ErosSense
op2024
Snowdrops
Grijs
Breezi
Fetzen
Hos
Little Bill
Master EffeX
LauderLessons of the Hassan
-Twenty-Two Years After Arrival-
‘Restless is the coiled serpent in shadowy pools, yet equilibrium rewards the viper with salvation’. A phrase that Malik Zaphariel ibn Varranis recalled from the Old Man of the Mountain. To him, in this moment, it felt like a mantra to temper the roiling dunes within his soul. He had sat here amid this world, Idrathar III, listening to their council people speak endlessly for thirteen days and thirteen nights. No, Zaphariel had listened to them for beyond that amount of time. Many had renowned him for limitless patience, especially when it came to negotiations; however, there was a limit to everything. The Idratharians were beginning to push the limits of his peace. Even now, he stared with a faux smile and pleasant demeanor at the current speaker of their assembly.
“... Thus do I propose a grateful share of our exports in exchange for a steady four percent increase to our current deal. Idratharian silks are renowned across the settled worlds for their texture and length! Each set of silk comes with a promised delivery of Idrathar’s premium jewels, fashioned from the pearls of our oceans! Not only that, but our jewelry can be found embedded into the great works of armor found in our military! No doubt, the Great Malik of the Illuminated Star Sultanate has found these things pleasing to him.” One of their councilmen, Mahannan o’Iluzan, spoke like a merchant and a diplomat all in a single breath. His movements were fluid, lush, and filled with the appropriate eccentricity for his role. He spoke from across a long, oval table with enormous amounts of filigree and ornate embellishments. Each resounding word the man spoke saw small waves of colorful light dance across the table, carefully tailored to his speeches.
The Pandjorans that sat to either side of him watched with meticulously sculpted masks of emotion. Each one of the four delegates that he had brought was hand-chosen by him, less for their necessity in the negotiations and more to further test House Abdullahar’s abilities. He’d remember well to reward their efforts for sitting through this relentless tirade of useless gibberish. One of the delegates, at the mention of the Malik, leaned forward as if to speak on behalf of Zaphariel. A quick look from his orange, serpentine eyes was enough to silence her attempt. He stood to his full height from the ornate seats, now taller than any man on Pandjoras and reaching absurd lengths for a mortal man.
“Why, yes! Quite well, you’ve unveiled my shroud and found me wanting for the procurement of your silks! The quality of such goods couldn’t be found in a thousand and one grains of black sand! My greatest weavers would weep at the mere touch of such sophisticated works!” Zaphariel began to speak with a mouth full of honey, dripping with a sickening sweetness that could nauseate any victim. He weaved a light, optimistic tone into his Pandjoran trill, forcing every word to become a blissful melody. A typical tactic of his design, one that saw the shattering of plentiful defenses. Even those words were enough to visibly melt those around Mahannan, yet it wasn’t enough to break his will. He needed to push the man harder. “Yet, do you not find the great works of Pandjoras to your tastes? Our uniquely woven serpent silk, specially crafted from compressed void serpent scale, is a rare exotic found only on the dusken world. I have yet to come across the same quality of good in our thirty-world Sultanate.”
An attack had been made against Mahannan, a bait and strike that could deliver lethal blows to their reputation if answered improperly. Zaphariel inwardly smiled, enjoying the taste of a verbal hunt. He watched the Idratharian slightly tense at the subtle rebuke. A small bead of sweat, invisible to all except him, began to formulate on his pale skin. The head delegate returned a fashionable smile, combing a hand through his long, silver hair in a return to confidence.
“You honor my people with every word you speak, Malik Zaphariel! We would never downplay the eternal qualities of Pandjoran products, rivaled even by the aelves! The Idratharian people value it to such an extent that it’ll quickly become a staple of our everyday luxuries. It isn’t a simple matter of comparing qualities, but a matter of introducing something so fundamental to our lives! That, dear guest, is the depths to which we appreciate the dusken world’s superb gifts. Perhaps, then, an increase of four percent in overall trade would suffice the Malik’s desire for Idrathar’s illustrious goods?” Mahannan carefully deflected with overbearing enthusiasm. An indulgent amount of compliments had tied to a return to the original discussion. A spry smile gingerly spread across his sculpted lips.
A proper deflection. Zaphariel felt the Abdullaharian-Pandjorans imperceptibly shift to either side of him. Regardless of how he could word it, the Pandjorans had been insulted by a direct return to agreements without consolidated change to the original deal. To a minor degree, the Malik of Pandjoras admired the gall, shrewdness, and willpower of Mahannan. No doubt, he was elected to the position of Delegate Primus for this particular reason. A dark desire began to circulate through the dreamer. He wanted to claim this Idratharian and raise him up to heights undiscovered. For now, however, the dusken deity wouldn’t allow the man his victory.
“Your words are like a fresh drink of mulled serpent blood on a frozen night, Delegate Primus! To think that our dusken world has integrated so far into your society in less than thirteen cycles! The Conglomerate must be enthusiastic about the possibility of integrating into the Sultanate as much as you are, dear host. Shall I accept your words as promised allegiance for such an outstanding display?” Zaphariel replied, spinning words into silk as a supple response for the Idratharian before him. A deflection responded with a piercing assault. His final words were intentionally spoken with a diamond-tipped edge, worded perfectly in sync with the desired reaction. The delegates before him, though, unconsciously shifted into a defensive stance. He could feel their uneasiness as a rodent would feel the lingering eyes of a serpent. Mahannan’s left eye narrowly twitched in the Malik’s reinforced verbal siege. The Malik of Pandjoras could feel their conversation coming to a close, just as it had in the last thirteen days.
“The Conglomerate has been thrilled about the arrival of a stellar empire such as the Illuminated Star Sultanate! Your people, your products, and your culture have blown us all beyond the edge of the veil! As trade allies, I can imagine the eons of peace and prosperity throughout the known galaxy! Though, I digress, to begin our alliance in truth, it would require the complete agreement of the Conglomerate Cabinet.” Mahannan replied with a wide sweep of his arms in a fluid, graceful motion. Certain words in his reply rang louder than the rest, emphasizing certain desires for his galactic union. The delegates behind him eased their built-up tension, disguised fear seeping away from their seated forms. Zaphariel raised a hand to his stubbled chin, stroking at the hairs with talon-shaped rings on each finger. The faux smile never left his face, even as he was once again deflected against his desires.
“Of course, Delegate Mahannan! I understand the complexities of a stellar bureaucracy with such a long history of integration and trade. To taste even a sip of the Idratharian Conglomerates' wisdom in this regard would awaken a new path of ascendancy and learning in the Sultanate! Our discussions have been enlightening and I do so desire them each day we spend upon Idrathar III. Perhaps, then, tomorrow will see the fruits of our labor made manifest upon a thousand and one grains of black sand.” The dusken deity responded, verbally relenting to the perpetual stagnation of their previous discussions. He felt their triumph as an almost palpable substance, relief flooding their bodies through small shifts of their facial features. Mahannan, of them all, bowed deeply to the Malik of Pandjoras. Zaphariel returned a bow of his own, less deep and more appropriate for someone of his stature.
“Then, as promised, we will once again meet in this room with the hope of a blossoming alliance! Soon, my dear friend, our long-lasting talks will grow into the branches of the greatest stellar expanse that mankind has ever seen! To you, I wish you a wonderful day and a pleasant stay upon Idrathar III!” Mahannan spoke with intense vitality, bearing the social badge of a successful negotiation. His long, beautiful robes of alabaster silk swept with each graceful movement as he left the table. Each of the delegates that accompanied the Primus, eight in total, bowed their heads respectfully before exiting the room in haste.
As if beginning to remove the bindings on a wound, the relief of the Idratharian presence was felt by the Pandjorans. One of the Abdullaharians to his left, Kashaak, nearly slammed his fists against the ornate table out of frustration. He rectified himself immediately, aware that he was in the presence of the Malik. In truth, Zaphariel held a similar desire to vent his frustrations about the willpower of the Delegate Primus; however, up until this point, he had never wanted to solve this with bloodshed.
“Your frustrations are felt, kin, it wouldn’t usually take this long for a world to submit before Pandjoras. Even I am surprised about Mahannan’s iron-clad willpower. A ruthless enemy to be sure, but he’d make for a powerful ally.” The Malik of Pandjoras spoke once again with a calming tone, sharing in the emotions seething from his people. He turned away from the table, beginning his short journey to the diplomatic annex at the top of the spire. The slow shuffling of chairs behind him rewarded his ears with the knowledge of the following entourage.
The Malik of Pandjoras and his associates advanced through the beautiful, gilded corridors of the Idratharian spire. Great murals of tidal waves, spiraling towers, and soaring avians were plastered on every wall across the halls. Satin rugs spread out evenly spaced on metallic tile, while golden chandeliers with glow globes illuminated their way. Fortunately, the buildings were spacious enough for the likes of Zaphariel to easily walk through without needing to slouch. He’d wondered if the design was intentional or perhaps it had originally been built for taller individuals such as himself. The dreamer crossed the threshold into the diplomatic annex, denoted by a wonderful arch made of a strange, alabaster stone that danced with fluorescent lights of many shades. In the Idratharian tongue, one that he had managed to easily acquire, it stated:
[Perseverance, Friendship, and Alliance]
Their words were sophisticated squiggles that branched into the next sigil with plentiful dots to emphasize particularly strong vowels. To a degree, Zaphariel enjoyed their language and how beautiful it appeared. It contrasted heavily with the sharp, harsh, and fluid sigils of the Pandjoran tongue. He made a mental note to introduce a new sigil set to the Pandjoran alphabet in the future. Regardless, he passed under the archway leading into the chamber they called home for the past thirteen cycles.
A wide, oval-shaped room opened up before the Malik of Pandjoras with a single, ornate window leading out into a sophisticated balcony overlooking the Idratharian ecumenopolis. A multitude of tables, chairs, sofas, and more populated the room that could easily fit up to fifty men of his size. Lithe doorways at either edge of the room led to private chambers, while a pair of utilitarian portals closest to the entrance opened up to restrooms. A terminal directly next to the door hummed quietly, awaiting any command should it be utilized. The Pandjoran delegates split away from their master, seating themselves against the satin-rugged floor in a meditative posture. Zaphariel, however, strode across the room out onto the balcony overlooking the city of Draathar, the system capital of the Idratharian Conglomerate.
Magnificent spires rose sharply into the sky, supported by a thousand and one strands of twinkling gold that spiraled around the base of the structures. Great canals of prismatic water split the cityscape into several sections, connecting different parts of Draathar through elegant land bridges the size of a Pandjoran dune. Gleaming vehicles brightly shone below on the ecumonopolis’ metallic foundation, illustrating the daily lives of an average Idratharian citizen. Exquisite crafts of resplendent material glided on biomechanical wings through the artificial ravines of Draathar. For the past thirteen cycles, he drank in the sights of this city with every bit of his soul. Zaphariel desired to sculpt these sights into a chunk of gravitic stone to forever cherish the memories. He breathed in deeply, ruminating on the scents of purified water and pristine atmosphere. His trance was softly broken as a presence made itself known behind him. The Malik of Pandjoras had been aware of the hassan in the annex, yet hadn’t paid them a thought until they kneeled in his vicinity.
“Speak freely, kin, don’t worry about breaking my oneness. I’ve enjoyed this world long enough to commit it to memory.” Zaphariel said with a smile, turning around to address the kneeling form of the hassan. Garbed in Pandjoran-pattern power armor of their homeworld, the individual appeared entirely out of place with Idrathar’s alabaster architecture. A shroud of dusk complimented their form, passively sucking the natural and artificial light around them in a coalesced ball of shadows. Monomolecular scimitars hung from jet-black scabbards on either side of the hassan’s waist. Their cowl hid most of their facial features, save for the slim respirator that appeared as a half-skull mask. “Tell me, what have my Thousand-Faced Hassan discovered while I entertained this world’s diplomats.”
The hassan dipped their head forward once, affirming the command, and stood up to properly address the dusken deity. Their full height was taller and broader than the usual Pandjoran, assisted by the continued improvements of duskborn-powered armor. Their talon-tipped gauntlets reached up to pull the cowl back, revealing the typical serpentine eyes of their homeworld. All parts of their skin up from their skull mask were painted in pitch-black pigment, including all the flesh on their exposed scalp. They were the hassan specifically trained by him, warriors that could skein the fates and survive the roiling tides of Pandjoras. His Thousand-Face Hassan.
“The Idratharian Council has aligned their interests with the Illuminated Pandjoran Star Sultanate, save only for the Delegate Primus who currently abstains. Reports of minor skirmishes between two factions of the Idratharians have been observed in the shadows. A Pro-Allegiance and a Pro-Alliance faction. As you originally guessed, Master, your arrival and declaration for peaceful allegiance have been met with factional resistance. The Pro-Alliance forces are quickly dwindling between our interference and the Pro-Allegiance embargos. Our most high-profile reports state that the Pro-Alliance faction is preparing a wide-scale coup in the next twenty-four cycles.” Their voice was a thousand and one different patterns of speech all at once. It was as if their vocal cords were split between a thousand people in the same moment. Individuality ceased to exist all for this secular type of agent. “It is as you surmised, Master, the Delegate Primus is stalling your presence to achieve the Pro-Alliance ambitions.”
The Malik of Pandjoras never shifted expressions once during the report, fully aware of what was happening on Draathar. He recalled the nigh-sycophant response of the Idratharian populace when they first arrived in the system, restored their dwindling food supply, and slaughtered the xenos raiders that plagued their Conglomerate. Four of their five worlds had already professed allegiance to the Illuminated Star Sultanate, even before their current diplomatic quagmire on Idrathar III. Perhaps, he wondered, they should’ve let this world burn a little longer under the fires of the pale-skinned nightmares that haunted them. Zaphariel never did understand what a ‘mon-keigh’ was while he examined their spiky armaments, but he certainly did enjoy the fruits of their labor.
“How disappointing. I expected much more out of those that governed this beautiful world. Maybe we should’ve decimated their council and installed the duskborn, then perhaps we would’ve been well on our way through the rest of the Star Serpent.” Zaphariel idly stated, nonchalantly describing atrocities without a shift in pace. He didn’t enjoy the immediate installation of a new regime, but it wouldn’t be the first time they’d done it in their journey. He turned away from the Thousand-Faced Hassan, drinking in the sights of the Draathar once more.
“What would you have us do, Master?” The hassan asked in a reverent tone, committing the illustrious form of the dusken deity to memory. To the surprise of the Pandjoran, Zaphariel turned back towards the hassan with a calm, soft smile plastered across his supple lips.
“I think I’ll take a brisk walk through the city.” He stated with a soft chuckle. All of the color seemed to drain from the hassan’s exposed skin. A thousand and one thoughts ran through their mind as the dusken deity walked past the Pandjoran. As he walked by, the hassan could hear their Malik humming a warm tune of an old nursery rhyme from Neu Alamut. Pandjoras had no gods to speak of, but the hassan prayed to whatever cosmic force remained that their Master’s target was dealt with quickly - for their own sake.
Delegate Primus Mahannan o’Iluzan politely laughed along to one of his fellow delegates’ jokes. Several minutes had already passed since they left the audience chamber with the ruler of the Illuminated Star Sultanate. He couldn’t believe how foolish someone of his stature, size, and overwhelming presence could be. No one in their right mind, in his opinion, would allow themselves to be stalled for thirteen whole days! He desperately wanted to laugh aloud with the others, but refrained from overexerting his victories. They passed beneath the archway heading towards the central courtyard of the Draathar Prime, their greatest spire of the ecumenopolis.
“... You could surely see it on their faces! Their frustration was almost enough to turn their dark skin to beat red!” One of his coworkers, Kallath o’Tlannon, said with a hearty chuckle. Mahannan always regarded him as a student, perhaps that’s why he made such outlandish comments publicly. The rest of the party, himself included, laughed along with Kallath’s joke.
“And the way that their bodies would twitch whenever Primus Mahannan casually deflected the Malik? Unbelievable! They hold so much zeal for a man that can buckle like him.” The next spoke, Illoia o’Skloan, an experienced woman who held the careful balance between the Chapel of Ancestors and the Council of Diplomats. She was as zealous as the Pandjoras were, except towards their ancestral aelves and not to a strange, oversized man. Mahannan nodded along with a ginger smile on his lips, adjusting his robes as they swayed in the overhead breeze.
The courtyard was a perfect balance of modern, ancestral, and artistic that saw the culmination of their beautification on Idrathar III. Several statues of the ancestors, extraordinarily tall and pale beings with pointed ears on long faces, danced silently in their gilded stillness. Each stood atop a lovingly tended fountain that drained water into the center of the paved field. A gargantuan effigy of an aelve in sleek war plate watched over their walking forms, protected by a deep lake of sparkling water in a gilded basin. Tiny, metallic bridges linked the small areas between each statue and ended in a thin brick-laid coast around the central sculpture. At the furthest end of the yard was a plethora of raised platforms where curved transports remained idling in a silent hover. They walked now towards these vessels with cheers, laughs, and smiles on their tongue.
“Despite the brute’s size, he had a certain draw to him, yes? He managed to keep pace with Mahannan, Fifth of the Council Primus’. Perhaps if he were thinner, lighter, and more delicate, then he would’ve won out.” Another delegate spoke, Nallanon o’Paoliaa, an extraordinary woman of fiendish acclaim. Her businesses were what kept entire parts of Draatha afloat, including parts of Mahannan’s private enterprises; however, she was a voracious beast beneath the porcelain skin. The Delegate Primus clicked his tongue in distaste, earning a short scowl from the delegate.
“Contain yourself, Nallanon, our perfection of the bloodline is exactly why we have maintained such a coherent Confederacy for time immemorial. Don’t even think of polluting the work of the ancestors.” The Primus politely scolded with an icy tone, pushing away even the barest notion of working with the Pandjorans. Many of the delegates nodded their heads in agreement, each as wise and stoic as he was.
“Primus Mahannan has a point! We cannot allow these Pandjorans to invest in our world for much longer, otherwise, we’ll have to move to more extreme options for our alliance. Let them crawl back to the dustball they call Pandjoras.” A man by the name of Ullonnon o’Lotholloc interrupted. He was easily explainable as a radical with plenty of connections, shares, and ploys within the Conglomerate’s military. They had worked hand-in-hand for the past fifty-seven years and shared a heavy amount of ideologies. Mahannan planned to continue that partnership until either one of them perished.
The delegates finally found themselves at the foot of their respective platforms. Idratharian escorts in slick, alabaster war plate emerged to safely escort their protected diplomat. Mahannan, of course, awaited the sizable crew to exit the hovercraft and array themselves before him. Warriors slightly taller than him were outfitted in snow-white war plating with golden trims and helmets with polished wings. Quarterstaves with ethereal blades on either end were held aloft in one hand, while the other appeared to be nothing save for a ringed gauntlet. Mahannan’s chest swelled with pride upon seeing the Council Sentinels once more.
“Until tomorrow, Primus! I look forward to what you will do to stall the Malik of Pandjoras next!” The final delegate to bid him farewell was Moxxil o’Yniros, the freshest addition to the delegate team and upcoming star player for the Council. Mahannan knew that with the right mentoring, Moxxil could rise far above his station and raise the Conglomerate to new heights. The young man waved at him with a bright smile on his lips. Mahannan gave a quick wave back before stepping into his shuttle, seating himself against the lavish seats built into the interior.
A soft penumbra had begun to blanket the sky in a warm coat of lavender and azure as his shuttle lifted off from Draathar Prime. The seven moons of Idrathar III slowly circled into view as they glided through the artificial ravines of Draathar. He leaned against the glass panes of the vessel, admiring the beautiful spheres that populated their wondrous world. The magnificent dusk faded from view as they circled a spire not far from the central spire of the ecumenopolis. Mahannan always enjoyed the appearance of the councilmen's residential spire, slightly smaller than the core tower and more lush in appearance than the rest of the city. Cultivated gardens hung from a plethora of banisters, balconies, and open-air archways. Gilded veins of structural support rose with clinging life in the form of long, curated flowers. Each level of the spire was a different flavor of verdant vibrancy. It was a place that he called home.
A soft ping alerted him that they were descending towards his section of the upper spire. A group of three platforms greeted his vessel, two of which were topped by slick vessels similar to his. Mahannan couldn’t help but shake his head at having to do more work at the end of his long, arduous day. He already knew who had come to his home, but the Delegate Primus would welcome them regardless of their business. As the vessel finally touched down, the Council Sentinels would step out first to ensure exquisite protection against wanton lookers and would-be assassins. Their left hand was raised as he exited, the ringed gauntlet activating to make a prismatic shield out of sheer energy. Despite his best intention not to wish it, he found himself desperately wanting one of those gauntlets for his own.
The courtyard of his home welcomed him back. A large, oval-shaped patio the length of fifty Idratharians awaited him with huge stretches of emerald grass and magnificent ponds filled with exotic aquatic beings. Sculptures of the ancestors stood vigil over his property, resplendent in sculpted wargear with powerful spears that seemed to sing on approach. As he grew closer to his home, the Council Sentinels split away from the Primus towards a secluded area of the property. No doubt, he thought, they were attending to the other warriors that journeyed with his guests. He closed the distance between the platform and the patio portal in several, pleasant seconds.
Inside of his own home, Mahannan felt all of the day’s exhaustion slip away into the ether. He could hear the sweet humming of his wife, Tollassi, and the giggling of his child, Iogranan, in the next room. The marvelous scent of freshly cooked food filled his nostrils with delight, forcing him to hasten his disrobing of official attire before stepping into his residence. He offered a short prayer to the ancestors before hanging up the Primus robes in a personalized stasis chamber. A warm, less official robe of shorter length was shuffled onto his shoulders as he passed through the portal of his home.
“By the Ancestors! You’ve returned at a decent time tonight, Mahannan! Iogranan and I were planning to eat without you if you had taken even a thirty-sixth of a cycle longer.” Tollassi said with a playful tone, moving away from her gilded counter to greet him. She was smaller than him, thinner, and wore her hair in a fashion that the ancestors used. Her attire was similar to his with a short, soft robe hewn with pearlescent jewels and dyed in contrast to Idrathar III’s canals. Seconds later, his daughter ran through with the explosive force an Idratharian pulse calaver.
“You came back on time! You completed your promise, father, and thus our deal is finished!” She spoke with the faux assertiveness of a proud diplomat striking her first negotiation. Mahannan laughed aloud, booming with radiant joy as he crouched down to accept her into his arms. They softly collided in a bundle of warmth, the Primus lifting her for a singular spin before placing her back down.
“And with that, our negotiation is complete. Junior Delegate Primus Iogranan, you’ve accomplished a great deed for the Idratharian Conglomerate!” He responded, offering a playful salute common for their system’s military. The three began to chuckle anew as Mahannan turned to address his wife. “The Malik was most generous today, offering defeat on a plate for the Conglomerate. A few more days and I think we’ll have an impressive alliance with the Star Sultanate. Thank you, Tollassi, for waiting so long.”
Before Mahannan could press a kiss against her forehead, a stiff grunt interrupted their intimacy. At the furthest right side of the kitchen, a man stood with his arms crossed and a sly grin growing on his bearded face. His attire was that of the Interior Security, a jet-black bodysuit with a gilded robe flowing over his shoulders and torso. The silver hair of the man was tied behind him in a short warrior’s braid. No visible weapons adorned the man’s body, but Mahannan knew better than to assume he had none.
“Ah! Rotholov o’Uronoc, I hadn’t expected to see you this fine part of the cycle. Is it possible that you came here for dinner, humbly made by my dear Tollassi?” The Delegate Primus asked in a playful tone, offering a mocking bow to the man he had known for many years. It earned him a brief chuckle from the seasoned veteran of the Conglomerate.
“As much as I do love your wife’s cooking, Mahannan, we both know that I’m not here for that. You’ll have to forgive me for the intrusion, but your presence is requested.” The man, Rotholov, spoke in a rough voice. Every word was blunt, deep, and echoed a warrior that had fought for countless years. His pristine, azure eyes reflected an infinite sorrow beneath, yet held a dazzling fire beneath the surface. He gestured with one of his arms towards the alcove that he emerged from.
Mahannan returned to Tollassi, finishing the deed of a well-placed kiss on her forehead. The two separated no sooner after, allowing the Delegate Primus to journey through his home with Rotholov. As they walked down the hallway into his own, private audience room, Mahannan couldn’t help but feel an incredible chill on his body. He glanced at the apparatus on his wrist, affirming that the temperature of his residence was within the desired parameters. The sliding of an automatic portal alerted him away from the device, the rougher Idratharian gesturing for him to enter.
Unsurprisingly, several other members awaited him in the audience chamber. A single glow globe illuminated the area above a circular table decorated with motifs of Idrathar. The chamber seemed to stretch infinitely in the passive darkness that cloaked the edges of it. He knew, though, that it was wide and long enough to comfortably fit twenty men. Five individuals in total already sat in their assigned seats. The last two armchairs were left vacant for Rotholov and Mathannan. One of the individuals gestured for them to sit.
“I assume you understand the reason for our urgency, Mahannan. This meeting is crucial to our survivability as a faction.” One of the individuals began to speak, a man with a vastly mature voice bedecked in a flowing robe dyed an illustrious alabaster. The symbol of an eye in a triangle with shining rays denoted him as the Grandmaster of the Ancestors, Iolon o’Malloneus. His face was lined with age, a trait that extremely few Idratharians managed to achieve. Sharp, emerald eyes stared impatient hatred into Mahannan’s being, while barely wrinkled digits dug at the edge of his table.
“Yes, of course, I’m aware that the rest of the Council has been making plenty of moves to eradicate what’s left of our ideology. The Trueborn of the Ancestors cannot - will not - bow to some far-off empire that has no place amongst our people. I’ve managed to successfully stall the Malik, but I cannot promise more than that. Every ounce of extra funds that I can spare has been going to you and Rotholov.” Mahannan quickly replied as he sat in the comforts of his custom-ordered seat. The Grandmaster scoffed in response, waving his hand indignantly to the response of the Primus.
“I don’t think you understand how close we are to being routed, Primus. Our faction isn’t being eliminated by just Idratharians. Something else has been routinely aiding the others and slaughtering our own. I’m inclined to believe it’s the Pandjorans, but it isn’t possible with their current technology.” The next individual spoke with a sense of logical urgency. He wore a utilitarian robe with the least amount of embellishments, aside from the single yellow ribbon denoting him as a member of the engineering sects. The Worldsinger of the Shapers, Wohlahannan o’Motlocc, graced their presence with a deep insight of rationality to counteract the Grandmaster's zealous opinions. Although the two often argued, Mahannan knew for certain that their ideologies remained the same. “There is a possibility that the Pandjorans are treading the edges of reality, vaguely touching the Empyrean and summoning magicks to their employment. If that is true, then they must’ve realized by now that the Empyrean has little to no hold over Idrathar III with our current defenses.”
“I concur with the Worldsinger. If it is truly the Pandjorans, then they skein the fates with magicks unknown to us. I’ve felt the tug of the Empyrean ever since their arrival.” A new voice joined the others, a woman who wore plentiful Idratharian runes beneath her deep hood. The Illuminator of the Sanctioned Skein, Helossios o’Uronio, was a troubled member of their faction with a foothold in their Conglomerate’s psyker divisions. She, in Mahannan’s opinion, was the best scryer in the last century to bless Idrathar. “Perhaps I would’ve been able to ascertain their rituals if you hadn’t shuttered the world from the raiders. It is precisely that fact in which our Conglomerate is crumbling.”
The tension grew heavier at the Illuminator’s reminder of the recent raidings. He closed his eyes to the world for only a second, desperately attempting to forget the harrowing cries of his allies and neighbors as the World-Shield activated. In truth, the Pandjorans were the only reason that the Conglomerate survived to this day. If not for their intervention, then the raiders would’ve eventually broken through the shield of the Ancestors. Many had called him a coward, but he knew that he made the right call.
“Regardless, the time has come to take overt action. The Conglomerate is crumbling. The Idratharian hold on the other worlds has diminished greatly with the arrival of the Star Sultanate. We either need to sabotage their ‘umbral armada’ or divert their attention away from the five worlds. In the time that we get from such an action, we will reel in control from the Council.” The final individual spoke out. A man in a jet-black war plate similar in complexity to Rotholov’s wargear sat rigidly amongst their number. A plethora of scars dotted his face from a lifetime of war, yet his face was cleanly shaved and inscribed with ancestral runes. His voice was the boom of thunder, the scream of a rocket, and the clashing of blades all at once. He was Commander Yothov o’Torron of the Conglomerate Military.
“You act as if that isn’t what we’ve been trying to do, Commander. The Pandjorans, despite their technological differences, have extraordinary security the likes I’ve never seen. They appear and disappear like wraiths, they hum mantras to bend sand to their will, and they step as silently as darkness incarnate.” Rotholov finally spoke up, responding to Yothov’s question in particular. The response rewarded the Interrogator of the Interior Security with a grimace from the seasoned combatant. Their arguments remained only on the field of battle, yet their ideologies remained the same just as everyone else’s was in this chamber. Mahannan released a deep sigh from within his person.
“I see and understand your complaints. We cannot afford to linger in the shadows any longer. Tomorrow, during the peace conference with the Pandjorans, we’ll begin the grand scheme to take power from the Council. The Malik of Pandjoras, Zaphariel ibn Varranis, will die at the hands of the Four Worlder Faction. I trust only you with this, Rotholov.” Mahannan solemnly spoke with a dangerous certainty to his voice. His oldest friend merely smiled and nodded, understanding exactly what he needed to accomplish to make their dreams a reality.
A decision had been made. The rest of the council visibly eased now that their meeting was as fruitful as every single one had been before that. A few of their number pulled out alabaster slates, noting new information down to begin the next phase of their operation. Rotholov quietly spoke with Mahannan over the particular actions needed during tomorrow’s operation. Helossios offered a prayer together with Iolon, hoping that the Ancestors were watching over their blessed partnership. Only Yothov grumbled to himself on a private slate, idly staring off into the distance to avoid interacting with the non-military members of their Council. As the darkness began to grow on his old eyes, he realized something was lingering in the shadows of the room. He blinked once to affirm whether or not his old eyes were playing tricks on him. He blinked twice to confirm that there was a piece of furniture that Mahannan had custom-ordered in the back. Unfortunately, he blinked a third time and whatever color remained on his alabaster face drained away in sheer terror.
In the next moment, his view of the world had shifted sideways in an unnatural way. Yothov reached up to adjust the tilt of his head, yet suddenly found a peculiar lack thereof. He slumped against the table with a dull thud as fresh vitae quickly ejected from his body. The Trueborn members attempted to rise to their feet one after another in a wild attempt to escape an early death. Rotholov was the first to react after Yothov’s demise, trying to pull the weapons from his scabbard to no avail. His head rolled quicker than he could’ve ever predicted. A waterfall of crimson gushed over Mahannan’s still-seated form. The Illuminator began to open her mouth to speak into the Empyrean, only to find her mouth forced shut by the same forces she wielded. Her decapitation came soon afterward. The Grandmaster started to spit out insults in the forgotten language of the Idratharians at their assailant, chiding fate and cursing their damned souls. He never managed to speak the first word, his elder skull exploding into a series of ultrathin slices. Finally, the World Singer started to sob and begged for his fate to be spared in repentance for their crimes. Mahannan thought, at that moment, that Wohlahannan’s death was the least cruel as a flying dagger impaled the World-Singer’s heart. Only the Primus remained with his back turned towards the assassin in question. How many guards were there at the residence? How many tracking devices were there in the area? How could someone be swifter than Rotholov, Hero of the Sanguine Gulf?
“They’re dead, they’re disabled, and he was ill-prepared for the unexpected.” A voice, smooth as the softest silk imaginable, replied to the thoughts rattling his brain. He heard the Pandjoran trill on the tip of their tongue and knew who had come to deliver their fate. A harbinger of the stars in true form had blessed his home with wanton bloodshed and hatred. Mahannan witnessed monomolecular-tipped talons on either side of him, dripping with the life of his former comrades. The being lingered above him like a predator eyeing their bleeding prey. The shadow that it cast was far larger than any that he had encountered. The Primus understood now that his death would be at the hands of a dusken world hassan.
Mahannan felt himself start to hyperventilate, fear suddenly catching up with the rampaging thoughts throughout his body. Each breath was a husky drag of air in a frozen chamber. His body demanded to close each of his eyelids to shut out this horrible reality. He mustered what courage he could, licking his lips to prepare himself for a single utterance. “What do you want?”
A soft chuckle replied to his inquiry, both of the monomolecular talons leaving his sides to disappear into the darkness. His assassin came into view for the first time since the carnage began. Truthfully, it didn’t appear to be the one known as the Malik of Pandjoras. The person before him was draped in shadowy rags that sucked the light from above. A hood heavily masked his features in the artificial abyss, while the outline of boxy plates confirmed powered armor beneath their robes. A pair of glowing orange eyes with serpent-like pupils peered out from beneath the cowl.
“Allegiance. Destiny. Retribution. I want for many things, Primus Mahannan. Purpose. Glory. Immortality. I wish to see my people prosper in the stars, unhindered by prejudice and adversity for millennia to come. I desire for every world to become a reflection of Pandjoran society, balanced by the traditions established by their people.” The man stated, pulling out the chair furthest across from the Primus. The dagger was torn from the World-Singer’s chest as his body fell from the seat. His assassin firmly planted themselves into the furniture, despite their overwhelming size in comparison. The posture of the assassin appeared to relax, crossing a leg over another and linking gauntlets together in a thoughtful half-lay. “But then I come across worlds with ruling castes that shy away from a prosperous future for stagnating decay to suit their status quo. It always ends the same.”
Now that the darkness was growing more comfortable for Mahannan, he began to notice the outline of the assassin’s face. Terror funneled through his system as he realized that his suspicions were true. The sculpted, immaculate features of the dusken deity were firmly planted on his killer’s body. As if sensing the rise in terror, the Malik of Pandjoras leaned forward to allow his features to be better observed. A toothy grin was plastered across his lips, revealing fang-like canines separating a normal row of human teeth.
“You certainly made it easier for us this time! You locked your planet away for thirty cycles while your people were butchered on four other worlds. You allowed the murder of countless Idratharians across this expanse, yet you still cower in your towering hovels of metal hubris!” The being that had calmly slaughtered all of his comrades rose from their seat with a start, growing more aggressive with each word spoken in controlled anger. “Did you not want to die, Delegate Primus, or did you wish for the Ancestors to answer your prayers from within the godless void? You could’ve invited the raiders to your home and slaughtered them in the towering ravines. You could’ve converted a thousand and one gardens into missile platforms to save your people. You allowed your Conglomerate to fall to pieces, simply by your decisions to ignore your people. How can you be surprised that they welcomed the Pandjorans with open arms, rallied to our banners, and spread the words of the hassan from simply arriving in the system?”
The Delegate Primus buckled down, trembling as a wounded animal to a lumbering predator. His eyes were wide with fear, wet with tears, and twitching with extreme anxiety. The man known as Mahannan could no longer answer for himself, terrorized to the point of shock. Zaphariel shook his head in disappointment to one that could stand equally with him on the diplomatic fields of battle. The Idratharian would never be the same, he knew it well within his heart. They never were once his prey had seen him in action. He weighed the decision to finish this now with a strike of his talons or barter his life for him as an effective pawn. The Pandjoran turned away from the man, eyeing the portal out into the residence proper.
“You have a wonderful wife, a loving daughter, and a home to call your own. You’ve claimed a life through your efforts, trained your skills to the limits, and boasted five world’s worth of political power in your palms. I feel nothing but pity for the man who had stalled me for thirteen cycles. If you have any ounce of courage left within your trembling flesh, then decide at this moment.” Zaphariel plunged the dagger through the table, puncturing ornate metal and gilded iconography alike. The hilt remained upright as the weapon left the dusken deity’s taloned gauntlet. A single digit pointed to the blade.
“Join me as I conquer the stars and force every god to submit to Pandjoras,” The Umbral King offered, his tone growing more powerful and booming as he spoke to the shattered form of Mahannan. “Or watch with trembling limbs as I butcher everything you love before your inevitable demise.”
A spark of reason ignited within the tearful eyes of the broken Primus. He gazed at the handle of Zaphariel’s inhumanly-sized dagger with fearful awe. A glimpse of his family, Idrathar, and the Ancestors flashed through his mind. The Malik of Pandjoras watched with interest as Mahannan began to move once more, emboldened by his powerful words. His fingers flinched, flexed, and jerked as the decision tore apart every piece of the Idratharian’s soul. Emerald eyes bounced between the hilt, the dusken deity, and the door leading into the residence. Mahannan’s outreaching hand steeled itself for a final decision...
The vibrant streets of Idrathar III were alive with celebration. Varranian banners unfurled from the top of gilded spires, great hovercraft in the orange-black of the Illuminated Star Sultanate glided through artificial ravines, and the Umbral Armada orbited overhead in a tight formation over the ecumenopolis. An enormous tempest of multicolored strips filtered through the air, showering from the top of recolored Conglomerate vessels. Hordes of the Conglomerate populace from the five worlds rushed through the cityscape to watch a worldwide parade float through Draathar’s canals. Pandjorans from the Sultanate mingled with the local population, excitedly revealing every tidbit about the stellar empire to the masses. The military of the Sultanate, armored in orange-black Pandjoran-pattern powered armor, walked along the edge of the canals with their graviton rifles holstered and their monomolecular scimitars drawn to the air. Hafiz in skull-shaped masks swung censer balls of Pandjoran incense in sway with their midnight blue robes.
Floating at the center of the celebrations, an illustrious vessel the size of several elder void serpents hovered over the canals. To the eyes of the Idratharian, it was a bulky machine vomited forth from the sandy wastes of Pandjoras. To the dusken worlders, it was the next marvel of technology formulated by the great mind of their prophet-king. A square platform with quadruple grav-shunts rising as a miniature gravity palace, complete with bulbous domes and Pandjoran effigies. At the top of the hovering structure, an open-air throne was visible to the populace of the Conglomerate. Magnificently sat a replica of the Throne of Varranis was none other than the Malik of Pandjoras, Zaphariel ibn Varranis, bedecked in the vestiges of a galactic king. 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 balagha with metallic tips. A marigold laurel complimented a crown of eight horns split in even distances, decorated by thirteen, eye-shaped gems topped by a dusken halo lifted by a miniature gravity engine. He happily observed every Idratharian, treating them to a genuine smile and wave to their utter delight.
The miniature gravity palace delightfully drifted down the canals, joined by a myriad of other hovercrafts from the Conglomerate and Sultanate. The hordes of celebrating Idratharians chased after the parade, each section carefully guided by the accompanying Pandjorans. The same scene would be painted across Draathar, culminating in a great summoning at the apex of ancient Idratharian culture. Their journey hadn’t led them to Draathar Prime, the central spire of the ecumenopolis, but instead into a plaza the size of a voidship. Resplendent columns of eerily white material inset with sparkling rubies surrounded a plethora of enormous statues hewn from the same rock. At the center of the plaza was the largest statue among their number, a dancing woman with flowing robes holding a beautiful spear in one hand and lifting the other hand to the stars. Each of the other corresponding effigies was similar in appearance, typically a man or woman with pointed ears in elegant robes holding some sort of ritualistic weapon. All of the canals appeared to spiral into the center of the plaza, marking it as the penultimate landmark in Idratharian culture.
A great noise erupted from all corners of the ecumenopolis, ringing like a chiming bell and singing like a wondrous vocalist. The hordes of celebrating citizenry slowed to a standstill silence as the last hovercraft began to descend into safer areas. The accompanying Pandjoras steadied themselves at the edge of the plaza in front of the Idratharian citizens. Zaphariel’s gravcraft lightly touched the ground, unfolding a plethora of boarding ramps from all four sides of the vessel. Similarly, five other crafts of magnificent design began their disembarking procedures surrounding the plaza. Each figure that stepped off was an individual of worthy note in the Conglomerate, save for the Malik of Pandjoras. Outside of the ringing sounds, only their footsteps could be heard across the area as they journeyed to the central statue. There, before the eyes of their ancestors, the Councilmen of the Conglomerate assembled before the Umbral King.
“It is here, under the eyes of the Ancestors, that we gather the Sultanate and the Conglomerate to reveal the results of our negotiations! Over the past fourteen cycles, the Pandjorans have proven themselves to be worthwhile allies, stalwart companions, and magnificent entrepreneurs of innovation! Were it not for their timely intervention, then the Conglomerate would’ve fallen to otherworldly raiders. Many of us can agree on this, but we will never be able to fully repay the life debt we owe to them.” The first of the Councilmen began to speak, his voice amplified by a device hovering below his chin. An Idratharian of tall stature, bedecked in ornate warplate and alabaster robes with swirling runes. Lines driven into his long, pale skin proved his stature as an elder of their people. If Rotholov had been a hero to the Conglomerate, then Mensethelsev o’Yuoroaa was a savior to his people as their Supreme Commander. “It is with great honor that I allow the one Idratharian who made this negotiation possible to unveil the fruits of our labor.”
Mahannan, Delegate Primus of Idrathar III, stepped forward from the shadows of Supreme Commander Mensethelsev. He held his head high with pride, a warm smile plastered across his sculpted lips. Although bags were extremely evident under his eyes, the Primus’ general optimism was radiating from his very soul. The small device that had amplified the previous speaker’s voice gently floated toward the next speaker.
“A simple alliance is not enough to repay the Illuminated Star Sultanate for their kindness, generosity, and tolerance for the Conglomerate.” Mahannan briefly stopped to look over at Zaphariel, who offered a smile and nod of approval. “I can vouch for the Malik of Pandjoras, knowing him these last thirteen cycles has enlightened me to the reality of our situation. We cannot pursue the grandest reaches of space without the assistance of those greater than ourselves. The Ancestors had previously guided our civilization into the realm it is today, but the Sultanate will guide us into the realm of tomorrow. Beginning on the next cycle,we will become the thirty-first world to join the Malik of Pandjoras in his journey for the Star Serpent!”
The crowd surrounding the plaza burst into a joyful raucous. Hovercraft that hadn’t been part of the Councilmen’s retinue released a storm of streamers, flags, and reflective paper to celebrate the negotiation’s success. Zaphariel ibn Varranis stepped forward, shaking hands and nodding in gratitude to the other Councilmen. He stopped at Mahannan, gripping the Idratharian’s forearm in a welcoming of brotherhood. The two laughed with each other, separating away to allow the Malik of Pandjoras his time in the limelight. Once more, the hovering device began to circle towards the next speaker. Curiously, the dusken deity refused the device in confidence.
“Hear me well, Idratharians of the Five Worlds! I welcome you now as Pandjorans of the Illuminated Star Sultanate! Where once before we were strangers dancing in the sands of the void, we are now brothers and sisters in a quest for destiny! You will join our fleets, improve our technologies, and bring life to worlds across the stars! We will bask in the combination of our cultures and enjoy umbral bliss! Today, on the day that the Conglomerate has joined the Sultanate, I announce- no - I demand that you celebrate for thirteen days and thirteen nights! Glory to you, Idrathar! Glory to Pandjoras!” Malik Zaphariel’s voice was the crescendo of a celestial orchestra. His words reverberated with the power of an immeasurable angel, reaching the steepest spire in Draathar and the lowest habitation unit beneath the ocean. The reception of his speech was borderline zealous. Pandjorans, trained in the art of oneness, were riled up to scream their fervor for the Sultanate. The Councilmen nearby clapped with vigor, restraining themselves before the wider populace of their governed planet.
The Malik of Pandjoras stepped back from his position, offering a short bow of his head, and raised his talon-tipped hands to address the crowd. The simple gesture was enough for the entirety of Idrathar III to begin their celebrations. For thirteen days and thirteen nights, Draathar was consumed by a joyful, hedonistic festival.
Idrathar III and the orbiting seven moons were quickly vanishing from the viewport of the warship that Zaphariel sat upon. A mighty command bridge embellished with all of Pandjoras’ tidings surrounded him. Terminals in Pandjoran sigilic rune, columns of gravitic stone, and great effigies of void serpents decorated every inch of the vessel. The black sand of the dusken world shifted with the swaying of the starship, jumbling a thousand and one grains across an immeasurable distance. An enormous, hololithic table at the center of the bridge revealed the sheer size of the Umbral Armada. Three hundred blips on the holographic display chimed with signature codes in Pandjoran, many identified as lesser corvettes and destroyers. Ten massive icons on the outer edges of the formation revealed the markers of their strongest voidcraft. Battleships, heavy cruisers, and dreadnoughts from the Ring of Muahad made up the bulk of their armada. Only the vessel he stood upon, the Dune-class Dreadnought [Dawn of Pandjoras], was a unique addition. Each world that entered their Sultanate added a new piece of technology, hull-plate, or revision to it. The Malik unveiled a toothy grin beneath his hood, enjoying the sheer ingenuity of his warship.
“Shipmaster! We’ve managed to resecure a faint trail on the raiders that we had previously followed. It appears as if they’re following the same path through the Star Serpent, or at least what we can predict from their unpredictability. We lose them from time to time, their warships seemingly disappearing from reality entirely.” One of the voidsmen called out, a House Nathazian scryer, with a report that he had previously processed. The news was received by the Shipmaster, Samrih Nathaz, as he gestured for the dataslate. He was a grim veteran of recent void-engagements, climbing swiftly through the virgin ranks of voidsmen that had previously been harvester dropship operators.
“So it would seem. Have we received confirmation from the Urahal seers? Have they skeined the whereabouts of these plunderers? What of the hassan, scouting in the furthest reaches of the armada?” Shipmaster Samrih’s voice was as deep as Muahad’s yet held a peculiar version of the Pandjoran trill. It was easily identifiable to Zaphariel as an ashwaster’s dialect, commonly procurable for ashen raiders in Pandjoras’ north-western hemisphere. His movements on the command throne confirmed it with repetitive drops of his foot or rocking of his hands in time with an imaginable beat. The voidsman was quick to reply.
“Skeinmaster Immamis Urahal reports that the tides of unreality are muddied regarding their current location, but she confirms their previous locations are in line with our own. Clademaster Shamka’il’s last report details their disappearance from real space, but carefully awaits their emergence from the last known location. Glory unto Pandjoras!” The voidsman firmly stated, dipping their head in a quick bow before leaving back to their station.
Shipmaster Samrih deeply sighed, no doubt about the news delivered to him. Malik Zaphariel wondered if his presence was a bane to the command bridge as he watched happenings unfold. His attention was caught by the sharp, orange eyes of the Pandjoran. “As you’ve heard, Zaphariel, the raiders we’ve chased for the last four systems have managed to escape through our talons again. What kind of penance would you have us seek for this insolence?” The question was equal parts a joke and a serious inquiry. He had been traveling with the Nathazian for nearly a decade by this point, routinely promoting him to a close position due to outrageous merits. These raiders, however, have left a black stain on the Umbral Armada.
“None. Continue to allow them to escape and rough their edges with our graviton lances. Their warpath drives us further along the Star Serpent with plentiful benefits for their sadistic actions. Once their usefulness runs dry by the Serpent’s Mouth, then we will encircle their relocation point to bombard them for eons to come.” Zaphariel stated with a toothy grin, grimly aware of how morbid the order was; however, it was necessary for the future of Pandjoras. It earned him a dark chuckle from the Shipmaster.
“Are you certain you weren’t born a raider yourself, my Malik, or is this one of the Lessons of the Hassan?” Samrih quizzically asked the dusken deity.
“Anything and everything is a weapon, Samrih. From a trembling, frightened man to a band of raiders to the dazzling spires of a far advanced world. If properly used, then the smallest tool in your arsenal can achieve greatness.” The Malik of Pandjoras responded, offering a knowing look to the Shipmaster. Samrih returned the look with a thoughtful stroke of his beard, mulling over the words in his mind. His eyes suddenly widened as Zaphariel’s words were slowly decrypted. The flash of realization was palpable on the Nathazian voidsman’s face.
“Correct, Shipmaster, it was just as planned.”
