Grijs
Breezi
Fetzen
Hos
Little Bill
Master EffeX
LauderSerpent Dance
-Four Years After Arrival-
The perpetual penumbra of the dusken world stretched the horizon, supplemented only by several shattered moons orbiting through Pandjoras’ debris rings. Heavy, baleful clouds drifted in sporadic clusters across the valley, graviton particles falling in torrential clumps as rejuvenating rain against black sands. Strange, floating stones hung in the air several feet from the ground, bristling with glowing, purple cracks. Enormous, jet black dunes waxed and waned as gravity storms passed by. Runoff from eerie tempests replenished graviton lakes that posed as false oases, soothing those beings that thrived within the depths. A pair of floating, magnificent palaces on hovering shunts meandered along stormy paths.
All of these and more were watched by a pair of peculiar, orange eyes with serpentine pupils. A young man of staggering height stood in the open air of a dusken world, his form garbed in serpent silk robe that clung to his body. Messy, black locks of hair spilled out of his cowl and over the rebreather that he wore. Beneath his attire, a lithe suit of powered armor tightly clung to his physique. Thin tubes crossed over carapace plating from gauntlet to foot to a small powerpack attached to his back. Black greaves remained firmly planted against gravitic brick, dusken mortar caking the structure together. The youth turned his head in a quick, calm manner as another figure slowly walked towards him from the opposite edge. A smarmy, toothy grin grew on his thin lips.
“I didn’t think you’d take that long to arrive, old man. Any longer and I’d think that my duties as your successor would come sooner rather than later.” His voice was as soothing as freshly woven silk spread out across a masterful bed, seconded only by overbearing confidence weaving within his tone.
“Hmph. You fail to surprise me anymore, Zaphariel. Many years have passed, but you remain the only one able to detect me.” The old man spoke slowly and deeply, his voice altered by an alabaster skull mask. His body was swathed in heavy, black robes devoid of armor or wargear. A pair of disturbingly blue eyes met the youth’s orange, searching orbs. “You have yet to achieve your place as hassan, even less so to succeed as Grandmaster.”
Zaphariel continued to smile as he pulled closer to the old man of the mountain, offering a hand to assist the beleaguered elder to his ledge. To his chagrin, Muahad refused help with a shake of his head and simply carried forward in his silent footsteps. Both stood at the edge of Neu Alamut’s highest bastion, the dusken world of Pandjoras spreading out before them.
“Four years. The sands shift in your favor unlike any other I have seen. Were you not so coy with your vices, perhaps you would have attained enlightenment by now.” Muahad spoke, his dreary voice an incalculable dirge as he reminisced the arrival of the dreamer beside him. The short lecture earned a muted chortle from the youth. It was silenced with a look until Zaphariel opened his mouth once more to speak.
“Four years and I’ve grown this large, achieved so much, and survived further than my brethren. Am I not allowed to enjoy the fruits of Pandjoras or should I dine upon a thousand and one grains of dark sand?” Zaphariel responded with a query, his voice lackadaisical and without worry. The dreamer stared out into the night, his vision piercing the clouds and debris ring beyond to see the darkness of space in perfect clarity. He felt a calling, not unlike when Muahad had first found him in the graviton lakes.
“You are not a natural entity,” The old man of the mountain began to speak, moving away from the edge of the bastion to the center of the rooftop. His voice fell into a contemplative state, a signal to the sheik that Muahad could easily enter a state of oneness. “But you are doubtlessly one touched by Pandjoras. The Eyes of Hassan are proof of this. Your origin will be found when you achieve oneness, Zaphariel.”
Not unlike many conversations that the sheik had with his adoptive father, Zaphariel found the statement confusing. He mused on the words spoken by Muahad. The dreamer was certainly in agreement that he was not naturally born of Pandjoras, yet that fact had never bothered him. A typical Pandjoran child should grow to an adolescent at roughly sixteen rotations, yet he had become an adult in such a short span of time. It was perplexing, irritating, and emotionally beyond his capability to understand. Perhaps, he thought, this is why he couldn’t achieve oneness.
“What would you have me do, Grandmaster? I’ve accomplished more than regular hassan have. The asasiyun of Varranis refuse to acknowledge me as your successor candidate.” The dreamer asked, his tone shifting to feigned pleading rather than actual contemplation. A hint of irritation bubbled through his words as he spoke. In response, the old man sighed as if having to perform a task far too simple for him. His skull mask turned to face young Zaphariel.
“Use your keen ears to listen, Zaphariel, just as you will now. There is a prophecy amongst our people of a dreamer that will fall as a star upon Pandjoras, shifting a thousand and one grains of black sand throughout the land. He will arrive as a tempest, a being beyond understanding that would unify our people - further than I have already done.” Muahad’s static voice began to recount the tale as he turned his attention to the scenery behind him. A single hand raised from beneath his robes, one of the digits directing their vision towards the hovering palaces. “The promised dreamer - the harbinger of the prophecy - was said to raise thirteen palaces by his own hands and be capable of taming the likes of Falak.”
“Falak?” Zaphariel asked, the word uncomfortably dripping from his lip.
“The grand wyrm of the void. One born from the deepest pits of Pandjoras. The largest ever recorded across our history. A being that is always on the tongues of prophets and dreamers. A creature of prophecy.” Muahad said, his vision falling from dusken sky to graviton lakes beyond their citadel. Tiny, serpentine forms slithered by every body of gravitic liquid, their scaly silhouettes unnaturally gliding through the air. He disregarded those creatures, turning his attention back to Zaphariel.
“You will encounter Falak as it was prophesied. It is unknown when it will occur, only that it certainly will. Your actions will dictate the end of your tale, dreamer. Until that time, find your place amongst your brethren.” Before Zaphariel had a chance to respond, the old man of the mountain left as silently as a shadow. He rolled his eyes in response to the effortless subtlety of his adoptive father. Golden, serpentine eyes turned from the opposite edge of the bastion to the graviton lakes below.
“So be it. I’ll find Falak and become a worthy successor.”
Neu Alamut stretched an impossible distance from within, twisting corridors and lengthy alcoves constructed deep into a mountain. Archaic glowglobes, decoratively set into serpentine sculptures, dimly lit every snaking pathway of the citadel. Banners of serpent silk lightly wafted along every wall, lifted by Pandjoran atmospheric conditioning. Beautiful, dark rugs of similar material sprawled out in various places throughout the castle. Black, coarse sand remained littered in innumerable clumps by corners and causeways. Silhouettes of Pandjoras in heavy, tenebrous robes shifted to and from their destinations, offering short salaams before pressing onward.
Sheik Zaphariel watched them from within the thin shadows of Neu Alamut, unnoticed by all save for the Grandmaster of the Hassan. Orange, serpentine eyes scanned every Pandjoran that he passed, remembering every face that didn’t offer a salaam to him. It was a vain, unsightly thing to do to his people, but he felt it was necessary. If they couldn’t detect his presence, then how could they survive in a thousand and one grains of black sand? He walked in utter silence, every footstep emanating a soundless, muted thump.
The promised dreamer stepped into a vaulted training atrium within Neu Alamut, his feet stopping short of railing overlooking the chamber. The scent of mulled serpent blood filled the air with an aroma of spice and fresh desert. He drank deeply of the fragrance before casting his eyes down to several hassan within the training pit. Pandjorans silently conversed between themselves as they sat cross legged in dusken sand. A hushed tone was a normality for every hassan of Pandjoras, yet these soft voices spoke quieter than a hidden snake.
“...It is troubling that he was nominated as a successor so early, even if he is as promised by the stars.” A male’s voice was heard amongst their number, venom dripping from his waggling tongue.
“He is certainly from the great aeon beyond. Not even the theuban grow as quickly as he has. There doesn’t seem to be a limit to his abilities.” Another spoke out, a woman’s voice, agreeing with the previous speaker. A short, disgusted grunt rumbled out from their group.
“Yes. He is extraordinary, perfect, and preordained by the stars; however, he is not hassan. Zaphariel cannot claim to be one of us until he passes the trials as we all have. I will not accept him. Not even Muahad can force me to accept it.” This voice was an elder of sorts, a deep and aggressive tone that carried the hefty burden of time. A man that had spent many days amongst those of the same ilk. A bygone relic.
“Ease yourself, elder, he is still learning our ways. You would be kinder to him if you remembered that he has only been with us for four cycles. It is still too early to decide how to approach him…” The final voice was that of a soft, youthful woman with a kind tone. He would remember this voice well.
They conversed for some amount of time, expressing their dissatisfaction with several other qualities within Neu Alamut. As their goblets emptied of serpentine blood, Zaphariel left the chamber with his temper fouled. Irritation bubbled up from within his being, frustration threatening to spill over into his jovial mask. He shook his head in an attempt to shake off pointless emotions. His agitated footsteps brought him through a labyrinth of underground corridors, each as decorated as the last.
Zaphariel finally stepped out into a small chamber, bedding and personal effects in place to represent an informal barracks. A myriad of five Pandjorans moved in a deadly dance around the room's center. Claws, blades, and graviton darts twisted amongst their lithe, armored forms. They fought as lighting quick phantoms, low sweeps and swift lunges accompanying deft acrobatics in their caper. None held an upper hand over any, their complex moves blending perfectly into one another. None expected the fight to come to a premature end as the promised dreamer stepped into their midst.
Faster than any of their orange eyes could perceive, the promised dreamer had completely flipped their dance sidewards. One of Zaphariel’s hands had snatched a hassan by their throat, tossing them into another while snatching both of their daggers. A low sweep of his leg sent another Pandjoran sideways, followed shortly by a swift punch to their chest. The last two hassan had only just begun to shift to their invader before they, too, were forcibly disabled. Both were impaired by the hilt of Zaphariel’s daggers, spittle flying from their lips as they lost consciousness. Sand settled across the chamber as asasiyun groaned in pain.
“... Sheik Zaphariel… it is a pleasure to have you…” One of the hassan spoke through gritted teeth, their harsh voice aching from pain. A mature man with plentiful facial scars, he picked himself up from the ground with one hand against his chest.
“Of course, Ramses, wherever I go I am a pleasure to be had; however, your furusiyya requires some adjustments. You are supposed to be a serpent, not a scarab, uncle.” The promised dreamer said with a cocky, toothy smile. One by one, Zaphariel assisted those hassan that he had thrashed in mere seconds. Each returned his wide smile with one of their own, thanking him with short salaams before standing on their own.
“You certainly prove yourself as the successor with skills like those, but I doubt you came here just to boast of your talents. Did you wish to count a thousand and one grains of black sand, or would you rather we speak over some refreshments?” Ramses al-Varranis asked with a smile, gesturing to one of his cohorts to retrieve beverages from a nearby refrigerating unit. An aching hassan responded, limping over and pulling out a sealed pitcher of serpent blood. Carefully, salt-cooled drinks were served in black glasses from an ornate tray. Zaphariel acquiesced, planting himself on the sandy tile and crossing his legs with the rest of his kindred.
Zaphariel tipped back the glass of serpent blood against his lips, drinking deeply of the precious drink. Disgustingly sweet ichor drenched his throat, a sharp taste of iron and spice lingering on his tongue. A refreshing taste that would’ve addled lesser minds, such as his kin, yet it had never had such an effect on him. Even while sitting among those he called family, it occurred to him how much larger than a standard Pandjoran he was. It made him feel isolated for only a moment.
“I will hunt an elder serpent in the Valley of the Void. If Pandjoras is willing, then Falak will appear before me.” The promised dreamer suddenly stated, his voice calm and collected. Ramses choked in surprise, slamming his fist against his own chest to adjust. Each hassan after him shared a similar expression of surprise, horror, or unease at Zaphariel’s desire.
“Zaphariel, you have only fought adolescent to mature serpents up to this point. An elder serpent, the rightful passage of a hassan, is another story entirely. I would recommend spending more time hunting with us. Another year at least, nephew.” Ramses mustered a swift reply, attempting to turn their promised dreamer away from a difficult fight. Tangible tension built up between himself and Zaphariel. Though the successor’s facial features remained perfect and neutral, Ramses felt an invisible frustration emanating from him.
“There! The rightful passage of a hassan. I am not hassan, Ramses, you all know this. I am not treated as a hassan, nor am I treated as the successor. I am an outsider!” An unknowable force built itself up from within Zaphariel, energy charging the air around him in a blanket of emotional outburst. His perfect, figurative mask broke as his facial features contorted in scrunched up bitterness. Ugly veins visibly throbbed on his forehead, while serpentine eyes narrowed into dagger thin slices. Palpable fear welled up in each of the five hassan sat around him.
Suddenly, the brief storm that began to rage around Zaphariel halted as he realized his emotional outburst. He closed his orange eyes to the world, attempting to enter oneness. Darkness did not come to him, but a manner of peace in isolation replaced his frustration. The emotions left his mind quickly, similarly to the swift egress of his unknowable force. When he opened his eyes once more, the young sheik could hear sighs of relief from his kindred. It had not been the first time that such a scenario had happened.
“You have my apologies, kin, but you cannot deter me from my passage. I will make a pilgrimage to the Valley of the Void. I will kill an elder serpent. I will become hassan. I will march on a thousand and one grains of black sand alone if I must.” Zaphariel stated, first apologizing for his outburst and then making clear his intent. Before Ramses had time to properly respond to Muahad's successor, a dataslate was removed from within the folds of his armor. Running a thumb over the activation rune, a local map detailed through auspex and recent data appeared on the slate’s screen. An intricate path from Neu Alamut to a deep valley was traced. “I’ve already plotted a course from Neu Alamut. I will arm myself here, stopping in House Delukar territory for my first resupply and House Nathaz lands for my second resupply. When I get close to the Valley, I will hunt for bait and then leave it out for an elder to claim it. Once slain, I will signal for transport from House Varranis.”
Ramses mused on the young sheik’s plan, a task that would normally require a group of five to ten fully trained hassan. His eyes fell to the dataslate, beholding a route perfectly planned for a singular individual to travel Pandjoras’ harsh deserts. Several gravitic oases were marked for brief respites if required, optional corridors for entrances into other House territories were annotated, and numerous hunting grounds were circled for ease of venture. It troubled him that he couldn’t find any flaw in Zaphariel’s plan.
“I… cannot find any issues in this, but I will not allow you to tackle this task alone. Instead, we will be joining you for the hunt. Muahad would flay me alive if I let his heir die.” The mature hassan relented with a defeated smile. His entourage gave several different expressions of feigned defeat, some sporting similar smiles to him and others still surprised at how quickly Ramses gave in. Zaphariel grew a cocksure smile that spread from cheek to cheek. A display of victory.
“Then it is decided. I will inform the old man while you prepare. We’ll meet in the exterior courtyard once everything is ready. Have some faith, uncle, have I ever disappointed you?” Zaphariel excitedly spoke as he pushed himself up from the ground. The mature hassan rolled his eyes, joining the promised dreamer as he stood. A quick embrace between them was shared before they separated, one gathering their hassan and the other leaving through the corridor they arrived in.
Zaphariel frantically sprinted down the labyrinthine corridors of Neu Alamut as quickly as a shadow approaching day. The young sheik felt as if things were going his way, something that he had pushed for was coming to fruition. The promised dreamer felt it in his blood, a deeper desire for controlling destiny. An unfathomably toothy grin plastered across his lips as he flitted amongst their alcoves. I am coming for you, Falak, and I will take hold of destiny’s binds, he thought to himself. A swift journey brought him to Muahad’s chambers, where he would begin the next steps of his quest.
Midday shone through dark clouds over Neu Alamut’s sprawling steppes, black sand stretching from one horizon to the next. Droplets of graviton runoff pattered against chunks of crackling stone that hung suspended mid-air. Smaller, whimsical pools of silvery-green liquid filled shallow basins where sand drifted away. Further across Pandjoras, great deluges of the same liquid threatened to flood grand oases. Mammothine, winding dunes formed natural hills interrupting savage gales from tearing through desert valleys.
Six figures poised upon the crest of a great mesa, their bodies garbed in midnight suits of lithe, powered armor. Form fitting carapace with clumps of thin tubings complimented their silhouettes, yet paled in comparison to their light-absorbing shrouds. Grand pieces of fabric that cowled their helmets, covered their shoulders, and draped down both sides of their body like partial robes. Bits of daylight glinted off their myriad of weapons, a combination of blades, metallic claws, and guns. Large trunks on heavy gravity shunts idled behind them, weighted down by gear within.
“... the Delukar-Varranis corridor, then eastward by Vorrit’s Lake. Northward from there will be free of shifting dunes during this season of the cycle.” Ramses began to speak, his voice altered beneath a heavy respirator that stretched from chin to ear. One of his fingers pointed out into Pandjoras’ black sands, noting a large gravity lake northwest from their position. Behind him, Neu Alamut rose a formidable distance upon a great mountain of sand and rock. From his point of view, they could see most of their world save for those hidden behind Pandjoras’ second tallest mountain.
“I don’t plan on staying in Delukarian territory, not that I couldn’t handle Cairosian sodomites and gravity farmers.” Zaphariel replied, his voice masked by a respirator and still as sublime as silk. His thin lips had parted into a cocksure grin as he spoke, aware of how weak those Pandjorans outside of House Varranis were. Even with his form crouched, he towered over his entourage of brethren resulting in his chest lowering unto black sand. If they were bothered by their kindred’s length body, then the hassan did not show it.
“Regardless, you know that House Delukar frequently industrializes their land. We are on track to pass by one of their refinery farms as well as the Vorrtian corner fields. Be cordial. No repeats of the Urahal incident.” The mature hassan stated, wagging a finger at their sheik. Zaphariel’s grin widened for a short moment, hiding faintly sharpened teeth beneath his mouthpiece. Ramses felt an indescribable feeling creep up his spine, unaware if it was fear or awe - a feeling that passed every time he ventured with their successor. A feeling that many hassan felt being within a certain radius of him.
“I apologized to the old man already, uncle, you can drop it at any moment you like. I hadn't known that Neu Alexandrios’ patrols didn't require assistance fending off a void tide. They would’ve been serpent food had I not intervened.” Zaphariel raised his hands in feigned defeat, insincere platitudes vomiting from his mouth. A pair of their entourage began to snicker beneath their heavy respirators, resulting in ugly, coughing noises. The remainder breathed a variety of sighs, exasperated by their exchange.
“... You are insufferable sometimes, nephew. If only you didn’t have the skill to back up your words, then you would be much more humble. Was it the Nathaz-Varranis agreement or the Sulkat Arms Trade that made you so unbearably cocky?” Ramses sighed in response, his face held in both of his hands. A harsh slap to his own face forced fresh energy back into his body, averting his gaze from black sand to Delukarian territory beyond.
“Both were certainly achievements, uncle! My cunning diplomacy cementing a permanent trade route between Neu Constanoplis and Neu Alamut for our Agreement! My silent steps securing excellent blackmail against Neu Antioch for the Arms Trade! Both paled in comparison to finding the gravity oases underneath Alamut though, once again proving my status as a savior!” Zaphariel praised himself, rising from his crouched position to triumphantly stand upon their mesa. He performed an illustrious bow as if he were an actor in one of their few plays. An act that melted whatever remained of their entourage’s seriousness, resulting in a plethora of chortles and snickers from his hassan.
“Very well, very well. I’ll hope that your final test will be without any more heroic achievements to add to your list, lest you have a glorified array of titles.” Ramses laughed, echoing his nephew’s movements by standing and shortly bowing. By that point, the hassan had picked themselves up with chortles in their throats or smirks upon their lips. Their successor turned his attention to Pandjoras’ black sands, stepping forward towards the ledge.
“Unfortunately for you, dear Ramses, I will always remain legendary!” Zaphariel swiveled about to look at his brethren and stepped backwards off the mesa with his arms spread wide. The young sheik laughed as he fell through Pandjoras’ warm air, his body as light as a feather and as weightless as pristine silk. His cohort dove after him in quick succession. Joy alighted within their eyes, exhilaration driving adrenaline through their veins.
On a normal world their plummet would mean certain death without special equipment; however, on the dusken world of Pandjoras, there was no such worry. Their bodies fell swiftly and softly through their planets’s bizarre gravity, penumbral shrouds gently wavering around their forms. Laughter filled the void where silence would live, Zaphariel enjoying his freefall. The hassan, however, withheld outward glee behind their trained behavior, forced to focus on landing with some amount of ease. Black sand greeted shadowy greaves as a warm host to a surprise guest. The successor landed first amongst their number, effortlessly kissing the ground before breaking into a dead run. If the hassan were any other ordinary Pandjoran, then they would’ve certainly failed to keep up with their promised dreamer. Ramses and his retinue sprinted at a pace just shy of the one they followed, capable of barely keeping speed with their prophet.
Comfortable silence filled their voyage as they traveled into the Delukar-Varranis Divide. Gales of warm wind from nearby mesas brushing against their shadowy carapaces, dusken shrouds whipping along their bodies as penumbral tendrils. Dark sand dunes rose up as monstrous mountains on their path, paling in comparison to Neu Alamut’s enormous abode behind them. The more their journey brought them into Delukarian territory, the more life they saw. Great refineries towered over them along the banks of Vorrit’s Lake, gravity particles slowly being drained from large bodies of gravitic liquid. Occasional thrumming passed above their party, bulky transports on hovering shunts traveling to and from Neu Cairos. Patrols were far and few along the path to the Valley of the Void, a rare excursion venturing into rusted ruins of long destroyed palaces. Never once were they spotted within the Divide, their training as hassan aiding in their shadowbound destinies.
Several nights passed as Zaphariel and his hassan journeyed deep into Pandjoras’ dark wasteland. Pandjoran people, technology, and civilization were unseen for large stretches of the desert between Vorrit’s Lake and the Valley of the Void. Ruins from an older era decorated roiling dunes and gravitic mesas alike, slithering serpents hidden well within their depths. Small gravity storms plagued their quest in short bursts, forcing them to hide in said ruins and refill their powerpacks. As weather relented, the cohort would sprint out into black sand once more with their gravity trailers in tow and their armor replenished.
Finally, the last stretch of their journey came as they crested over a smaller, sandy knoll. Their goal sprawled out menacingly before their eyes. An enormous valley of colossal dunes and leviathan mesas extending an impossible distance. The second largest mountain on Pandjoras, the Korvaix-Tuturan Massif, imposingly loomed at the vale’s end. Green-silver liquid filled every corner of the gorge, graviton particles wafting from its stagnant depths. Grand, elongated shapes moved beneath the sea’s titanic surface projecting lethargic waves across unknown lengths. Gravitic stones, detached from surrounding mesas, hung suspended mid-air, crackling with vibrant energy. The hassan quickly began to descend from their position to close the distance, but Zaphariel remained behind with his orange eyes staring daggers into the gravity liquid.
“I’ve come, Falak. Do not disappoint me…”
Gravity trailers hissed as they were opened to reveal precious contents within. Autolaunchers with grappling hooks, flensing blades with monomolecular edges, and penumbral bindings fashioned from serpent silk filled the bottom of their valuable containers. Gravrifles, ranged armaments combining graviton and bullet, remained racked in separate cases. As the hassan no longer needed to transport their cargo, gravitic shunts mounted to their trailers were switched off to preserve particle capacity. Ramses and his retinue calmly collected every piece of equipment necessary for their task. A pair of hassan retrieved grapples, another grabbed one of their rifles, and the mature assassin took umbral nettings.
Nestled at the edge of the valley’s gravitic sea, shadowy flora sprouted lavishly from beneath graviton-infused black sand. Tall reeds of penumbral vegetation wavered from vale wind, fatty stalks shifted thick seeds on elongated stems. Bundles of knee-high flowers with dusken, orange petals as large as fists branched out between the growth. Dark beetles with silvery, dark green shells the size of large stones swarmed amongst the obsidian undergrowth. Lithe, serpentine shapes lingered within the foliage, obsidian scales and membranal back spines decorating their forms. Sets of four, golden eyes preyed upon defenseless insectoids, toothy maws dripping with multichromatic venom. Just as one of these ophidians coiled to lunge, a black armored hand snatched it out of the air with lightning quick speed. It violently squirmed as razor sharp, metallic claws removed its head from its body in a singular motion.
Zaphariel emerged from umbral foliage amongst his brethren, a smaller void serpent in one hand and monomolecular dagger in the other. Blood freely spilled out of serpentine flesh, soaking black sand below as the promised dreamer stepped closer to his brethren. Effortlessly, the carcass in his gauntlet was thrown onto a pile of similar bodies stacked higher than a field of reeds. The fresh stench of ichor began to waft across the vale as Pandjorans set weapons and traps around the heap. All preparations were complete between himself and his kindred.
“Will it come?” Muahad’s successor asked, curiosity and elation mixed into his tone. He walked past their piled bait, crouching next to Ramses some distance away. None of his kindred turned to address their sheik, orange eyes permanently fixed on the vale’s watery edge. Suffocating tension built up across their cohort, weapons of different varieties held in agitated hands and loose whispers praying on anxious lips. Zaphariel felt nothing short of disappointment as he tasted their fear.
Before Ramses was able to respond to Zaphariel, a reverberant noise howled from within the vale’s depths. Graviton liquid parted away as a leviathan shape began to slither out onto their clearing. A void serpent of gigantic proportion made itself known, two sets of orange eyes hungrily staring down at the succulent offering before it. Facial membrane spines and obsidian horns enhanced an already dauntingly powerful snout unlike it’s lesser kin. Three rows of membranal spicule rose across the creature’s spinal column, beautiful multichromatic webbing intensifying its visage. Effortlessly, it dove straight into the corpse pile with starving abandon. Lesser ophidians were crushed within a maw of innumerable, monomolecular fangs. Viscera exploded outwards in great gouts, ichor torrenting into large pools beneath the gargantuan snake.
Sheik Zaphariel exploded forward in an impossibly swift pounce, orange eyes narrowed into slits and weapons aimed for precise points. The elder serpent, distracted by the savory meal served to it, failed to retaliate in any meaningful way. The young sheik's armaments slammed into obsidian scales with calculated fury. A metallic claw shot straight through lamella, sinew, and bone in one fell punch. A curved saber cleanly swiped a chunk of meat from the elder serpent’s side. Piercing cries of agony burst forth from the creature’s maw, its entire body thrashing and slamming against Pandjoras’ black sand. It didn’t affect the promised dreamer’s relentless assault.
Ramses watched as Zaphariel scaled up to the elder serpent’s skull in a single movement, utilizing the creature’s pained convulsions to fling himself further along its body. Sweat beaded across his forehead as the young sheik rammed a clawed fist straight through scale and bone. Ichor erupted up their successor’s armor, painting black carapace in dull crimson. A swift swipe of the dreamer’s saber separated head and body, gore cascading in clotted lumps from within the gigantic carcass. Other hassan would’ve been relieved, joyful, or thankful for their experience with such an easy kill, yet the great snake’s killer appeared disappointed.
The promised dreamer stepped off his prey as its corpse began to empty of liquid life. Several of his kindred emerged from their hiding spots under black sand and shrubbery alike. They excitedly congratulated him one after another with Varranisian exclamations and warm gesticulations. Zaphariel feigned a smile to each show of gratitude, withholding his true feelings about the fight. It had been easy to kill an elder serpent, precipitation failed to even coalesce on his skin. Frustration had begun to set in when Ramses finally appeared at his side.
“Sands of Pandjoras, Zaphariel, I didn’t know you were that powerful! I… I had a feeling that you were otherworldly in physical appearance, but this is something else entirely! Muahad will be proud to learn his successor killed an elder serpent in a single slice!” Ramses blurted out in an exhilarated stupor, his typical tone abandoned for appreciation. The mature hassan’s glee brought a true smile to Zaphariel’s lips beneath his respirator. Muahad’s successor embraced his adoptive uncle in a familial hold, surprising the hassan.
“You honor me, uncle. How about we prepare it for harvest and feast at Neu Alamut?” Zaphariel chuckled as his adoptive uncle was released from their embrace. A surprised Ramses meekly chortled at his adoptive nephew’s actions.
“Of course, nephew! We should be quicker than a thousand and one grains of black sand, or else another elder serpent will come. Not that you would have any trou-” Ramses had begun to speak as something emerged from within the vale’s great gravity lake. A being of impossible height, longer than that which Zaphariel had slain. A grand beast that rose as tall as Pandjoras’ enormous sand dunes. Four sets of orange eyes glared down at the dead elder serpent. A myriad of spines and horns rippled across its facial features. A pair of gruesome maws stacked atop one another dripped with steaming venom. Five rows of membranal talons coursed down the abomination’s spinal column. It reared up on invisible force, swaying from side to side as it watched.
Falak, the great serpent of prophecy and gravity wyrm of the void had arrived.
The sheik of Neu Alamut grew an ecstatic, toothy grin across his lips. Exhilaration poured into his being from the sheer presence of their fated encounter. Fresh adrenaline coursed through his body as the Pandjorans around him fell to the ground in desperate attempts to hide. Zaphariel’s fingers horribly itched to grasp destiny laid out before him. He would taste it. He would rule it. He would obtain it. He would consume it. The great serpent sensed agitation rising from one of the smaller creatures within its view. Both of its jaws split apart into four separate pieces to threateningly hiss at Muahad’s successor.
To the surprise of Falak, Zaphariel hissed back as a showcase of dominance and defiance. An action that had been taught to him by the old man of the mountain in the most dire case scenarios. As his brethren hid beneath umbral sand, the young sheik and the great serpent circled around each other in a deadly dance. Both never faltered in their deadlocked stares, searching and scanning for any sign of weakness or fear. Neither fell for an easy kill.
The great serpent reacted first to their exchange, sucking in graviton particles swirling around its body in a large, breathing gust. A blasting cone of concentrated graviton ejected forth from deep within Falak, crushing anything the spray touched into paste or glass. Zaphariel leapt away with incredible force, muscles and unknowable force pushing him further than he had expected. The young sheik lightly landed away from the leviathan snake’s attack, boosting himself in a deadsprint towards the gravity lake. Undefinable energy coagulated across his lower extremities shortening the distance required to assault the gravity wyrm of the void. Confident from his previous battle, the promised dreamer aimed a devastating strike against the creature’s side with a metallic claw.
Five monomolecular talons scraped against obsidian scale, digging and scything as deep as Zaphariel’s strength would allow. To the young sheik’s despair, the attack failed to leave even a single scratch against Falak’s impossibly tough lamella. Driven by instinct, the promised dreamer flipped backwards with unknowable energy reinforcing his legs. The retreat had proven favorable as the great serpent slammed a portion of its lower body against the place he had previously attacked. The wyrm of the void coiled into a preparatory stance as Muahad’s successor landed further along the vale’s bank. Precipitation dampened his forehead as their legendary battle continued.
Falak sprung forward with gravity influencing fins spread wide, drastically increasing its reality defying speeds. The young sheik prepared himself to dodge, yet the great serpent had been faster than he ever expected. Split maws from the grand wyrm entered his view, threatening to swallow the promised dreamer whole. Instincts overrode Zaphariel’s actions as he entered a state of supreme survival. The world dimmed around him, silencing to a bare decibel and honed in on a single focus. Emotions bled out of his being, culling any form of heightened passion. His reality slowed to a crawling pace, black sand and graviton particles swirling around in a static tempest. The successor stretched out both of his arms to the steadily approaching snake.
Reverberating energy pulsated across the young sheik’s digits as Falak’s maws entered into his hands in slow motion. It rippled across all of his being, coursing from within to cross the great divide in reality to the great serpent. All eight of the grand wyrm’s eyes widened in response, closing both of its colossal mouths. Steadily, the prophetic being of legend closed its eyes just as Zaphariel did. The two linked together within a miniature realm of unreality, their materium disappearing within the depths of the mind.
Purple haze filled an empty area that stretched beyond infinity, black sand crunched beneath his bare feet, and silhouettes of floating palaces hovered overhead. Unreadable shapes shifted within the expanse far past his ability to perceive. One shadow emerged from the dense fog, a serpentine figure with a humanoid body that hurt to stare at directly. Zaphariel could barely make out feminine characteristics before its features shifted in infinite patterns. It knelt before him as a slave would to an overseer.
‘So you’ve come, Master, long have I awaited you on this cursed planet.’ A feminine voice pierced the silence as the figure seemed to speak. He felt an impulse like a string had been drawn from the core of his being. Zaphariel steeled himself, ignoring the unknowable force that threatened to bind him.
“Are you not Falak, great serpent of Pandjoras?” The young sheik asked with an air of authority, his tone commanding and dominating as one could be within an imaginary realm. His eyes glared down at the shifting figure that called out to him. Even as he spoke, the silhouette refused to look up to the promised dreamer. It radiated an aura of confusion at first before responding to his inquiry.
‘Yes, I am the grand wyrm of the void, Falak. I have witnessed you, Zaphariel of House Varranis, and I would cement a covenant between us.’ The feminine voice responded, a submissively playful tone dancing across its tongues. Zaphariel felt as if he were being toyed with. Something wasn’t correct in their interaction, but he mustered forward nonetheless.
“I seek to claim destiny itself and would rather you be by my side than slain by my hand. I would become the very thing the Pandjoran people seek and raise them into the stars. I will form a covenant with you, Falak.” Zaphariel replied, lowering himself from a staggering height to engage with the creature calling itself the great serpent. To his surprise, it raised its head to gaze into his eyes. Eight, terrifying golden orbs stared directly into his soul. It smiled a terrible, toothy grin filled with unreadable wanton.
‘As it was, as it is, and as it will be. I pledge my eternity to your crusade, Lord Zaphariel.’ It responded as their materium began to melt away. Darkness encroached his vision as the creature pressed forward against him. He felt nothing, he saw nothing, and he knew nothing as the covenant was formed. In the last moments of his memory, the young sheik witnessed his hands as malefic talons…
The trance ended as the great serpent of the void calmly fled backwards out of Zaphariel’s hands, lowering down to a submissive bow that stretched far into the vale’s graviton lake. Pain throbbed against his temple as he left a state of oneness. It felt as if he had experienced eternity and returned to a single point of reality. Regardless, the young sheik shook off the vestiges of confusion to gaze around his surroundings. His hassan had revealed themselves from their hiding spots, staring at the exchange between two beings of prophecy. The promised dreamer felt words vomit forth from his mouth before he even knew what to say.
“Falak! I offer you this elder serpent in exchange for a covenant!” Zaphariel yelled, his voice reverberating several times over with unnatural energy weaved in. A power that he had used less frequently as he trained to be the old man’s successor. The power of coercion. Unsurprisingly, the great serpent happily accepted the decapitated head of his previously slain opponent. An entire serpentine skull disappeared down Falak’s throat, nestling deep within its stomach.
Sheik Zaphariel turned away from the great serpent and glanced at what remained of his Pandjoran companions. To his surprise, all of his kindred remained alive. None had been harmed during their duel. The young sheik held his own suspicions about their miraculous survival, yet he decided to simply bask in the fact they were victorious. He began to gesture with the hand his metallic claw was still equipped with and suddenly felt unbearably sick at the sight. Swiftly unequipping the weapon, he tossed it into the graviton lake and continued.
“Falak is mine. I have slain an elder serpent. From this point forward, I’d like to think it’s fair to start calling me hassan; however, we should return to Neu Alamut. Uncle, would you be so kind as to contact a harvester dropship for us? I will return atop the grand wyrm.” Zaphariel commanded with an unnaturally persuasive voice, one that even he found strange. Reality felt different to how he remembered. It was as if destiny was malleable and he was the sculptor. A toothy grin plastered across his lips as hassan danced to his command.
And he laughed, a triumphant and booming chortle that formed tears at the edge of his eyes. He felt no sort of humor to cause him such elation, yet the young sheik continued to cackle beyond his understanding. Even as great, bulky dropships loomed overhead to secure the elder serpent’s corpse, he continued to chuckle. It wasn’t until Zaphariel climbed atop Falak’s form did his laughing tears dry completely.
A rarity appeared on that day for dusken sky cleared to momentarily reveal the full breadth of Pandjoras’ orbit. Great rings of cosmic dust, debris, and shattered moons eternally spun around the dusken world. Gravity tempests failed to threaten the umbral mountains of Neu Alamut, nor did grand sandstorms of black grains plague their visage. Many emptied out from underground chambers of the Pandjoran fortress to admire their homeworld's skies. Young and old sat expectantly upon masonic stone with rebreathers fitted to their faces, orange eyes with serpentine pupils watching the exhilarating expanse of the void. Even Muahad, the old man of the mountain, accompanied his closest asasiyun atop a personal battlement.
As the populace of Neu Alamut longingly stared out in space, the reverberating beat of gravitic engines thrummed in the distance. A trio of harvester dropships displaying the colors of House Varranis, gray and orange, journeyed on a path to the hassan citadel. Carefully attached to an innumerable amount of hooks, an elder serpent’s corpse was hoisted through the air. All three of the aeronautical vehicles tethered themselves with gravity reels to carry their precious bounty. The Pandjoran people of the umbral mountain excitedly waved and hollered at the oncoming craft. Muahad nodded approvingly from his position, knowing that his adoptive son had been successful on his quest. As he began to turn away from the sight, the old man of the mountain heard shrill cries of terror. His piercingly blue eyes widened as another shape revealed itself.
The largest void wyrm that the old man of the mountain had ever witnessed soared through the sky in formation with the dropships. Graviton particles twinkled in a mesmerizing pattern around the creature’s body, its membranes spread wide to appropriately defy reality. Muahad felt his throat tighten, a thousand and one ideas beginning to course through his mind at how to handle the attacking serpent. Realization dawned on the elder that it hadn’t attacked the dropships. The grandmaster gestured for an object from one of his hassan, who quickly fetched the requested item in swift succession. A set of magnoculars was placed into his wisened hands, then brought up to see further into the distance.
“It cannot be.” Muahad spoke, his voice trembled at the sights that were being witnessed. The elder’s body refused to falter instead dropping his magnoculars to rapidly descend into Neu Alamut. Anxiety, confusion, and awe bubbled up amongst the hassan that remained behind, quickly shaking themselves off from surprised stupor to follow after their grandmaster. Wordlessly, the more hassan that ventured down to the depths of their citadel, the more that followed.
The grandmaster of Neu Alamut emerged onto the exterior courtyard of his citadel, a great congregation of Pandjorans following shortly behind him. Muahad felt his pulse quicken as the dropships and the great serpent grew closer. Pride filled his chest as he witnessed the arrival of Zaphariel mounted atop a great wyrm of Pandjoras. He felt compelled to drop to his knees at the sight, yet the elder stood stalwartly rigid with his hands clasped behind his back. Other hassan were not as unwavering, several falling to the ground in Pandjoran exaltation. Blame wouldn’t be placed on their shoulders for a prophecy had been fulfilled.
Zaphariel crawled off of Falak as they gracefully landed before the Pandjoran assembly. Dropships from the valley of the void lowered themselves to his immediate right, careful as to not destroy the elder serpent’s corpse. The great wyrm coiled around itself behind him as he stepped forward to greet his adoptive father. If only the old man could see the smile spreading across his lips, then he would certainly never be able to jest again. Regardless, the young sheik knelt before Muahad with his eyes facing the ground.
“You’ve returned, Zaphariel. It seems that you have decided on a path.” The old man of the mountain walked forward to greet his adoptive son, an unknowable emotion hidden behind his skull mask. He lowered one of his hands to rest on the young sheik’s shoulder and gestured with the other for him to rise. His prodigy complied rising to all nine feet and five odd inches of genewrought majesty. A pair of golden, serpentine eyes fixated upon Muahad.
“I did, father, I believe I’ve found my destiny. A future that’ll see Pandjorans spread across the stars.” Zaphariel replied, cocksure confidence entrenched within his tone. Everything had changed about him in the short time the young sheik had been gone. Something new had crept into his being. Pulsating confidence, unnatural charisma, and lightning focus emanated from his successor. Muahad closed his eyes as if he were entrusting Pandjoras’ future to the young boy he found four years ago.
The old man of the mountain released Zaphariel, turning away from his successor to the Pandjorans gathered outside of Neu Alamut. Muahad raised both of his arms into the air and gestured for their people to gather. The hassan of the umbral mountains steadily congregated in a full circle around their grandmaster and his heir. One of his attendants, assessing the situation, swiftly placed a mobile platform close to his master. Gratefully, the elder stepped onto it and began to speak.
“A prophecy has been fulfilled and a new hassan joins our order. Zaphariel, our promised dreamer, has slain an elder serpent by his own merit and has proven himself as hassan. From this point forward, he has earned his place.” Muahad’s slow, utterly deep voice grumbled through the skull mask’s filter. The old man of the mountain suddenly turned to address Zaphariel as his people watched on in awe. “No longer do you hold no house to your name. You are Zaphariel ibn Varranis of Pandjoras. The sheik of House Varranis. You will bring a brighter future to our world, my heir. Tonight, we will feast upon what you have provided as is tradition. Glory to you, Zaphariel.”
A cacophony of praise blared across Neu Alamut’s courtyard as Pandjorans of House Varranis pushed their way to Zaphariel. Tears had welled up at the corner of his eyes, gratitude streaming down his cheeks and onto his rebreather. Every acclaim was responded to with overwhelming appreciation pulled from deep within his person. Those hassan that had ostracized him reversed their opinions in a matter of seconds as they clasped hands. Trinkets, bobbles, and gifts were given in droves as if they had been prepared for this day to come. None of it compared to what he heard whispered on every single breath spoken.
‘Glory to the Malik of Pandjoras’
