have announced her return as she slowed to walk around the corner and back out the arched doorway. Her skin touched with a little flushness, a little color, as her scent was twice as strong after the sudden, quick, quest.

She drew close and slowed even more, holding the item in her hands: a precious thing, a personal treasure without any doubt from the way she held it so tightly with both hands, looking at it, at him, back to it, and finally back to him. A small book bound in light brown leather. If he were to flip through it, he’d find a book of mostly filled pages. Scribbles, sketches, and a collection of her own private notes, from dreams to obsessions to mysteries in between the two. The writing was in elegant, thin, strokes of ink.

She held it out the foot or so between them, and nodded a reassurance, more to herself than to him. Show me, he had said to her. “A taste.”

He had not followed her, the pace at which she had flown from the room, that might have been concerning, seeming natural to him in the moment, an inkling, as if passively drawn from her, of the ability she had to see beyond what was freely offered.

His hands pressed gently around what was offered, not being so undiscerning as to open it before her, with an unspoken knowledge of what it would contain. His touch was as cautious as if she had handed him the crown itself, if not more so.

“Thank you, Princess, it will be returned to you.” He gave a smile of reassurance, that in contrast, very much was meant for her, and lacked no honesty. No matter what his ends or means, he would do so. The the smile became more courtly, and his words took on the volume that those royal conversations, made for everyone else in the room, seemed to have.

“Look for me in the lists, without your father present, I will have want for a challenge.” Even with the pretence of royal personality adopted, it was not arrogance. The two men were matched in their prime, and even still, that victory had been so shocking as to earn the man his nomer. Without the other to test skill against, one could crown the other the victor at the start and be done with it. He did not bow his head low, and his vision lingered upon her, but there was no disrespect. Only the promise of the future.

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

<Snipped quote by Ezekiel>

Alright, I amended their descriptions to state only their skin is fluid, should be tolerable now?

I was hoping to go through Salkor's backstory in posts on the principle "show don't tell" on the assumption I wouldn't be competing for the role, but regardless I amended it to go through most of his history until the start of the RP.

@Bugman

Accepted!

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

<Snipped quote by Ezekiel>

Thanks for the review.

When it comes to the fluidity of the form, is the problem absolute? I.e., if it was reduced to simply them being able to remold their face and their skin to be ports, sockets, etc. to interface with technology? If perhaps it was only their skin that was fluid like mercury, rather than them in entirety. If that isn't feasible either they can simply be reworked to just stick the machinery into their meat like normal techpriests.

As for their separation, I'd be happy to rework that to make it fit into the broader narrative too. If the second one also fell on a forgeworld that contacted Mars, but a warp storm would separate them from reuniting? I'm suggesting this mostly because I want their separation to be somewhat of a plot point for them: they would tragically be aware they have a missing half that completes them somewhere in the stars, so close but never quite within reach, which would be made all the more sad when (at least, I would like) one of them stays loyal, whilst another falls to chaos when the heresy does happen.

Aside from the Primarchs, is the sheet for the Legion and the Fabricator fine?

@Bugman

Sorry for the delay in getting back to you! Hectic week

I'd be willing to accept a remolding of the skin, that seems reasonable enough for me. The Legion is fine!

There's been another sheet applying for the fabricator General which I think develops the role of the character a bit more. I'm happy to give you a chance go expand on the Fabricator sheet or otherwise redefine them as one of the still very powerful (especially in this fractious era) Forge Masters or perhaps expand the sheet a little, either works for me.