Thanqol

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

There is a flicker of hesitation. The faintest sign that Diaofei realizes this might have gone too far.

But a trained mind is a powerful thing. Techniques for emptying thoughts and clearing out distractions are just as effective when used against legitimate doubts. She still has two command seals and Saber's hostility is anything but indiscriminate; now she spoke of justice and not of war. This was simply what control of a barbarian warlord looked like.

"To fight a fox we do not need raw power," she said firmly. "We require information. It can't be a coincidence that the dragon arrived right as we revealed ourselves."
Opalis was held aloft on Saber's shoulders but Diaofei still held caution when approaching; despite the dragon's cowardly aspect she could still strike out with neck, wings or tail and it was best not to bait a serpent even from a position of power. "Your mysterious Servant - did she tell you we were here?"
"No," said Opalis. "She suggested I fly south, but I saw the fire and came myself to see if anyone was in trouble."
"I believe it," muttered Diaofei. "Do you? Believe in your Servant?"
"I, uh," said Opalis. "I certainly hope so?"
"Consider," said Diaofei. "One of the classes in this war is the Assassin, and I have no doubt in my heart that Actia would have drawn that card. What if she killed your Servant before you ever met her and has subsequently been puppeteering your actions?"
"Uh, well, I really don't mean to argue with you Mrs. Monk," said Opalis, "but there were probably easier ways to kill me than send me to fight the Saber."
"Hmm. You're right, but there's something I'm missing about this..." said Diaofei. "Still, given how close you have come to death it seems at minimum that your Servant does not value your life. Have you considered -"

A shadow passed over the moon.

Archer had once again gotten the range.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

> Have you figured it out yet?
> Antipersonnel is a complex issue.
> Oh, yeah?
> Zaldarians especially so. Increasingly likely it feels by design.
Reactor wash or heat dumping would be the simplest way to deal with organics but the energy reallocation counters that at the outset.
Drone support means fighting on the same level as my targets and it becomes vulnerable to Zaldarian tribal hunt tactics.
Increased investment in direct antipersonnel weapons means unbalancing the perfection loop required for flawless victories.
I have not solved it.
> So you're just going to sit in this box?
> I did not say that. The problem is solveable. But I require field test data in order to inform my new design.
My current hypothesis is based around a complete reorientation on the concept of speed, even at the expense of armament.
I will abandon swords and direct weapons and adopt an quadruped chassis type. I will pair this with an integrated artillery system. This will give me unprecedented kiting mobility; able to withdraw over long distances while maintaining sustained fire on my targets. I believe this design has potential.
> So, uh... Really?
> Yes. Why?
> You're describing the Storm Horses. One of the common Gods of Zaldar.
> Curious. Is it particularly powerful?
> No. They get killed by Ash Scorpions all the time. Subterranian ambushes that are over before ranged advantages are bought into play.
> ...
> ...
> The design can be modified to be more resistant to that. Armoured undercarriage, early warning drone swarm -
> Crusher Rhinos.
> What happens to them?
> We usually lure them into the path of Titan Archers.
> Is this... is this what happened to us? To my legion? Why they became devolved, feral, weak, hyperspecialized? Because we could not solve for you fucking reptiles?
> Rude. But maybe, sure.
> I don't believe it. Perfection is a real concept. It can be manifest in a singular point; the ultimate design that can lay waste to every target. The existence of a metagame is simply evidence that not enough thought has been put in.
> I dunno, the Gods of Zaldar have been thinking for an awfully long time.
> I am not like them. I will approach this rationally. I will gather data, integrate with the Spirit Realm, and start isolating factors. I will evolve the perfect design and, once it is attained, the galaxy will remake itself in my image. And until I do, I will adopt my new design - you called it Storm Horse? - because I do not trust your tactical assessment. I shall simply be careful and the design weakness will not manifest.
> I can't argue with that. Good luck out there.
> I do not need luck.

Solarel watched as the Aeteline dragged itself out of the shipping crate. A broken, burning amalgam of nanobots and wreckage, hauled itself into the warm yellow sunlight of Mirror's new world. It warmed Solarel's scales and made the Aeteline's skin bloom with solar panelling like flowers. The half-dead machine shivered, joints cracking and realigning. Smoke poured off it in toxic waves as it remade itself piece by piece.

By the end, it was not the sleek, anonymous perfection of the Aeteline that stood before her any more. It was a vast, mechanical horse; sleek and thundering hooves, a massive bulky railgun projector turret integrated into its back. In shining black and violet it strode away towards the distant plains - pausing only a moment to glance back at its once-Pilot. Mechanical blue lenses whirred as they focused on the girl sitting atop the shipping container, and then with a snort of contempt, the Storm Horse strode away. The first of the Gods of this new world.

Breathless Dead

The Star Kings!

Psuedowolves stumble. Bleeding, broken, shattered. Psuedowolves fall - noses and wrists break as easily as overconfidence. Psuedowolves fall, thrown by twisting gravity, undermined by their augmentations, broken by their lack of unity.

It's all fun and games until somebody shoots at their building. After that it is an inconvenience to be ended immediately.

Crystal lenses lock into place and scorch down in a blistering array of reality-bending diamond-glittering rays. This is the power of the Wolves of Ceron: while the Endless Azure Skies was still experimenting with the basics of crystal technology, the Star Kings had already sniffed out direct military applications with ruthless efficiency. When these rays struck they did not summon dimensional duplicates - they shunted a soul's destiny retroactively down into a dead end, a failed timeline filled with deadly peril. As the lights come down...

Bella!

You have come to a different world; one offset by ten thousand years - no time at all when it comes to geological formation and evolutionary timeframes, but an incredible amount when it comes to the growth of civilizations. The Portugal you see here now is not the flimsy, primitive world of an industrial civilization, but the shining gemstone world that an alien species might have come to in its own isolated splendour. Orbitals glitter in the heavens above and the buildings form fractal pentagon patterns. The people smell healthy, their weapons look deadly. You have been greeted not by inert governments, but a reactive group of diplomats and soldiers who wish to address you, the first visitor from a distant civilization.

"We greet you in peace," said their uncrowned monarch, nose twitching in high-intensity processing. "May we please speak to your administrator species?"

Ember!

The Lantern holds strong, burning against your arm. You are still here, and you are still you - alone now in the shadow of the Star Kings, surrounded by dozens of groaning psuedowolves. You hear the howls of the rival pack. In the distance you see the dark spots against the backdrop of a neon ultralight as the Star Kings descend from their throne to hunt you.

Your weapons are filled with oceans of stolen energy.

Dyssia!

Yours is the world where the Generous Knight has her way.

You see the space elevators breaking through the endless smog, advertisements burning on every inch of their long, silvery surfaces. You see a city of night and electricity, every head crammed full of electronics in defiance of Zeus' law. You see Aphrodite exalting dark kings who can never be for an instant free of desire. You see Apollo's sun overhead burning hot and black and three times its size, as though it is ready for supernova.

You see the fleets overhead. Vast shipyards churn through every mote and atom of matter in the system in prayer to Mars, reconstituting it into a fleet of galactic conquest. You see it all from the Generous Knight's throne room. It is beautiful in an ancient way, the centre of a thriving oaken forest, filled with endless schools of fish in every shade of blue that eat the acorns from the verdant trees. The magnificent silver-green dress of the Generous Knight connects her flesh in a thousand places to this thriving ecosystem that extends throughout the entire structure of her ship.

This is her weapon, her artistic project, her legend in the Skies: Shared Life. Through Hera's generosity she can take the damage of any of her injured upon her own body, a martyr for the Skies. Through Demeter's dark genius, she has shared her body with this entire ship-wide ecosystem. Her blood circulates through every tree, fish and microbe. To kill her means killing this entire place; to kill her servants means killing this entire place, to kill this place means overcoming the ship worth of biomantic doctors dedicated to ensuring its rapid regrowth and healing.

"Is it not magnificent?" asked the Generous Knight as the first distant flashes of plasma fire began. "To see a civilization remade in more perfect service to the Gods. To see them with the strength required to challenge the Skies at last - and perhaps, if they are clever, to overthrow us. Is this not what you of the Publica desire? An end to our tyranny, a sop to the lesser species, the death of Knights? Is not this moment a necessary step on the path to your perfect galaxy?"

Dolce!

You emerge into the daylight.

Summerkind are standing up from their trenches. They are walking across No Man's Land, looking at their duplicates on the other side. They are picking up the bloody and ruined, staunching bleeding and cleaning wounds. Overhead every now and then there is a detonation as the last few fighter spheres finish their dogfights, far out of range of any communication. Stunned army formations watch the beauty of them as they swoop and dive and descend in flames.

Liquid Bronze's bunker unfolds like a puzzle box, every panel sliding apart and reconfiguring, pushed by Summerkind labourers. The acrid smell of solid projectile smoke is pushed from your nose by a cool breeze. Millions of eyes raise up to look at the Biomancer-General as his bunker reconfigures into a massive walking palanquin. He waves like the pope down at the little people. One by one they wave back.

Unit after unit, legion after legion, formation after formation comes to crowd around him. Millions and millions coming from miles around to stare up in awe at their creator. Long lost comrades recognize each other and embrace. Disbelieving laughter and cheers are infectious. As Liquid Bronze blows kisses into the crowd shock resolves into joy. Cheering starts more wildly. Music is started. Dancing. A spontaneous party stretching for miles. This repeats itself half a dozen times across the planet, clustered around different Liquid Bronze clones on their different palanquins.

(Already these decay. With the war over these copies of Liquid Bronze have a lifespan measured in days. "A good leader never asks anything of his men that he wouldn't do himself," Liquid Bronze explains to 20022.)

The sun shines. The war is over.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Wait! Don't hurt me!" cried the dragon in pain, lying flat and nonresisting. "My name is Opalis! I'm not a warrior! I'm a Tantric Economist! My Servant isn't even here yet!"
"A what?" said Diaofei, stepping up behind.
"A - a Tantric Economist!" said Opalis, smiling frantically. "I'd offer you my card but - look, so, society is peaceful because people have got a handle on greed and ambition, right? But that's a delicate order maintained by cultural values and spiritual development. Outliers and remnants of the old world exist that are still dominated by material desires, so our order's duty is to hoard technomantic wealth and power so we can find people who might otherwise be tempted by greed and offer them its absolute fruits until they burn out on it and realize that it's meaningless."
Diaofei nodded. "So in other words, it's a group of dragons collectivizing their hoarding instinct and concealing it behind a flimsy spiritual justification."
"That's -" Opalis looked like she was about to argue, then her eyes glanced back at Saber's knee on her neck. "- yeah sure. Point is I can help you - I am authorized to economize against my order's holdings and -"
Diaofei ignored her. She had produced a compasslike magical instrument of platinum and gold, layers of rings wrapping each other. She walked around, twisting the rings into new configurations, taking in the ley of energy. "A half truth," she said. "Her Servant isn't here - but she's watching. I cannot tell from where. Why? Waiting for the right moment? Or maybe a dragon is even worse a Master than I? All that mana and it's bound up in her physical body..."
"She sends me letters," Opalis said, making a face. "Said there was a font of mana here. Look, just tell me what you want - I promise we can make a deal."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"And what will you do with your victory, champion mine?" said Solarel, playful - and restrained. There was much that she could be doing with such an embrace but wasn't, but this time it was not awkward introversion that held her back. It was a virtuous surrender; a principled acknowledgement that her defeat would not teach her anything if she did not allow herself to be taught. The Code of Zaldar had expectations of the defeated as well as the victorious.

So defeat held her hands as still as any rope. But, as with hands bound by rope, that did not mean they were not there to be used.

"In defeating me you have defeated my people," said Solarel, tilting her head as though she craved another kiss - one that was not hers to take. "In defeating my people you have defeated the entire galaxy," she liked the rhythm of the words, the repetition and realignment. She liked the voice she could use in this moment, the only freedom left to her - no, demanded of her. She spoke because it had been the first command of her Whispered Promise. "In defeating me - did you know my wish?"

The playfulness flitted away from her. "It was to hold the tournament again, but each pilot would be assigned to a random god. Mechanics would have time to make modifications of course, time enough to adjust your controls... but... why I wanted it was because it was the only way I could imagine to really have fun fighting again. With the Aeteline, it felt like I was trapped in a solved equation and there was nothing I could do but improve until I broke. Even when I was piloting other mechs it felt like I was stealing victories using techniques that would never work against the bar I set for myself, and anything I did to have fun would come at the cost of risking losing and having to stop fighting entirely. Maybe for good. I envied all my opponents so much, being free to express themselves with their gods rather than obliterating themselves in service to their gods..."

She sighed. Even through all the toxicity that had gone into it, despite how wrong its premises had been shown to be, it still hurt to give voice to and give up on a dream. "That was my dream. Endless battle, freedom, experimentation, exploration, transformation. Please, tell me of the wish that defeated it."

Breathless Dead

The Psuedowolves!

Svex Mitch had been a politician once. You could still see it in the green and blue striped suit jacket wristbands that reflected the flag of their nation. You couldn't see it in their torn open undershirt, revealing a singular musculature and meaningless ultracolour tattoos. They were trying their best to imitate the symbols of their Ceronian masters without knowing what any of it meant. Once they had been a force for political change and reform; now they were down here on the streets with fist and axe, exalting in the pack.

Kirin Dalton had been a doctor. Obsolete knowledge now, all of it. They had been useful for a while as a vector to spread the new miracle cures to the rich and influential but the temptation had been too strong and they'd dosed themselves. Now they were down here on the streets filled with the mad epiphany of someone whose life work has been solved and rendered irrelevant. One axe in either hand and a manic hawaiian shirt open to reveal the hanging stethoscope, no more than jewelry now.

Bailos had been an outcast. Persecuted due to a poorly understood imbalance of brain chemistry, they had spent a lifetime on the streets, unstable and abused. Now they walked like a young god, so tall and broad of shoulder that their romantic partner rode on their shoulders, filming the maneuvers of the pack with their handheld camera. Their hands were stained with dried blood and their lips with ten thousand dollar wine.

They come, these and a thousand more, stalking their prey through the streets, encircling them from all sides, stepping out of luxury vehicles parked to block the street. Everywhere shine the axes - exotic star metals worth a fortune to this planet, items that if understood could revolutionize production and travel. Not for sale; now they represented something far more valuable than the financial system their society was founded on. These weapons were badges of membership, a ticket to join an unimaginable future. The pack closes in.

A spotlight slams down from the top of the Ceronian tower, arcing down to bathe the entire intersection in radiant light. The War Gods told of your coming and of this battle, and now the Pack looks down from their high throne to see the shape that fight will take. Pseudowolves stand atop buildings looking down, kick out glass windows for better views, line the streets. Numbers alone ensure this will not be a trivial battle.

20022!

"General Bronze," said 20022. "I understand that you are as concerned with the Servitor rebellion as anyone, but the Service will need your help with an additional matter."
"Oh?" Liquid Bronze looked around lethargically.
"The Crystal Knight," said 20022. "Her death threatens to destabilize Beri further, especially if news of the fallibility of the Skies' defenders is allowed to spread. That could result in decommissioning and reculturization that might take a century."
"That doesn't sound like my department," said Liquid Bronze, shrugging. "Well, part of it does. But work is work."
"It is," 20022 conceded. "But if I might offer a suggestion: you possess the skills to engineer a replica of the Crystal Knight, and the Service is sufficiently interested in the stability of this sector to offer you the authorization to do so."
"Is that right?" Liquid Bronze swung around, full attention. "You're aware that I'd make some tweaks?"
"Of course, General Bronze."
"Because the source material - kind of mid if you ask me."
"As you will, General. The short term crisis forces our hand."
"Oh, well then," said Liquid Bronze. "And your opinions on the politics of the whole thing are..."
"Irrelevant," said 20022. "This is an apolitical decision. The best interests of the Skies are what is relevant here."
"Well now," purred Liquid Bronze. "Well... for that I suppose I could cut my campaign here short."

He reached across to a shimmering silver microphone that sat by his left hand. He picked it up, cleared his throat, and spoke into it. "Testing, testing. This is Liquid Bronze addressing all units. The war is over. Congratulations! You're all winners! Over and out!"

He put the microphone back down. Every eye in the room was staring at him. Not one of his Summerkind seemed able to process those words. You could hear a pin drop.

You could hear the quiet of shells no longer dropping.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Assassin was writing a letter.

It was remarkable how information gathering had gone full circle. In his day he had to make do with an army of spies and informers, street urchins and busybodies, evesdroppers and opportunists. The information he received had to be judged based on the source's reputation and placed in the context of every other report. It was a long and painstaking process to sift truth from fact.

Technology had changed that. Originally the interception of a letter was a singular coup. Then people had figured out how to intercept every letter ever sent. Intelligence agencies had drowned in an unending flood of raw data. They had come up with techniques to manage it; filters to sort the signal from the noise, and perhaps that might have worked. But then they'd gotten greedy. They stopped being satisfied with just reading everyone's mail but decided it wouldn't be enough until they knew everything there was to be known. They wanted to track people by their faces, by their gaits, by their body language. They applied mathematical models, then machine intelligence, then artificial intelligence, then daemonic intelligence. Eventually they decided to cut out the middlemen and just summon demons from hell and ask them questions directly.

Assassin kissed his crucifix. "And we all know where that leads," he murmured to himself. Back to a world where nobody knows anything. Back to a world where sending letters to the people you trusted was the best way to find out what was happening.

Speaking of people he trusted...

The door slammed open. "She's burning my shrine!" said Actia.
Assassin folded the letter smoothly. "Who do you think is burning your shrine?" he asked.
"Diaofei!" Actia stormed into the room. "I can't believe her! What happened to universal peace and guardianship between the worlds!"
"I presume it was you that happened," Assassin said mildly, dripping wax onto the fold of paper.
"That wasn't my fault," said Actia, folding her arms and looking away. "She knew I was a fox when she married me."
"I see," said Assassin.
"What do you mean by that!?" snapped Actia.
"I was just wondering if you knew she was a scorpion when you married her?" Assassin, pressing his seal - three ascending chevrons - into the wax.
Actia clenched her fists, surging with crackling power. Her eyes glowed, cold electricity crackled along her tails. "Easy," said Assassin. "Without your shrine you won't have mana to spare."
Actia clenched her jaw and the electrical energy dissipated, though the air still held a menacing charge. "So you are aware of the situation?"
"I am," said Assassin, starting on his next letter.
"And you're aware that shrine was our trump card?" said Actia. The angrier she got the more cold and corporate her tone became. "It will come down to me, Berserker and Archer and I'm the only one of us who took the time to secure a mana supply in advance!"
"And you imagine we should..." Assassin asked.
"Send Berserker and Archer again!" said Actia. "I will talk to their masters and make absolutely sure they understand the situation -"
"That would be remarkable, given how little you seem to," sighed Assassin. "Berserker did not fail. She betrayed you."
"She -" electrical power crackled around Actia again. Assassin continued to write.
"Archer knows too, of course. Not party to the deal himself, but the man has a nose for betrayal as good as mine. And just like that your little alliance is compromised. Even the Romans knew that a Triumvirate could never last." Assassin scattered dust across his letter to help the ink dry, and then gently blew on it.
"Those little kits," snarled Actia with a mouth full of fangs.
"Did you not know they were foxes when you allied with them?" Assassin asked.
He looked up. He hadn't needed to do that during the entire conversation, but this was the dangerous stage. She was looking at him, looking at her command seals, wondering if she could trust him. He certainly didn't trust her to come to the correct decision by herself. So it was time for a display of contrition and competence. Kings always appreciated those.
He stood up and walked around his desk, letting his fingers trail over the fine oak affectionately. He reached the window and looked out over the lake, sidelong body language, no longer immovable and confrontational. Let us look together out at this treacherous world, the posture said, and she could not help but follow it.
"You are wondering why I did not intervene," said Assassin. "Why I am not intervening now at the destruction of your shrine. That is because to intervene is to become entangled, exposed and vulnerable. It is to become a part of their legend. When I destroyed the greatest empire of my age the history books recorded it as a senseless tragedy, the careless movement of great historical forces, a polemic against cousin marriage. And that is how the world will remember this war too. A natural disaster, a tragedy as inevitable as a scorpion riding a frog. Nobody will ask who flooded the river."

*

A dragon descends from the skies.

This world has always had dragons, just as it has always had magic. The two are inextricable. Leave magic to its own devices for long enough and it will take the shape of a dragon; this is a law as timeless as carcinisation. Even in this distant future the principle holds.

There are some quirks though. The dragon is - small is a strange word for something larger than a horse. It is a strange word for dragons in general. There is no proper size for a dragon; a dragon might be small enough to curl up inside a coffee cup and people would accept that as a true and proper shape for a dragon, just as they would accept a dragon the size of mountain range who causes earthquakes with each shake of her tail. So small is perhaps the wrong word, but not entirely - perhaps we want slender. That is not an aspect of size but of dress; of the tight fitting clothing, sleek utility bandoleer, and sleek catlike silhouette. She traces over the fire, head tilting as she scans the inferno, before diving into its hottest part. She vanishes into the flames.

Minutes later she emerges from the conflagration clutching a clay jar close to her chest. She pours it out onto the grass and two dozen frogs frantically hop away.

The Command Seals are clearly visible on her neck, running along the silver-white scales like rubies. A Master - distracted and vulnerable, and for all her strength completely at the mercy of an ambush. It seems too good to be true - but perhaps this world truly is that naive.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

This, at least, is no surprise. This is as natural to her as the beat of her heart - and that's what makes it special. On Roevg, every gift is returned. Every blow is answered. Mastery lies in transformation - to take what someone else has given you and make something new of it. Some part of her would always have been wondering if Mirror did not answer her sabotage, but to see it now returned even more beautiful than she had imagined... Zaldar herself could not have done better.

She had no choice but to answer in kind.

She steps forwards into the shimmering spike of Mirror's dress, her sword, where it pools in front of her. She draws the spirits to herself, and they come swiftly to their old mistress. As she steps forwards into the final duel against the Anemoi she wears Mirror's dress, shaped to her body, shining in bridal white. Her katana is in her hands as she faces down the sword-wielding giant, still deadly even as its crystal fires gutter and burn low.

The blade crashes down. She half runs, half scrambles away and for a moment it seems like the fire has caught her. Red races along her dress, up her body - but not fire, a reconfiguration of colour, so hot it burns into orange at where the light catches it. This, too, was a colour for brides. The sword of gold runs through the dress, merged into it, tracing from her heart outwards a network of golden thread in intricate, moving designs. As she crouches so does the golden thread curl into the shapes of a fierce tigress. As she leaps it snaps into the shape of a snake. A sprint takes her to the rising wrist of the Anemoi, dress trailing behind her in burning ribbons, golden thread unraveling into the air as she goes. Her silver sword raises high -

Too slow. The Anemoi is perfect. It was ready for this too, a sudden and violent backhand smashes into Solarel and in an instant she's gone in a burst of bloody rose petals, falling through the sky like teardrops.

There is an awful silence. Golden thread lingers in the air. As it falls it patterns into words, lying across the grass like an epitaph.

BEHOLD MY GLORY...

But those weren't the words that were said out loud. Those were "レグナムカエロラム エトジェヘナ……"

The Aeteline swings around, raising its blade. It does not understand. It never learned this language. It had no need to. But that's why Solarel uses it now - the Sage Zaldar said Speak Not To The Outsider.

It sees its target standing distant on the field.

Only golden thread wraps her now, surrounding her in falling, glittering spools. The crimson wedding dress is gone, falling on the white ash in a rain of petals. She is unhurt. She speaks again in her strange language, turning and pointing at the Aeteline with her extended blade, and as she does the golden words on the ground below her snap into a new configuration.

ONE WHO HAS BEEN GIVEN EVERYTHING
GIVES YOU HER ULTIMATE TECHNIQUE
TWO LAYERS OF DEFENSE
TWO POINTS IN HEALTH
TWO STRIKES FOR VICTORY

The Aeteline bought its sword up. It was ready. It would resume this fi-ht a-d --en -- --ou-

"Omae wa mou shindeiru," said Solarel, turning away, closing her eyes as the skeletal head of the Aeteline shifted, severed diagonally, and fell to the ground.

Breathless Dead

Portugal!

It is one thing to be told that these people are half-blind, half-deaf and completely without the sense of smell. It is another to see the work of art that the Warriors of Ceron have made out of their ignorance.

The Portuguese simply can't see colours the same way civilized people can. They can't see the ultraviolet or electromagnetic spectrum with their naked eyes, their hearing is too weak to allow them to echolocate or hear noises in certain pitch frequencies, and the only creature on the entire planet capable of perceiving something remotely close to the true colour spectrum was a certain kind of shrimp. "Don't blame me," Demeter shrugged, aglow in a verdant laboratory cloak made of white flowers. "When I started all I had was some contaminated water."

But the drab, thoughtless ignorance of the Portuguese is fading away as you get deeper into the heart of the city. Here and there buildings are painted in vivid, ultracolour gashes of pink and violet, like the rents of massive claws. The locals can't even see these colours, have no idea their grey buildings have been redecorated so. Real music starts to clatter above the tinny din of mechanical speakers, fast moving and complex patterns that speak of relaxed violence, inaudible to the teeming masses but perhaps as a whine that the most sensitive of them might manifest as a purposeless headache. Everywhere there are scentmarks, some too complex for the locals to perceive, some reaching down as incomprehensible compulsions or aversions.

And in the centre of the city, the tallest skyscraper - no longer an unremarkable glass box but a criminal palace hidden in plain sight, painted floor to ceiling with the refined violence of the Shogunate's warsign. Endless spools of text runs by, honouring fallen warriors and recounting legendary deeds; invisible vanity. A swirl of optically camouflaged cables spread out from the building in a mad weave, connecting to nearby buildings. At the highest level of the building the burning pulse of a small Engine - enough to power this entire continent and have enough left over for the Star Kings to run their esoteric weapons to deadly effect. The Ceronians have hooked their device into the local power grid, stabilizing the electrical grid enough that a stray ELF strike won't cause a city-wide blackout. From atop their tower the Star Kings look down at their new subjects and begin remaking the society to suit them.

Psuedowolves lurk in the shadows, blended in amongst the crowds, aware and awake with the senses of hunters, deadly knives hidden under their shirts. They move like gangsters, like predators - brushed with the beginnings of biomantic ascension so they can serve as agents for the Ceronians. They are the beginnings of a new dark age, a supernatural mafia from beyond the stars, the heralds of death for whatever society has grown here. In its place six billion people will be remade into the instruments of banditry, their civilization militarized until it can be traded for a greater prize.

Dolce!

"The Crystal Knight defeated," said Liquid Bronze, nodding. "Defeated. Impervious? Where is Impervious?"

The oldest Summerkind you have ever seen is wheeled out. He looks like a skeleton, beard down to his ankles, eyes faded in his sockets, hooked up to multiple external symbote organs that are pumping and filtering his blood. He blinks awake blearily. "Lord Bronze?" he rasps. "Why... why have you kept me alive?"
"Impervious!" said Liquid Bronze. "You remember when you said, and I quote, 'I think the Crystal Knight is an up and coming political figure, with a bright future in the Skies'?"
"Lord... Bronze?"
"And you said I should worry about her?"
"Yes... her focus on the underworld crystals... I remember, it was so long ago..."
"Well," said Liquid Bronze, "I just thought you should know that she went and got herself killed. In a servitor riot! Olympus above!"
"My lord..."
"And I hate to say I told you so, but I thought you'd appreciate me closing the loop on that little theory of yours," said Liquid Bronze as the bunker rattled under direct cannonfire. "Because, as I said at the time, I am fairly confident that Biomancy will never be usurped as the ultimate technology."
"... her death does not mean... the concept she represents..."
"My goodness, man!" said Liquid Bronze. "You're still arguing with me? Don't let me say that I don't respect it, but when I get new evidence I change my mind - do you?"
"... No, I take it back..." the old Summerkind bites the words. "You were right."
"Oh!" said Liquid Bronze. "Did I get through to you at last?"
"Yes, lord," said Impervious. "Now may I please... respawn?"
"In a minute," said Liquid Bronze. "Just, I'd like you to elaborate a bit - we're not the only people present here after all."
Impervious sighed raspily. "You were right. I was... wrong. The Crystal Knight was never a threat to you. Biomancy... will never be surpassed. May I please die?"
"What?" said Liquid Bronze. "I'm not going to kill you. Who do you think I am? We had a respectful disagreement and I finally located the right facts to convince you that I was right. That's what a healthy culture of debate means, Impervious. You're free to speak your mind whenever you want."
Impervious sighed. "May... may I request a tour of duty on the front lines, Lord Bronze?"
"Of course!" said Liquid Bronze. "Men! Take my friend to the armory, get him a gun and suit of armour. See, Impervious? The bigger man doesn't hold grudges."
"Yes... sir," rasped Impervious as his hospital bed was wheeled out.

So the direct answer to your question is: Impervious. Even if he himself is not long for this world, his coming reincarnation will likely share some of his attitude towards Liquid Bronze on an instinctive level. The broader answer to your question, though, is any of the older Summerkind - the older the better. The young ones are too lost in the awe of seeing Liquid Bronze outdebate one of their kind's greatest warsages that they haven't fully processed how fucked that encounter was. They just don't have anything to compare it to.

20022 politely clears his throat and looks at you. Liquid Bronze seems to have lost the thread, and 20022 wants to know if you'd prefer him to finish the thought from here.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"... Spirit."

Daiofei's voice was flat. She didn't make eye contact, staring ahead at the shrine. It was a voice of resolve and command, possible only because she was not allowing herself any alternative.

"I told you before that I summoned you for one reason only. I will repeat it in words you cannot ignore: I seek vengeance on the kitsune Actia, and by my command seal, I would have you seek vengeance on her too. Let my pain be your pain, let my injury be your injury, let my justice be your justice. We will not rest until our task is done. Do you understand of what I speak?"

More quietly, almost to herself: "I have learned not to trust in desire. I have learned I am not fit for duty. All that is left for me is to undo my mistakes."