tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61159016117512568862024-03-13T20:17:46.028+00:00Blue FutureLife comes in labels. Not just the people you see around you, the creatures and the plants in the forests you take for granted, but also in the thoughts you have in your head. You don't classify them because they never leave your head. But some people classify them. The Real thoughts, they are based in reality, the closest you get to true. The Surreal are like the Real, only altered, made vague and twisted. The Unreal are straight from imagination, imagined realities.Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-81660209778495721022015-03-24T11:30:00.004+00:002015-03-24T12:02:27.142+00:00The Real WorldIt all started with a hole.<br />
<br />
I'd always been obsessed with the end of the world. Or maybe it was just the lack of responsibility, the ability to hide away and do nothing but survive, as if that was enough for a successful life. As work was getting the best of me, and the people who were meant to keep me up were just dragging me down, this little obsession grew into an overwhelming hobby. So I started making a shelter.<br />
<br />
You couldnt really call it a shelter, though. It was a hole. It had some support beams and some garbage carpet I'd driven past one day on the way home, and decided to take. It was filthy and smelly and stupid, but it took me weeks just to dig the hole, to reinforce the tunnel.<br />
<br />
The first rainfall it collapsed.<br />
<br />
Not just the tunnel, but the whole garden. We went from a grassy field with swings and a slide to this muddy hole 5 foot down and exposed to the elements. My family cried looking at the mess. My Mom looked devastated. But this just strengthened my resolves.<br />
<br />
I had gone in half-hearted, as I had with everything in my life up until that point. And this half-heartedness had not only ruined whatever it was I was trying to create, but also, everything my family had worked so hard to cultivate; a nice garden; flower-beds surrounding it; a quaint stone wall to edge it off; a play area for the kids. I had not only ruined the weeks I'd worked on this, but the years my family had put into that garden. Only the apple-tree survived my ruin.<br />
<br />
Before that moment I was only hurting myself. My time was worthless, I told myself in my head, so what does it matter if it fails. What does it matter if its made of stolen wood and compacted dirt. What does it matter if there's nothing really behind it, no science or math or <b>thought</b>. Maybe it'll collapse on me. Hopefully.<br />
<br />
But seeing my families distraught faces, it tweaked that hollow in my chest.<br />
<br />
So, I did some research. When I wasnt at work (and, to be honest, often when I was) I research basic architecture. I didn't watch films, but educational shows about tunneling, and the occasional black and white 'escape from the PoW camp' themed film. Anything that would give me ideas. Gone were the fantasy or sci-fi books my escapist mind hungered for; now it was basic physics, carpentry, construction. I spent months just... reading. Watching. <b>Thinking</b>.<br />
<br />
No one had repaired the garden. No one had the heart. It was the dark spot in the extremes of all of our periphery just haunting us. 'This is what your son has become', it whispered to my Mother. 'A waste of space, good for nothing', it said to my Nan. They hoped by not mentioning it they wouldnt have to deal with those thoughts they had whenever they looked me in the eye and saw... nothing.<br />
<br />
With a spade and a pick I set out, in all my free time, to try again. I made canopies to help stop water getting into the delicate areas, and rather than just tunnel downwards like some game of Minecraft, I expanded outwards. I went down 15 feet, a massive opening almost the length and width of the garden itself, before I'd even considered what I was going to put in there.<br />
<br />
I looked at that empty hole. I stared long and hard, night after night. I wish I could say I saw my life, hollow but full of potential and hope, but my life was still black and stormy. I still struggling with work, and my friends, if I could still call them that, had barely noticed when I stopped going out with them, stopped showing up online, stopped sending them messages they never replied to anyway.<br />
<br />
I didn't see my life in that hole, but that hole had somehow became my life. When I was at work, it was all I thought about. When I was at home, I spent all my time, tweaking and perfecting every inch of it.<br />
<br />
My research went further. Construction recommendations for an underground bunker. Wood or steel, iron or tin. Where did I have to place support beams, how did I distribute the weight, and what sort of oxygen intakes did I need to survive?<br />
<br />
I dont know what apocalypse I was preparing for. The world was fine around me. There was no real war. No virus spreading the populace. No.. anything, really.<br />
<br />
It took months to get the raw materials. I went through three construction designs before picking one that worked, even made scale models to make sure they would work. The last time I put this much effort into anything, I was learning my ABC's in preschool (and I still struggling with my R's).<br />
<br />
And the work was hard. I used more sick days in those months than I ever had before. Sometimes I was hurt, sometimes I ached, but sometimes I worked through the night and time just caught up with me. I think I slept every few days, and even then I dreamt about laying foundations, installing mounts, embedding support beams.<br />
<br />
Nobody came to visit me. Or to see what I was doing. My Mom would bring me water and ice when it was hot, warm tea when I was cold, and a close hug when I could do nothing but cry and shake in the corner of my hole. Only she seemed to understand why I was doing this, and even then it was tenuous. I couldnt talk to anybody about it. How could I? I was that weirdo with the hole. I was always dirty. I was always tired.<br />
<br />
But when I saw it, I smiled. For the first time in.. well, too long.<br />
<br />
Loading the dirt back into what remained of the hole was the single scariest thing I'd ever done. At first I was so gentle, every creak and moan made me stop, made my eyes water, made me want to throw the whole thing in and leave it as it is, pristine and unchallenged.<br />
<br />
But I didn't. And slowly, over the course of days, I loaded that dirt in shovel by shovel, until the only thing remaining in view was the top of the entrance chute, the opening that led to the ladder that led to the small compound underground. Climbing down there for the first time was like being born again. The tight ladder tunnel, the thud when you first set your foot on the metal floor, the archway, and then the room, as wide as the garden and equally as long.<br />
<br />
I wish I could say it changed my life.<br />
<br />
But it certainly changed my garden.Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-26171199825040306442015-01-12T13:12:00.001+00:002015-03-24T12:02:41.456+00:00Flames for the MothOne by one, the blinking icons in prime position on the monitor flashed once, twice, a third time, before blinking out. For a short while only one remained. This one, more than an icon, a 3d image built by a dozen static photos. A relief of a young woman. Before fading away, like the rest.<br />
<br />
The information had been acquired. For all the resistance, taking it had been met with little struggle. And the file wasn't even locked. How fortuitous.<br />
<br />
The true value of information was always underestimated, he found.<br />
<br />
But although the icon had faded, he kept the render of the young woman. Her and her team had been everywhere lately, on every screen, in every message. Strange. So many tracks had been swept clear, so many trails removed, all for what?<br />
<br />
"Remember when we used to play, dear brother? I was so lost, and you would always save me."<br />
<br />
What was left of him sighed. He brushed his hand against the monitor, just for a moment pretending he could still feel, before closing the connection, at least, for now.<br />
<br />
"We can't all be heroes. You taught me that. We need victims, as much as we need villains."<br />
<br />
And he dilligently returned to his work.Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-90606520428116255922014-09-28T10:39:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:02:59.691+00:00Glass Dreams"I sing the song of aeons," he muses to me. "My brothers looked upon the world and decided, no, demanded that it would be shaped by our whim. We turn reality to sand, to mold in our hands with the water of our voice, to purify with the fires of language." He turns back to the war raging in open, empty space behind him. "We build our dreams out of glass," he sighs, "And expect others not to break them."Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-87489457491117992192014-08-15T10:11:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:06:16.344+00:00There at the Beginning, There at the EndFive days had passed since the Scales of Judgement had attacked the Cradle once again.<br />
<br />
Five days had passed since the ship had endured that battle, silent and unyielding, as Alexander and his team broke into the darkest regions of the Cradle, beneath the wards, beneath the maintenance slums, and into the Arc itself. Five days since they had set eyes on Anubis, and decided that his life, his power, was too great for this galaxy to witness.<br />
<br />
Alexander remembered those words he had spoken to his team. Remembered them like honey dripped into his ear, sweetening his thoughts.<br />
<br />
“The Unreal itself crowd around him, aware of its threat. Just seeing him, I can feel his tremendous power, and that is something we cannot release. It is beyond my control. Far beyond it. I come to realize that what Indrafil was saying is true; we’re not the bearers of our own destiny. Or, we weren’t. We were souls thrust into motion by Anubis, by the Scales and their desires. But Indrafil should have won. He should have released the God I’ve worshipped for so long and rained a mighty annihilation upon Drex, that was his animus, the very purpose he was created for, and he failed. If his direction can fail so radically, then we can change ours by hand, define our own fate.<br />
<br />
“My purpose has been revitalized. Anubis was never the goal, and this just confirms that fact. We hunt the Archangels, and with renewed vigour. All we need is a sample of each one, the tiniest sliver, that will be enough. 12 fragments. 12 shards. And then…”<br />
<br />
Alexander clenched his fist tight. Clothed only in dark trousers, he stood looking at open space, letting its emptiness soothe him. They had fled after that. Fled through the legions of Erratics waiting beyond them, through the security teams and private armies waiting for them on the ground. On that day, Alexander’s intensity had frightened those around him. Worse still, it had frightened him.<br />
<br />
With Indrafil’s body draped on his back, he’d made a tomb of that place.<br />
<br />
He turns, and looks at the granite slab in the centre of the room. Aside from a tray of tools and unguents, this room was dominated by that slab, and that slab dominated in turn by the battered body of Indrafil, his first General, the traitor who had turned him in for a chance of power, a chance that failed. When they found him in the Arc, he was shocked at how far Indrafil had fallen. He had not only witnessed his God, broken and trapped, but had discovered the reason for his birth, his creation, and his existence.<br />
It had left him broken, too.<br />
<br />
Alexander approached the body, and ran one errant finger up Indrafil’s cold arm.<br />
<br />
“Air and earth are my horizons. What lies between is what I am.“<br />
<br />
Alexander reaches over to the tray of tools, and draws a wicked curved saw, its serrated edge gleaming in the rooms low light. He lowers it to Indrafil’s chest, and with one powerful push, the sound of slicing flesh and snapping ribs echoes through the room.<br />
<br />
“O infinite form of being: beast and stone and vegetable; the way a man may stand in his garden or dance by the river while wakes of small boats rock the reeds.“<br />
<br />
He continues to saw, deeper and harder, until all of the ribs are broken, speaking loud his prayer. He has no need for cleanliness or care here, and simply reaches into the chest, and pulls out the now-detached ribcage, slivers of skin draping like wires between the body and the piece removed. With a tug, they too snap free, draping Indrafil’s body with blood and strips of flesh. He places it to one side.<br />
<br />
“The cities and the people in them, gods who walk in white linen, like women under the blue stone of heaven.”<br />
<br />
He places the saw back down, and picks up a small, sharp scalpel. With it, he severs what is left of the skin and muscle around the now-open chest, and then goes to work, peeling away the muscle and fat protecting the organs, tearing off layers and discarding them as if he was peeling an orange.<br />
<br />
“I am the priest in a hidden house, guide to inner worlds. I am the idea of myself in my mother's belly, a bright trembling star in the memory of morning, a grain of sand blown east.“<br />
<br />
Finally, they were revealed. With the organ sac cut away, Alexander gazed upon the silvery-flesh of Indrafil’s organs. With a larger scalpel in hand, and with considerably more care, he began to cut at the flesh holding the organs in place, cut through the muscle and vein holding them down. He was covered in gore up to his elbows, his shirtly torso splashed in blood.<br />
<br />
“I am the husband of Isis: woman, and widow, and witch. To embrace her is to dream of ripening wheat. To sleep in her arms is to dream of honey. “<br />
<br />
One by one, he lifted them out of the body, as careful as a midwife with a freshly-born child. The heart. The lungs. The stomach. The liver. Each of them, in turn, he placed to one side, gentle and careful. They were his ward, his children, and his goal.<br />
<br />
“With a word she drives the snakes from the river. The boats sail far to its mouth.”<br />
<br />
He lifts the chest cavity, and beginning to hurry, places it back over the gap in Indrafils torso. It sits unsteady, with little inside to hold it in place. With the delicate hands of a man well adjusted to such a grisly task, Alexander begins sewing delicate threads around the edge of the wound, repairing what damage had been done. Only now, looking this close and working this carefully, could he see the other scars. There was only a slight variance in each one, each tracing the lines of the other. This had been done before. Many times.<br />
<br />
“Air is what I breathe. Earth is where I stand. I have given my face to Amenta. It is white with heat. The world is bright as bronze.”<br />
<br />
With Indrafil sealed, Alexander now reached for his last tools. Four canoptic jars sat on the side of the tool tray. Each was a foot high, made of stone and gold, like a glorious curved jar with a very specific lid – each of the lids had a carving, generous with detail and pristine in condition. He lifted the first, the lid of a Crocodile, and placed the stomach inside it. The second, with the lid of a falcon, he placed the liver. The third, with the lid of a cat, he placed the lungs. And finally, with the lid of a jackal, he placed the heart. In each corner of the stone slab sat a small indentation, each just large enough to slot one of these canoptic jars in, to hold steadfast and steady. Each corner held a jar, with Indrafil’s gory body in the centre.<br />
<br />
“The dead rise up to see me, breathe the air and look into my face, a yellow disk on the eastern horizon.”<br />
<br />
A loud gasp echoes the room.<br />
<br />
Indrafil sits up with a start.<br />
<br />
He looks around, frantic. He scratches at the blood on his chest, pulls at the slivers of flesh draping from his torso, until they snap free. He rubs his hands over his chest, until he can outline his freshly-sewn wounds, until his eyes lock onto Alexander. Then, he begins to calm.<br />
<br />
His breath is deep, panicked, and he struggles to talk. He mutters out a few words, but they are hollow, empty of form and meaning. Alexander simply smiles. He takes a towel from the tool tray, and begins wiping his hands, staining it with viscera.<br />
<br />
“Take your time..” Alexander says, calmly. “It’s never easy.”<br />
<br />
“You think..” Indrafil gasps. “It would get... easier...”<br />
<br />
“How many times now? Ten? Eleven? And still you panic.”<br />
<br />
“I didn’t... expect it... to be... so... soon...”<br />
<br />
“Well,” Alexander tosses the towel to Indrafil, then turns back to the window. “I need you at your best. The last mission went well, but it’s only a foundation.”<br />
<br />
Indrafil dabs at his body and face with the towel. He looks down, only to see the towel so soaked in gore, that it was all but useless to him. He tosses it to one side, begins slowing his breathing, glancing nervously at the canoptic jars.<br />
<br />
“I’d hate to have been there the first time you realised you could do this..” he gasps, before swinging his legs round and off the side of the slab, perching on its edge.<br />
<br />
“Lets just say it took some figuring out. Trial and error. But we don’t have the time to waste on conversation. We’re pulling near Cendra soon. I want you to take a ship and dispatched shortly after I send LORE and his team down to the surface. You know what you have to do.”<br />
<br />
“So everyone here is convinced they know your plans, right? As if they’ve got it figured out?” Indrafil smiles. He had ridiculed Alexander’s plan at the beginning, but everything had come together flawlessly. “Hell, even Ran-Samot and his little coup seems to be working in your favour. They’re so caught up with distrusting Masquerade that they’re ignoring the letters between the lines, huh.”<br />
<br />
Alexander clenches one fist tight. He restrains himself from expressing his anger, stops just short of punching something.<br />
<br />
“And yet, they still have more Arc-angels than us.”<br />
<br />
That response seemed to cow Indrafil, who visibly flinched at its venomous tone. He let a few moments pass in silence, then hopped off the table, and strode towards Alexander.<br />
<br />
“Forget it. If we’re lucky, Ran-Samot will figure out where Masquerade is based, and our mole will leak the information and lead us straight to him. Then we’ve got the Arc-angels, the only man who can stop you, and those who turned against you.” He went to pat Alexander on the shoulder, but stopped for a second, then thought better of it.<br />
<br />
“I’m afraid we can’t rely on luck. If you fulfil your end of the plan, then we’ll be fine, ‘O Angel of Judgement Day’. Now go. They can’t see you here, and frankly I’m tired of your snivelling..”<br />
<br />
Indrafil fell silent, and span on his heels, rushing out of the room as fast as his weary body would take him, leaving Alexander alone.<br />
<br />
“So many plans, Alexander..” he mused. “So many plans relying on others. Ran-Samot, LORE, Indrafil, Masquerade. Such a delicate house of cards, we’ve built.” He looks towards the Darkstar in the distance, then smiles wearily. “Oh, but it will be worth it, Master. It will be worth it...”Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-28218820156695479122014-06-14T03:31:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:03:21.817+00:00I.A.I.<div dir="ltr">
I am ill.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I lie alone in my bed, tossing and turning, fever striking me hard as my stomach clenches. This might as well be virgin territory, as with delirious eyes I explore the rise and fall of my mattress, every nook and cranny of my discarded sheets, pushed aside like a worn out lover no longer needed.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I no longer sleep. Having to stand up and rush away makes it inefficient, even dangerous to rest too long unconsciously.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Instead, I undergo micro-sleeps. The clock I watch like a fanatic jumps erratically around the times my brain shuts down in the urgent need for rest. The onwards march of time no longer makes sense to me. I have fallen out of the continuum.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
With my tiny naps come dreams, and with my fever they strike me like vivid, violent hallucinations. I panic, but my body is too exhausted to respond, and my panic feels empty, hollow.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
In my dreams, I am tiny, a small man trapped by my giant bed. The sheets are now like mountains, insurmountable, and in the distance I see the rise of my pillows. I am nothing.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
In my dreams, a mutated bird sits on my windowsill. It has two wings, black feathers, but three heads twitch from its single neck, one looking forward, one looking backwards, and one looking up. Beady eyes seem to watch me intently. It's endless caws try to warn me of a danger I will never understand, and then it is gone.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
In my dreams, I am curled up on the floor. People surround me. They don't talk but I know they are disappointed. I try to shield myself from their scorn, but I am weak and they are strong.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
This dream lives with me longer than most.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I feel the potential of the day slip away. In my heat I wish I could melt away, lose shape and reform into something stronger, more flexible, more capable. It it is only my tiredness talking, and the scorn I feel for my poor health will pass, even if my self hatred doesn't.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I am ill.</div>
Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-84757141070382825842014-06-11T11:34:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:03:33.791+00:00A Valid ConcernI'm always concerned when I think of starting up a blog. Its a simple thing to do, but it requires hours of dedication and commitment, and I'm not great at that. I'm not great at many things, I'll be honest. But the real reason I always tremble in my boots is this;<br />
<br />
"Am I enough of an egotist to believe that people care about what I have to say?"<br />
<br />
This is the thought that bogs me down. The part of me that loves attention is pushing forward, screaming at the top of its lungs, and banging on the door out of my mind. But the awkward part in me - that part that was taught not to play up, not to draw attention to yourself, not to ask for attention because it'll take it away from others and that is selfish - that part of me is holding the door closed, quietly praying all this will pass so it can go back into the shadows and just... wait to die, I guess.<br />
<br />
That was how I was raised. Everybody gets a chance, everybody gets a shot. If you want any more, you're taking it away from somebody else, and that's just not fair. At first I always thought it was an issue with equality, giving everybody an equal chance to prove themselves. "No man gets left behind!" a grizzled sergeant would shout, pulling someone onto the helicopter just in time for it to fly away, the enemy's guns chattering away at its feet.<br />
<br />
Of course that isnt true. Not really.<br />
<br />
(Not the equality part, I'm all for it, but the root of the behaviour.)<br />
<br />
What it came from was a crippling self-hatred. "You're a horrible person" it would whisper when no one was looking, "you don't deserve it." And, all too often, I would listen to it, if only because it was the only voice there through thick and thin. During my success it would be there, lost in the crowds of people wanting to be around me, to lavish me with praise. But during the failures? During the darker times? It was just me and him, and he didn't have to shout to be heard. He could just say it casually, and it would be like the word of God.<br />
<br />
And like with all big ego's (I like to believe..), they came with an equally as valid lack of self-confidence. They put on this act, this character, to hide the suffering. You hear of perfectionist actors and their hundred takes, artists who paint day after day but whose art is only ever seen in reserved quantities, stripping out what they believe is sub-par.<br />
<br />
So it became a totally valid concern. Why would people want to hear what I had to say?<br />
<br />
The change in character came gradually. It never improved, so don't come looking for a happy ending. I still hate the person I am with every inch of my being. It was more.. I became to realise that, sometimes, people do want to hear what you have to say, even if you thought it was worthless. Because the most worthless things, to you, might be the most important things in the world to someone else.<br />
<br />
"One mans trash is another mans treasure."<br />
<br />
And maybe, just maybe, my trash will be treasured by someone.Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-25892015844456351432014-06-05T10:09:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:06:52.821+00:00Elijah's New GardenElijah was not held in a cell, nor in a cage. Unlike his ‘brother’, Zacharael, he wasn’t locked away. At first they thought it was just because he was unable to move. After all, Elijah appeared to be carved out of a single piece of an unknown hyperalloy. His arms stretched out either side of him, his legs hung sullen below his body, as if dangling from his form, although entirely incapable of actually dangling or even moving. His head was turned downwards, his shoulders raised upwards, in a scene of immense sorrow. His face, although difficult to see in anything but direct light, was a picture of sadness, his closed eyes awash with disappointment, his closed mouth upturned in grief. <br />
<br />
Whatever the Archangel of Innocence knew, it bore a heavy weight on him.<br />
<br />
But after further discussion – and it was much more a discussion than a study – it was revealed that, although Elijah couldn’t really move, he had no intention of doing so.<br />
<br />
The struggle that had took place to get him here had already passed through the lips of everybody in the facility. An attack on a Hypertech starship – a famous one, no less, the Scales of Judgement! – a mad dash to acquire the target in the belly of a downed Human Capital Ship – The Innocent Father, another famous name! – and an intense battle between two teams with totally different ideological stances. It was almost the plot for a mindless summer action film. And, true to form, the good guys won.<br />
<br />
“There are no good guys in war..” Masqeurade would respond, when the story finally reached him. “Alexander is no more, no less malicious than I am. Now stop that silly story and get back to work..” And the connection was lost, simple as that.<br />
<br />
When Elijah was brought here, carried on the back of a number of Humans and Machines that came in with him, he did little but weep and howl in grief. Those that brought him in were monuments to his power, the deceased souls of the crew of the Innocent Father resurrected through a concoction of natural plant growth, Hyperreal acceleration, and whatever gift Elijah possessed. But it appeared that his power had a source – the large tree growing in the centre of the Innocent Father, where Elijah had reached out from to Masquerades team, if the reports were to be believed – and as Elijah’s disciples grew further and further away from the tree, Elijah’s power began to falter, and they began to fall.<br />
<br />
The last to fall was Nathaniel Barton, Commander of the Innocent Father, whose final gasps were used to carry Elijah on his back, alone, into this room, into this sanctuary, where he was safe from Alexander and the Scales of Judgement.<br />
<br />
“You have survived..” Barton spoke, his eyes welling with tears, as he looked up into Elijah’s face. Barton forced a smile. “Then it was all worth it..” His body, less flesh and more plant-like material, began to falter and then fail completely. His whole form seemed to disintegrate and then collapse into a pile of ash and detritus. The last of Elijah’s disciples had fallen.<br />
<br />
How he screamed in rage, that night.<br />
<br />
The coming days were difficult. Elijah was grief-stricken. When they tried to speak to him, to ask him so many different questions, his responses were few, and always concerned the same topic.<br />
<br />
“I saw their souls. Pulled them from the Loneliness. They died in such agony, and I knew they deserved better. Why did you come for me? Why did they have to die a second time?”<br />
<br />
Weeks would pass before they would get anything more from him. They tried to provide him with food or sustenance, but he refused. Masquerade’s scientists performed every type of visual or theoretical test they could, trying to figure out what Elijah was, how he existed in this closed-off solid state, and if he could eat, how would it even happen. The biggest question was; could he move? If he wanted to, was he able? He was suspended on wires from the ceiling, with a small stand to hold him stable and aloft. Could he step down, if he so wished? Could he escape?<br />
<br />
They tried to put security on the door, but Masquerade stepped in. They tried to lock Elijah in, but again Masquerade said no. Every scientist in the facility petitioned him time and time again to perform physical tests, elemental screening, mobility and form and function tests, but every time Masquerades thoughts were quite clear;<br />
<br />
“He came with us, willingly. Give him time. Patience is our best chance here.”<br />
<br />
Time and time again he turned them away.<br />
<br />
It had been three weeks. No progress had been achieved. Most had returned to Zacharael, to the Jackal Virus, to dozens of other projects Masquerade has brought in over the recent months, all of them somehow related to Alexander. Elijah’s room would be unmonitored, unvisited, for days at a time.<br />
<br />
It was a researcher, Sally Hughes, the first to enter Elijah’s room in a few days, that made the first real breakthrough. She arrived that day, content to check on Elijah when so many others wouldn’t waste their time. The room she entered, however, was not the room Elijah was originally brought in to. Over the course of a few unseen days, Elijah had blossomed. A single seed had dropped from his upturned mouth, and landed in the centre of this barren room. <br />
<br />
The speed this seed had sprouted could be visibly measured, watched and followed as it moved visible to the naked eye. The first few tendrils were quiet, gentle moving things, but as they grew more confident, more vines began to sprout. In three days, half the room was covered with plant-life, each vine sprouting numerous bulbs, each bulbs sprouting beautiful flowers. This was all with no light, no water or moisture, no nutrients, growing across concrete and carpet.<br />
<br />
And in the centre of the room, where that first seed had spread under Elijah’s feet, was a sapling. The tiny beginning of a massive tree.<br />
<br />
It seems Elijah had got over his grief.<br />
<br />
From then he was much more forthcoming with what he knew, although that information was still limited. <br />
<br />
“I don’t know what I am..” he would say, as the sapling slowly grew to cover and conceal him. “I can tell you I was not born. I remember, before I took this form, that I was drifting through space. So cold, so alone, for so long. That loneliness would never leave me, it was embedded into my soul. That ship, the Innocent Father, I was there in its final moments, I was dragged into its Hyperreal core, and with it, forced into the core of the planet where you found me. <br />
<br />
“It molded me. I grew into this, the immense pressure forging me as hard as granite. But there was life down there, the ability to create and sustain, and where the planet grew cold and barren, I found I could cultivate it. As my tree grew, I found its tendrils reaching into the Hyperreal. <br />
<br />
“When my vines reached upwards, out of the core and into the ship, I found myself appalled by what I had found. So many had been killed. And with that foul stench of death came a darker sensation, as if I had reached into a world beyond this one, a world of suffering and little else.<br />
<br />
“I could feel them there, detached from their bodies, groping around in the darkness. Everyone who had died on that ship was there, so afraid, and so utterly alone. I forced myself to reach into the Loneliness, acted as a beacon, a light of salvation they could come towards. I began rebuilding them. Each soul that returned to its body was so grateful, and in return, that pleased me. So I continued doing it.<br />
<br />
“Until those others showed up. Until they took me away from there. I need my tree, I need to save people from the Loneliness. It is my duty.”<br />
<br />
Masquerade watched the recording with ennui, and soon cut it off. He leaned back in his chair, brought up a call to the head researcher on the project, which was answered immediately.<br />
<br />
“I don’t have time for his life story. You know we’re on a tight deadline.”<br />
<br />
Sally nodded. “I know, I thought it would interest you. Zacharael was established when we found him. He had been functioning for many years, had matured and grown stable, became extremely competent and intelligent. Elijah, though, is a different case. The Innocent Father was brought down only 18 months ago. With Elijah’s story, and measuring the growth of his plants, he couldn’t be more than a year old. And his mind and personality reflects that.”<br />
<br />
“He’s child-like, I know. What does this mean for our project?”<br />
<br />
“Its not that he’s child-like..” Sally continued, “..it’s more than he’s lacking in maturity. He hasn’t developed yet. This shows a clear developmental timeline within the Archangels. Zacharael was at least 4 years old - at least! - since his conception as Zacharael. We can establish that they have a primitive form, a pre-existential configuration we’re called a Shard. In this state, they’re aware of their existence, but only as a precursor to something greater, usually embodying some greater emotion or concept. Elijah was loneliness, whereas Zacharael was of surrender – he had given up on himself, and therefore was able to surrender his genetic material to create the Jackal Virus. The Virus is his way of surrendering to the world around him, was his lack of power manifesting itself.”<br />
<br />
“You mean they have some sort of genetic conscience? Some.. fragmented attachment to reality.” Masquerade leaned forward. Something had finally caught his attention.<br />
<br />
“More than that, Sir. They have a fragmented attachment to each other. They’re all pieces of a greater whole.”<br />
<br />
“Huh. And you can prove this?”<br />
<br />
“It’s only a theory. If you can get more Archangels, maybe. But there is something more troubling about this, Sir.”<br />
<br />
“Go on..” Masquerade leaned back. The situation was troubling enough – he crossed his arms over his chest, and wondered how much worse it could reasonably get.<br />
<br />
“Well, we’ve got two Archangel samples and are starting to track developmental indicators. If Elijah is like this at 1 year old, and Zacharael was that capable at 4, we could be dealing with a big problem. We know Indrafil-”<br />
<br />
“Indrafil?” Masquerade interrupted. “We had confirmed reports that he was dead. No body, but enough footage and genetic traces to confirm he was gone.”<br />
<br />
“I’m not here to debate that, Sir, just an example. Indrafil was considerably older and considerably more capable than Zacharael or Elijah. Our agents never established his abilities, but he broke into The Cradle, and Apogee like it was nothing, and he was smart enough to challenge Alexander at the most opportune time and steal the Scales of Judgement, and operate it completely alone. With these developmental profiles, we know that an Archangel gets significantly more powerful, and thus more dangerous, as it grows. It‘s practically exponential growth. If Zacharael was capable of releasing a virus that could take down whole cities, what would Indrafil be capable of? Worse still, there are other Archangels that we just don’t know about.”<br />
<br />
“So you’re saying we have less time than we thought. Thank you. I expect your report within the next few days.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you, Sir. Is there anything else?”<br />
<br />
“Yes. Elijah’s tree..” Masquerade leans forward, out of the shadow that concealed him. His expression was dour, utterly serious and without any indication of emotion. Sally was, quite possibly, the first person to see his real face in a long time, although the power of that fact was clearly lost on her. “..I want it..”Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-59187316068079993482014-05-31T10:06:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:06:52.845+00:00The Infinite Trifecta<br />
There are three people in this galaxy that you do not fuck with:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Masquerade, the Information Broker, as his knowledge is infinite;<br />
<br />
Achamian, the Mandate Grandmaster, as his understanding is infinite;<br />
<br />
and Ahramayav, controller of the Infinite Chorus, as his cruelty is infinite.Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-86289079514073048812014-04-06T10:29:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:06:52.889+00:00The Pit of Hatred"I don't hate you. Hate is such a brutal, definitive word. I hate when a child loses its mother. I hate when a father must bury a son. But you? No, all I feel for you is disgust. At the very pit of my heart, a disgust that I will never wash away, a disgust that I will carry with me until the day I die."<br />
<br />
Daneel-451, leader of the Cendran Badge 'NanoSun', speaking to Young Santos, the undead leader of the Ghoul and Human Open Unification League, shortly before peace negotiations ceased.Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-75786586016816616722014-02-14T10:34:00.000+00:002015-03-24T12:06:52.873+00:00No Price Too HighThere was no love greater than that between Indara and Ahram, the Sorcerers of the Court of the Dreamweaver. When Indara looked death in the face one eve after battle, Ahram was left alone to wrest the soul of his beloved from the Unreal. Ahram found himself battered and broken by the daemons therein, his last resort? He turned to the enemy of his enemy, and made a deal with a powerful trifecta of Emyprean. He traded everything he had, and much of what he didn't, and brought Indara back from the brink. She would live for almost 1,000 years, but he could spend only a single day with her out of every 300. And in response? The Infinite Chorus asked for relatively little, that couldn't be acquired with a blade..Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-74461791398109862182014-02-01T10:21:00.000+00:002015-03-24T12:06:52.869+00:00Affectations"We were lifeless, in the way only an immortal could be; without an end, it was postulated, we did not truly exist. We could do anything, go anywhere, because we weren’t alive, we didn’t exist, we didn’t affect the galaxy in the same way as the lesser species. We were more eternal than the stars themselves, more a fact of existence rather than an example; we had defied entropy, the last great enemy of life.<br />
<br />
"With enough time we could justify anything. Morality fell away, becoming a meaningless exercise in a series of laws we no longer obeyed. There was no death penalty, no prison that could hold us, and our species had gone far beyond the petty ideals of justice and punishment. We could strip away the layers of existence and not worry about the consequences since we were beyond end, beyond death.<br />
<br />
"A part of me isn’t surprised it ended. We defied entropy, and it sat sullen and sulking in the corner until it found a way to simply defy us."Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-56995926871863986042013-12-22T10:19:00.000+00:002015-03-24T12:06:52.841+00:00The Villains - or Heroes - of Old Ripley"The town was an unassuming place named Old Ripley. It had a quiet population, a minor crime problem, but a security force that worked hard to make the streets safe for the general populace of this isolated town on Arcan. However, no amount of security in Drex can make those streets safe now."<br />
<br />
The screen cuts away from the young NSI reporter, that smiling comely form quickly replaced by the snarling masses of erratics rampaging through a towns streets. Camera's swooped overhead on drones or light craft, capturing what they could before the tide of erratics - there were at least 50, maybe more - began hurling things towards the camera. Something struck hard, and the camera lost focus. The screen was replaced by the last image it clearly recorded - the erratic was about the size of a man, bipedal, covered in a light fur and snarling. Its open mouth revealed a set of fused-together teeth, and its eyes showed no compassion, no mercy, and barely any recognition. It was naked, and mounted on its genital was the skull of some unknown creature, still partially covered in flesh and blood. In the background, more of the display was pixellated than was actually visible. The screams, although digitally quietened, still spoke of terror.<br />
<br />
Alexander quietly imagined the onrush of disgust from the people watching this from their comfortable fortress in the centre of Drex. Children turning away, mothers covering their eyes, fathers screaming in outrage. He didnt enjoy such slaughter. It was a battle well-won for his team, true, but he was a humanitarian above all things. He sought to rule as a God. What kind of God would he be without followers..<br />
<br />
"However, within this tale of darkness, a brighter one emerges. Security camera footage leaked just hours ago speaks of a heroic battle between good and evil, and a story of, above all else, sacrifice and redemption. The supposed terrorists, known as LORE and Belial, part of the Apogee Four, were placed at this city only days before the current carnage. LORE's propensity for the dramatic was made clear when his announcement video of his location was broadcast service-wide on the Hyperreal. Security were quick to descend upon the Apogee pair - the supposed leaders of the Apogee Four, Ran-Samot Sako and Marjec Stone, nowhere in sight - and the town was evacuated."<br />
<br />
"Many would speak of the coincidence of these events and call foul. However one eye-witness, present at the security station they were incarcerated within, had this to say about the team of surprising heroes."<br />
<br />
The video cuts to an Onatan in shabby clothes. He smiles half-heartedly, not sure where to look, and begins talking in a soft, balanced voice. Alexander could recite the script off by heart, and he could even see the ANUBIS brand marked on his forearm. Another convert to his cause. Another poor soul purchased to redemption.<br />
<br />
"Yep, I was in prison with them. The two Apogee guys, that robot and the Angel-"<br />
<br />
"Aetherin..?" the reporter interrupts.<br />
<br />
"Yeah yeah, with the wings. They knew the evacuation would help save the town from those erratics. They had two others with them too, a little Sigurn and a Ghoul, real mean fellow but kind-hearted. The four of them managed to get out of prison, knock out the guards, and take them to a ship - the one I pilotted out of there, at their request. They were kind fellows, real nice guys the lot of 'em. They wanted to save the town. And they knew they weren't gonna get out alive."<br />
<br />
The screen cuts back to the reporter, who smiles her fake smile.<br />
<br />
"But survive they did. In a research facility not far from the outskirts of town, long abandoned - or so the town suspected - these four heroes engaged in a battle of life and death."<br />
<br />
A small window appears to the right of the screen. It has no sound, but the reporter is more than happy to talk everybody through it. It is blurry footage, hard to make out anything concrete, but Alexander was still surprised how much wasn't faked. They almost did appear to be heroes there...<br />
<br />
"We see the team fight through the facility, fighting erratics and hoping to stem the tide, already aware of the impending flood of erratic soldiers. Further into the facility, you see them confront the leader of the erratics - none other than a Nonman, the reviled kin of the Exohumans. The creature rears itself, confident in its strength. The Flesh Sigurn, as you can see, risks his very life leaping into the fray to save another Sigurn, the only survivor of this terrible facility and its dark machinations. Meanwhile, LORE communicates with the AI of the facility and commands the release of the erratic army, held in stasis within the facility. The creatures, assumedly only half-way through their dark augmentations, are released dazed and weak, and flood clumsily through the facility. Belial, the Aetherin, fights them off with ease, the creatures still weak from their sudden awakening."<br />
<br />
The screen only now goes full screen.<br />
<br />
"But here is the real event. The Nonman, furious at the release of its legions earlier than required, rushes the group. You can see the Ghoul of the group debating with the team, and then waving them off. The Sigurn saving his kin, the one creature who may have answers to this horrible event, flees the facility, to ensure the town is safe at last. LORE and Belial both see the need to escape, and accept the Ghouls help with heavy hearts. Then, it happens."<br />
<br />
You see the Ghoul, a tide of erratics behind him, rush the Nonman, and begin throwing punches at its face and chest, pummeling the towering giant.<br />
<br />
"You see, time and again, the Ghoul throw a flurry of blows at the Nonman. Erratics clawing at his sides, the pain coursing through his broken body, he knows the only way his team can escape is if he distracts them long enough. The Nonman, overwhelmed by the Ghouls bloodlust and faith in his comrades, is pushed back, attempts to escape, and is faced again and again with the intensity of this lone Ghouls violent attack. You see one final blow, the Ghoul physically tearing out the Nonman's throat with his teeth, ripping off its head and rising it to the crowd of stunned erratics."<br />
<br />
"But their leaders death does not weaken their lust for violence. Only now, with pinpoint timing, does the Aetherin Belial swoop down on her mechanical wings, and carry a weakened Ghoul out of the facility and into the arms of victory. The erratics, weakened, stunned and confused, turn to the town to satisfy their bloodlust, but find it practically abandoned."<br />
<br />
The screen changes suddenly to show a flesh Sigurn standing centre screen. His body is bruised and weak, and he is obviously very tired. He is flanked by two steel Sigurn, bodyguards from Viatga no doubt. He talks, again soft and focussed with his words.<br />
<br />
"The Nonman was breeding those erratics, raising an army. By releasing them early, those things were slow and clumsy and allowed everyone in the town to escape in time. They put me on the last ship and flew me out of there. I could see the tide of erratics in the distance, could see those heroes - that's right, I said heroe's! - returning to their own ship. They saved the town, no doubt. You saw the two huge erratics on the video, well, all of them would have been like that if it wasn't for those guys. All of them. I owe them my life."<br />
<br />
The video is cut off. Only a picture of the Ghoul remains, now full screen, holding the Nonman head aloft, roaring in victory.<br />
<br />
"Who was this Ghoul? How did they learn of this facility? Why was the town of Old Ripley important enough for these make-shift heroes to risk their lives to save? And were we wrong about the morality of two of the most hated terrorists in recent Cradle history? We continue these thoughts tonight on an Inside the Dyson Sphere special; 'Belial and LORE; Traitors or Heroes?' "<br />
<br />
The feed cuts off, and Alexander sits in the darkness of the Scales of Judgement bridge. He crosses his arms over his chest, and smiles.<br />
<br />
"Release it. It fulfills our needs, although a little more ham-fisted than I'd have liked. Make sure the Onatan is paid, and kill the flesh-Sigurn actor - we can't have him revealing to anybody that he is a fake. Ensure the real captive is ready for questioning soon."<br />
<br />
"Yes, Alexander.." Calib, the ships AI, responds.<br />
<br />
"And make sure Charybdis gets a fair reward. Not everybody can kill a Nonman. Or lead an army of erratics to destroy a city, half-abandoned or otherwise.."Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-81301789080010552452013-11-22T10:12:00.000+00:002015-03-24T12:06:52.881+00:00Bryante's Last NightmareIt was like every bad dream he’d ever had. That shiver up his spine, as if he was cold. That ache in his bones, as if he was trapped and unable to move. The tightness in his chest, as if he was breathing cold, liquid oxygen. The pinch of his skin, as if a dozen hands had simultaneously dragged him, silent and unable to scream, into a world he was totally and utterly detached from.<br />
<br />
Of course, this was no dream.<br />
<br />
The Sepsyon sorcery, bringing forth the detached hands of the spirits of the Unreal and forcing them to do the sorcerer’s bidding, had grasped him so completely, their grip so utterly tight and unbreakable, that when the spell had worn off and the singular will keeping the hands in the Real had faded, not only had they returned to the Unreal, but they had dragged poor Bryante with him.<br />
<br />
The breach of the barrier separating the two worlds, side by side for all intents and purposes, had sucked the air from his lungs and drained the life from his skin. He was ever so cold and ever so afraid, but found his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth, and when he tried to speak, he found the words that he knew, that he had spoken all his life, had no place here.<br />
<br />
All around him were buildings that defied reality, and creatures that did significantly worse. The dozen hands that had brought him here were gone, mere spontaneous beings living spontaneous lives in a place that cared not for structured existence. He tried to walk forward, but found the path he was on curved in ways that his legs couldn’t follow. When he tried to run, the air seemed heavy around him, and he quickly began to tire.<br />
<br />
Where before he was ignored as some passing fancy, in the way a normal man might ignore a ghost seen only for a second, his continued presence here began to attract creatures of greater permanence within this realm. Those spirits were short lived because they were weak, the passing souls of the deceased who had lived satisfied lives and died old and warm in their sleep – they existed here for hours, maybe days at a push, and where the Sepsyon could call upon these weak, peaceful souls to perform their bidding, their strengths tended to lie in numbers, and one was no stronger, no weaker, than the next. Those whose deaths were more brutal, lives cut short through suffering and agony, they were the real dangers here in the Unreal.<br />
<br />
Bryante, for once, knew true fear. A thousand eyes glared at him through the darkness and mist of the Unreal. The creatures that began to slink through the fog were deformed and monstrous – a one-eyed beast with three long, thin arms, grasping wildly; a beast with five heads mounted on a tiny body, each mouth screeching soundlessly in pain; a giant slug-like creature, suspended on a dozen hands, with fat oozing arms pulling it along the floor. They began closing in on Bryante, these abortions of reality, the experiments of a braver, less noble existence.<br />
<br />
A single voice echoed through the Unreal, powerful enough to be heard between planets, if such distance meant anything here. It was soundless and without feature, but he could feel it, as a shooting pain through his skull. The creatures turn and flee, exploiting the shifting geometry to vanish in mere moments, lost in the distance and the fog beyond Bryante’s sight. He tries to breathe a sigh of relief, but his lungs are still tight, now getting tighter. He manages a few meager steps before another shot of pain brings him crashing to his knees. And then…<br />
<br />
Solace.<br />
<br />
Tranquility.<br />
<br />
He feels no pain.<br />
<br />
He feels… nothing.<br />
<br />
He feels his body slowly pulled to its feet. Gentle movement, as his arms fall flat to his side, and his head slowly raises. His smile is hollow, empty, and on the inside, he knows he should be afraid. The strings moving his limbs should frighten him. And the face staring back at him should terrify him.<br />
<br />
He couldn’t even focus on the creature before him. Not for lack of trying, more, the creature seemed immutable. If it existed at all, it seemed to exist in all realities, taking every form and no form at once. A dozen set of arms stretched from a dozen different torso’s, as a dozen set of legs held it aloft. Even its face was a mis-match of a thousand different features, all with that same empty smile staring back at Bryante. He found his eyes couldn’t focus, he was always looking away, and then forced to look back. He felt dazed, sick to his stomach, but that soothing wave of peace kept everything hidden, in a place he couldn’t mentally reach.<br />
<br />
YOU SMELL LIKE HIM<br />
<br />
The voice was all at once familiar to Bryante. Although it hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t spoken a single word, it was clear in his mind. It spoke from his memories, taking the voice of his family, his friends, the victims he’d left dying at the side of the road. The creature abused Bryantes memories in a vague attempt to talk to him, stripping them into their component pieces and reorganizing them to get its message across. He couldn’t reply, couldn’t force his throat to move even if he tried, but found that a reply wasn’t needed.<br />
<br />
HEARTLESS ONE. SOUNDLESS ONE. BREAKER OF DEALS.<br />
<br />
The creature raised itself on its numerous legs, standing easily 12 feet tall, and towering over small, petty Bryante.<br />
<br />
YOU HAVE BEEN TOUCHED BY HIS PRESENSE.<br />
<br />
It stretched out its mismatched arms, and slowly began to encompass Bryante, wrapping him in a blurry, unfocussed darkness to which he didn’t even try to escape.<br />
<br />
HIS TAINT HAS STAINED YOUR SOUL. YOU… WILL TASTE LIKE HIM, TOO. YOU WILL GUIDE HIM TO ME…<br />
<br />
Where he expected the empty smile of the creature to open, he was surprised to find the mouth actually sat beneath the head, a wide maw opening on his throat, tilting back the limb that he once confused for a head. The eyes continued to blink aimlessly as they fell from view. He felt again the sensation of a dozen hands locking tight on his skin, but these were harder, sharper, with a significantly more nefarious purpose.<br />
<br />
CIMMARON. CIMMARON. CCCIIIMMMAAARRROOONNN!<br />
<br />
He knew he should be scared. But found himself unable to scream. Unable to even fear. And that quiet, hollow grin remained on his face, as he was stripped down to the bone by a creature with a hunger utterly alien and endless..<br />
<br />
What replaced Bryante still had that empty grin on its face. It turned, walking through the Unreal with a ruthless confidence. Nothing dared approach it now. It slowly closed the second mouth just below its head, and began searching for a way out of the Unreal…Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-61692703304448824152013-09-30T10:14:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:06:52.853+00:00The Ties of FateBryante sprinted across the room at full pace, breathless with aching limbs, pushing past the guards in his way. The bloodless 'virgins' immediately moved out of his way, but the more experienced, those with more marks on their environment suits, they stayed put, forced him to go round. His visor was steamed up, his oxygen tubes strained and stretched out of shape, by the time he got to the entrance into the newly-christened Throne Room. He didn’t have time to marvel upon the bloody trophies mounted either side of the wall of this once-grand hall, once filled with Cendran elites and dignitaries, now a dusty shadow exposed to the elements – the ceiling above sported a large hole, an explosive reminder of the trouble they went through to claim this territory.<br />
<br />
The Bandit King looked around the room as if bored of the proceedings. Although he’d never use the title himself – he was far too proud to refer to himself as a Bandit, and far too humble to refer to himself as a King – he was seated on a throne that caught the attention of everybody in the room. It was a mess of melded steel and cracked plastic, forged into a throne by sheer force. The blacksmiths of their crew spent weeks working on this single item, foregoing all other jobs. The Bandit King had had them whipped and marked for their time-wasting, and ordered them back to more important work immediately. Of the dozen spikes and shafts of steel that jutted out from the back of the throne, almost every one had the environmentally-sealed helmet of a single Cendran Archivist, their races highest ranking citizens, mounted for all to see. A savage display of power. Only two remained free of such gore – a middle-set spike, which would leer over the Kings right hand, and the top-most spoke, sitting above all others, mounted high over the chair. They were reserved.<br />
<br />
The Bandit King seemed immune to the noise and commotion before his throne, as Bryante fell prostrate before him. He rested his chin idly on his clenched fist, glancing up at the dusty sky visible through what once was only ceiling. A storm was coming. He could feel it in his bones. He glanced from person to person in the room, seeing nothing but Cendran environment suits and blank-faced visors staring back. Each customised just enough to be different, just enough without compromising the security of their poor immune systems, their weak bodies.<br />
<br />
Bryante was silent all this time, catching his breath, forming his story, patient and penitent before his King. His suit was scuffed, soiled. The pitched combat in the town of Boundary was rough, and to outside eyes, he looks like he’d seen the worst of it. What they wouldn’t know, however, is that Bryante fled as soon as the first shots were fired, and kept fleeing as soon as the combat looked to be a loss. A crazy sword-maiden challenging him to a duel, and a Sorcerer summoning ghostly masses to drag the unsuspecting into the void? He didn’t sign up for that! He sighed deeply and raised his head, to see if his King had even noticed him. The voices around the room were getting louder, looking for answers or results from his latest raid, but he remained silent.<br />
<br />
His silence was soon rewarded. The Bandit King lifted himself up from his slouched position, glanced over the room. They were criminals, thugs, bandits, almost every one. Used to taking what they want, not waiting. And the less information Bryante offered, the more worked up they got. They formed their own obscene arguments and scenarios in their heads, and had the audacity to simply shout them out into his court, as if making them real simply by uttering them. The arguments ranged from Cendran military action, to Ghoul infestation, to the arrival of an entire TOWER Colonisation fleet. All of them ridiculous, all of them haunting the dreams of every bandit living on Cendra, a haven for people like them.<br />
<br />
As two bandits looked to come to blows over their opposing scenarios – one sure an Apaex patrol had killed every last citizen of a Ghoul city not far from here, as his friends friends brother had seen an Apaex warship not two days ago; the other, positive a Ghoul legion had been found not 20 miles from their very position, loaded with Apaex gear after a victory over an Apaex unit, as confirmed by an Uncles cousins friend a few days back – the Bandit King raised his hand, demanded silence in the most regal way he knew how. He may not have believed he was anything equating to a King, but he knew that’s what they responded to.<br />
<br />
“How about we let Bryante talk...” commanded the Bandit King, who then slouched back into his chair. Bryante stood, cleared his throat.<br />
<br />
“Well boss, three days ago, we caught sight of a ship landing hard not far from here, near that dusty vlieg-town, Boundary. Turns out a guy had escaped that prison,Dante-01, and had fled here to get away from his pursuers – in a Dante marked ship, of all things! He fled into the town, bunkered down with that Doc Meyers and his family. Pretty big reward, we thought. Clean money. Single guy, how hard can it be? Turns out, the Doc was a real do-gooder, had to rough up his family, still he wouldn’t give the guy up. By the time we got the info, he was long gone, Inhert knows where. So we’re patrolling the area the last few days, a guy by himself in this heat couldn’ta gone far, right? Well, what’s our luck, we gets a report of another ship in the area, one of our scouts shoot it down. No way there could ‘a been survivors in that mess, so two look around, while the other two come fetch the rest of us to take a look. Well...” Bryante shuffles nervously, aware of how bad the next part’s going to sound, especially with so many higher-ranks around him.<br />
<br />
“Well... we get there and our guys are gone. Totally gone. Takes us a short while to find ‘em, but find ‘em we do. Dead. Whatever survived, survived well enough to take down two of my guys and high-tail it out of there. We rush Boundary to see what we find, but the storm slows us. Me and 20 men get there as the Sun sets and the storm kicks in, and what do you know, the guys are holed up in the bar there, The Trigger Finger with that straight-and-narrow Seb. We call them out, and fuck it, if they ain’t got a whole army there. Snipers and sorcerers and all sorts coming out of the woodwork, Seb’s finally done it and fucked us over like he’s been saying for so long. Well you know me boss, I stayed till the last man was down – “a few laughs from the men around him causes Bryante’s voice to falter, but he continues, “– and fled when things were looking rough. I don’t know who they were, but they were packing heat. Musta been travelling with the first guy, they had to be, no two ships fly that close together this time a’year, especially in this dead-end hole. I think...”<br />
<br />
With a raise of his hand, the Bandit King silences Bryante. He crosses his arms tight over his chest.<br />
<br />
“You’re not here to *think* Bryante.” More laughs. Bryante slinks back, fully aware of his position in the crew. “Forget this... this... *bullshit* with theDante-01 escapee. If you want to be a snitch to make a quick credit, be my guest, but don’t you dare return here with your ‘clean’ money. You said there was a Sorcerer? What did he look like?”<br />
<br />
Bryante is now visibly panicked. The Bandit King is not a large man, nor is he especially strong or agile, but he was well known for his incredible brutality. Bryante tries his hardest to speak loud and clear, but ends up merely whispering “I don’t know...”<br />
<br />
“What was that Bryante?!” The Bandit King now stands from his throne, and makes his way down the three steps of his raised dais. His voice was a roar, echoing down the corridors of this dusty old building.<br />
<br />
“I don’t know!” Bryante squeals, terrified. The Bandit King now stands next to Bryante, who has once again fallen to his knees and leans so their faces are next to each others, the faceplates on their environment suits practically touching. “Cimmaronis, please don’t hurt me...” whispers Bryante, a coward in the face of his King. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I didn’t see them. They attacked from the bar; they were attacking out of every window. A few even ambushed us from behind, they were everywhere. Please don’t Cimmaronis, I’ll do better next time, I’ll do better...”<br />
<br />
The room was silent, and Bryante’s whispers may have well been screams. Few dared mock or laugh, for fear of inciting their Kings rage. They all knew that, in the same situation, they would be equally as scared.<br />
<br />
“Make sure that you do...” And Cimmaronis, the Bandit King, stands straight. He walks past Bryante, as if the weeping bandit wasn’t even there, as if the whole scenario hadn’t even taken place. He turns to one of his men near the door, and places a hand on his shoulder. “Take Bryante, and a team of scouts. You go to that village and you search, quietly. Observe from afar if you have to. Find their ship, what remains of it, and get their tracking number, their serial number, anything we can use to trace it. A dozen men escaped from Dante-01, and if there’s a chance, even a tiny chance that he is back here...”<br />
<br />
Cimmaronis sighs deeply. “I can’t take that risk.” He leaves the room, and looks down to the arm panel on his suit; sat there, mostly scratched away sit three numbers –191 – he scratches at them once more, away from prying eyes, away from expectations and demands. For a moment he is nothing but a lost Cendran on an old ship with a formidable master and mentor by his side. His reverie is soon broken. Soon after, the other bandits in the room begin to leave, one by one, until only Bryante remains, quivering on the floor until the shakes stop wracking his body and the tears stop flowing from his eyes.<br />
<br />
He releases the clasps on his helmet, and removes it, setting it down beside him. He brings his Human hands to his Human eyes and wipes the tears from his Human face.Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-64271991380737041992013-07-10T10:14:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:06:52.861+00:00The Clear-Caged BeastZacharael roars. He smashes his fists hard against the plasteel cage he’s locked in, but to no available – the walls don’t even shake, let alone crack. He paces side to side along the front four-foot wall, trying not to look at the Humans on the other side, the scientists just waiting to have a crack at discovering his secrets. The other three walls, as transparent as the first, provide sights of nothing but machinery, tools, and cameras. So many cameras.<br />
<br />
Another inhuman roar, and Zacharael collapses onto the floor, falling into a tight sitting position as if trying to contain his rage. He’s short, shorter than most the Humans in the room, but wide. His body is all muscle, bulging out of the loose fitting white surgical robe he woke up in. He has no genitals, no marks on his skin, no impurities or imperfections – his whole body is smooth, tempered. The only noticable marks are self-inflicted, five valves, two on his chest, one on each arm, and one on his back.<br />
<br />
As the unseen gas slowly pumps its way into his cell, he yawns, revealing his pure white teeth, all fused together to create not a row of smaller teeth, but a single tooth across his whole jaw. His eyes begin to droop, then close completely, opening in shock only a few more times until he is out cold.<br />
<br />
The single doctor in the room approaches the cell. He stops for a moment, stoops to look at the unusual backpack that the creature came in with – akin to a huge vial of liquid, now empty, with five tubes trailing off, severred from the brutal struggle to bring the creature here. With a dozen men working on the remains of the liquid, people are hopeful for a cure, or at least a defence against, the dreaded Jackal virus. The dozen or so men in this room are more interested in its creator, Zacharael, the creature confined within this cage.<br />
<br />
“What genetic analysis we’ve managed to get done reveals a simularity between the virus and the creator.” The doctor now stands. “It seems he modified his own genetic material to create the virus. Weaponised his own genes, although the analysis shows he was already pretty weaponised himself. The creature has gone entirely into a violent, animalistic state, as if an imbed defence mechanism to protect whatever secrets it holds…” The doctor shakes his head, frowns at the implications of his words.<br />
<br />
“You’re saying..” interrupts one of the scientists, nervous. “..that this creature is artificial? Himself, created?”<br />
<br />
“I’m saying..” frowns the doctor, “..that whatever unleashed this beast on the world, did so with the express purpose that he would assist in destroying it.” He taps the plasteel of the cell. A few of the fresher scientists jump, but the gas’ effects have already long taken course, and the creature is fast asleep. “He is a violent creature, that’s already established. From our discussion with the ‘fugitives’ who brought him in, his focus was solely on the virus, and how he could release it into Drex. It wasn’t something he discovered, it was simply something that he knew, something he was created capable of creating. He is a creature they called an ‘Arch-Angel’, something they’re apparantly hunting. And when a group like that hunts for something, you know its going to be trouble!”<br />
<br />
“So its body is artificial then? What materials were used to create it? How did they bond together, how did they create the mind, the soul, the intelligence? And best of all – who created it?”<br />
<br />
“Our analysis was only surface structure and rough genetic outlines. We need samples. Thus, the gas. So far it appears almost mechanical in its composition, but still living. We suspect Hyperalloy, or an extremely reformed version of such.” The doctor removes his glasses, cleans them with a deep breath, masking his worried sigh in the process.<br />
<br />
“Hyperalloy? Please. Even the Exohumans have forgotten its use! No, it must be something else. Besides, no scientist in Drex has been able to create artificial life since NOAH, and even those tales are highly suspect! An already living creature who has undergone extensive nano-augmented genetic shifts. Altered DNA. That has to be the cause.”<br />
<br />
Already, guards had begun to approach the cell, preparing to remove the creature and begin the required operations. They seemed almost fearless, confident in the doctor’s hypotheses about the gas, and began the sequence to unlock the cell.<br />
<br />
“Please!” The doctor smashes his hand against the desk, refocussing everyones attention on him. “A living creature couldn’t survive such a procedure. The genetic structure is artificial, I tell you, and weaponised at that. It is so focussed on destruction, even to the point of self-destruction, that no living creature would willingly do that to themselves, assuming they could even survive!”<br />
<br />
The door of the cell slides open, and the guards step back to allow room to get the grav-stretcher in. Too late, they release their mistake.<br />
<br />
Zacharael was fast, far faster than his size should have allowed. One of the guards was ripped in half before anybody even realized what was happening. As guns were being drawn, already a second and a third had fallen. His fingers were like talons, razor sharp, and his raw strength allowed him to lift a guard up and tear him in half with a gentle ease. His jaw had split in the middle, dividing that perfect single fused-tooth in half, and opened wide enough to engulf a Human head whole; it snapped back shut, hard, and the scientists saw that the now-dual fused teeth acted much like a axeblade, cleaving through flesh and muscle with ease.<br />
<br />
The doctor was already away. Smart, and experienced, enough to realize when to leave a dangerous situation, he had fled for the door, and engaged a manual lockdown on the room. Alarms were blaring, distractingly loud, and the rooms light were a mix of red and white flashes. The scientist he was arguing with slammed hard against the security-locked door, and was begging mindlessly for help.<br />
<br />
The creature exited its cell and entered the room. A few of the guards were opening fire with both stun-guns and real weapons, but it seemed to have no effect. Zacharael batted them aside, carving through anything in his way. Huge gas-release systems on the roof were already releasing plumes of smoke into the air, highly potent paralyzing gas, enough to kill a human ten times over. The creature was already showing the effects. It slammed against the nearest wall, as if trying to break through, but the reinforced room was far too secure to allow the specimen to escape.<br />
<br />
The doctor watched in rapturous awe as Zacharael lifted the scientist over its head, and began feasting voraciously, before collapsing in a bloody heap on the floor. The room was a mess. The doctor was equal parts horrified and proud – proud that he had the chance to see this engineered weapon unleashed against both unsuspecting and suspecting prey. Horrified in the joy he was taking in this experience..<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, unseen, silent, Masquerade watches everything unfold. Every camera is an eye, every microphone, an ear. He is nowhere and everywhere at once, unconcerned with the lives of the Humans down there. Concerned only with the Ark-Angel. Concerned only with Zacharael.Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-48427983648831199762013-03-24T10:15:00.000+00:002015-03-24T12:06:52.838+00:00The Rise and Fall of the Apogee Four - a C9/HNN ReportBreaking News;<br />
<br />
Today, the verdict was out.<br />
<br />
Guilty.<br />
<br />
Four months after the devastation of the atrocious Apogee terrorist attacks, the four perpetrators of this tremendous crime were sentenced. Although many thousands had spoken out asking for the death penalty, including a number of high-profile entertainers, business-men, and politicians, the courts had decided otherwise. Opting out of the usual process by jury, the crimes the Apogee Four were accused of were so vast, so unfathomable, that the only fair jury that could be considered was a conclave of Exohumans, the progenitors of Drex. This has been the first conclave assembled in over 500 years, according to the few remaining records of that time, and their authority superseded that of any CORE or political entity, aside from the Isolus. Their deliberation took only 30 minutes.<br />
<br />
Guilty.<br />
<br />
Life imprisonment within the facility of Dante-01, the high-profile high-security prison at the farthest outreaches of the system. As the guilty were carried off by a team of Ghosts, we now look to the results of this most heinous crime, and how the people of Drex have managed to pull themselves back onto their feet.<br />
<br />
No one doubts that Apaex, once the largest Private Military Corporation in Drex, were struck the hardest. Apogee, their headquarters within the Human Ward of the Cradle, was devastated, as was the skyline of Prima Drex, the so-called Silver City, and once the largest city in all of Drex. Moving their HQ to a secret location, TOWER provided a massive donation to Apaex, supporting them in the relief effort. The only surviving member of the board, Jacob Edwards, took the reins of the PMC and forged forward in a new direction. Re-outfitted and stronger than ever, the new Apaex are an unceasing force, constantly adapting and developing their unique position within Cradle society.<br />
<br />
Jacob forged ahead with a new policy; zero tolerance. Reported crime in TOWER-controlled cities, patrolled by Apaex, has dropped almost 80% in these four months. Their weapon development budgets have tripled, and their warships can now be seen from any portion of the Cradle, eclipsing even the Aetherin vessels, to ensure this tragedy never happens again.<br />
<br />
Jacob himself has become an overnight hero. From an Exohuman board member hiding in the shadows of a large corporation, he has risen exponentially to become the driving force behind Apaex, and a political figure the likes of which have never been seen. His rumoured invite to the CORE, and possibly to the Isolus himself, Drex’s highest political body, is said to be formally announced - and accepted - over the coming days.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the vessel which carried out this attack, the Scales of Judgement, has been impounded by TOWER scientists, who pour over it day and night to attempt to unlock the secrets of this mysterious Hypertech vessel, and understand how it got into the hands of the terrorists. So far, progress is slow; only one individual has been known to be able to access its controls, and that is Ran-Samot, the head of the terrorist group, who remains uncooperative despite numerous attempts to bargain for information. Still, the terrorist leader shows no remorse.<br />
<br />
Already the Prima Drex skyline grows. Relief organisations from a dozen races and hundreds of corporations based around Drex have funded this phenomenal growth. The largest construction rises above the skyline and the ruins like a symbol against the tyranny of Humanities oppressors; Zenith, the new Apaex HQ, expected to be completed in only 6 months time, twice the size of the Apogee tower, and 100 times more secure. It is truly a glorious time for the Silver City.<br />
<br />
But it is not all good news. The Jackal Plague spreads daily amongst the darkest reaches of Drex. Transforming the deceased into abominations equal to that of an erratic, the Jackal Plague was said to have been constructed by LORE, the Construct servant of Ran-Samot, and distributed by the terrorist named Boris, a Human tricked into following these terrorists, both of whom were captured by brave Apaex soldiers. A sample found in Ran-Samots possessions was confirmed as an early-prototype of the virus, but a cure for the mutated virus is still a long way from home.<br />
<br />
Recent news has also seen the burial of a war-hero, the Commander who stood against his former soldiers as he was betrayed and stabbed in the back. Joseph Barton, posthumously promoted to Admiral, was betrayed by the soldiers who he trusted the most, shot down in cold blood by the terrorist Dryad, Marjec, as he attempted to assist his men as they fled from the perilous danger of a Jackal Plague outbreak. This backstab was seen as the catalyst of the terrorist attack, the beginning of the Apogee event. His death saved the life of over three dozen Apaex soldiers, and Admiral Barton was today praised with a plaque at the building site of the new Zenith tower. His burial site is unknown, and kept private for the sake of his family: his wife and two young children.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, while on show at the Museum of Hypertechnology on the Cradle, an ancient hypertech eye known as the Eye of Judgement was recently stolen in a daring midnight raid by unknown fugitives. The eye, found discarded in the command centre of the Scales of Judgement, is a hypertech artifact appearing to be over 350 years old. Although scientists were eager to study the item, it was decided to allow the public to view this rare artifact, one that many consider involved in the terrorist attacks, before study would begin later this year. Apaex security are investigating this theft, but there are currently no leads.<br />
<br />
Outside of the Cradle, Human tensions have been tight. Sensing a power vacuum, Deimos, Grand Emperor of the Imperial Order, has been pushing hard for greater Human security across the Cradle, and has spoken out time and again against the Aetherin, whose insistence on attacking Apaex vessels only contributed to the destruction. The Aetherin defence fleet struck out against Apaex warships, and then deployed teams within the Scales of Judgement to apprehend the terrorists. After being mercilessly slaughtered by the vile terrorists, brave Apaex soldiers boarded the ship and took down the terrorists in only 15 minutes. Aetherin spokespeople have remained quiet, but Peabodysan, current Archangel and Protector of Aethersun, has announced a full investigation into the events of the day.<br />
<br />
Many multi-race cities are experiencing increased trouble due to racial difficulties. Human groups have began rising against oppressive anti-Human regimes, finally standing up to the tyranny they have experienced for years. These terrorist activities have engaged a fire within Human hearts that will not be easily quenched.<br />
<br />
Regardless, life continues in Drex. The spirit of our noble enclaves stands unshakeable, only united against the aggression of these hated enemies.<br />
<br />
This was a report for Channel 9, the Human News Network, a subsidiary of TOWER.Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-46407137073825171122013-02-14T10:20:00.000+00:002015-03-24T12:06:52.833+00:00Orasi and DifhaThe love between Orasi and Difha, two Eridarians, garnered no special attention. They met, were married, and were soon planning on children; until that heart-wrenching day when Difha, a city guard, was killed during a Dravn attack. Orasi was devastated; her love was gone, and with him, her heart felt empty. All she had was her husbands soul-stone, with Difha's soul stored safely inside, away from the evil of the Unreal.<br />
<br />
But rumours of Sigurn science ressurecting the dead reached through her desperation, and took her on a fantastic voyage to Viatga. She petitioned Sigurn and Eradrean alike, hoping that they would let her into Napra-Sigurn, hoping she could be the first Eradrean - the first non-Sigurn - to learn the art of golem construction, the delicate construction of a creature capable of supporting the soul of another.<br />
<br />
She studied for years, in a small stone building outside the gates of Napra-Sigurn. She fought the cold-summers and the freezing-winters, battled with Helos invaders and the planets vicious natural predators, only to be turned away, time and again, from the only dream she had left. For twenty years she struggled on..<br />
<br />
..until she met Berlar Gurud. The Gurud family had practically invented soul-stones centuries ago, and as The Grand Hammer of Anvil looked upon poor Orasi, he saw a longing he had never seen in all his 200 years of life. He took her in, brought her under his wing, and taught her everything he knew. Bit by bit, piece by piece, she constructed a golem out of Siofra Soul-Wood, imported from Eradrea, and shaped it like her husband.<br />
<br />
It took years.<br />
<br />
But when she implanted the soul-stone into her golem, and heard Difha's sweet voice echo from its lips, she felt complete again.<br />
<br />
Even today, they live happily together. Lost in the forests of Eradrea, away from prying eyes who may disagree with their love, and more importantly, away from anybody who may tell Difha that he had already died once.....Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-6638480883461853032012-07-11T10:32:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:06:52.865+00:00Godless, Forgotten"An arena! A battlefield, with the roaring tides swelling in anticipation of the bloodshed that is to follow. I hear them scratching at my soul, desperate for a release only I can provide. I am eternal salvation in the form of unholy demise. I am worship to the godless, faith to the forgotten. They look upon my form and tremble. I’ve watched stars wither and die, planets shrug off the parasite that is life and tear themselves asunder. I have watched death tread across the battlefield, watched him weep for the souls of the damned, condemned to the Unreal. He could not provide a relief, so I took them upon my back, carried them through darkness, fed them until they found strength. I looked upon the world and said; No. This is not enough. And with that, I created life..”<br />
<br />
Sentient, the Dead-God of the North, the Manipulator of Far Antiquity, and the progenitor of the Cult of Silver.Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-31011101394050795282012-04-18T10:16:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:05:56.885+00:00The Fountain of PerditionThe Ciphrang strode through the walls as if they were made of paper, melting brick and steel mere inches away from its form. It stood eight foot tall, but hunched over to fit beneath the low ceiling it stood barely taller than the average man.<br />
<br />
Of course, the average man in this room was a suit, a businessman or sales-woman, here for one of TOWERs many seminars and courses. They were regular nobodies, some having scraped enough money to come here, others just looking to try something new with their life. The centre of Newarth wasn’t the land of opportunity many felt it was, and TOWER seemed the only way to escape the muck and filth down in the city.<br />
<br />
The Ciphrang reared its head back, glowered at the 18 other people in the room. Five thick horns rose from a plate of bone which covered the top of its head, each of them starting with an ivory white but tipped with a pitch-black almost as dark as the creatures eyes, which slowly evaluated everybody in the room.<br />
<br />
Only one was of interest here.<br />
<br />
Only one.<br />
<br />
Dalath rose from his chair as soon as the Ciphrang entered. He knew the creatures eyes would bear down upon him, and he knew he was the one the Ciphrang sought. He spoke a silent prayed to the Dreamweaver, throwing off his suit jacket to free his arms for the battle to come. He spoke words nobody in the room could grasp, none except for the Ciphrang, and he felt his mind rush into the Unreal.<br />
<br />
The Ciphrang had raised a single arm, pointing now at Dalath, and roared in a language incomprehensible to everybody in the room; many simply fell to their knees, deafened by the creatures voice, their minds ripping apart at the edge with the blasphemy he sang.<br />
<br />
It was a sensation akin to being pulled out of water, after almost drowning; clarity, the gasp of true air, that important breath that granted glorious life. This was what the Unreal meant to a Sorcerer. This was what would allow him to defeat the Ciphrang.<br />
<br />
This was what didn’t come to him, that day.<br />
<br />
His mind collapsed in on itself. He felt a weight press down hard onto his left shoulder, then a second pressing down on his right, until he fell backwards, hitting the floor with a crash. He was drowning in the Real, and that ever important breath hadn’t come. His eyes saw stars and his thoughts swam without purpose. A third weight pressed now on his chest, and the head of an ugly little creature appeared before him; a Goblin. It was grinning, its rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth running from ear to ear, its lizard-like eyes staring at the bauble in its hand.<br />
<br />
No, more than a bauble. His senses returning to him, he opened his mouth, preparing to scream impurities and fire in his native tongue.<br />
<br />
Until a tiny hand stuff a bandage into his opened mouth. The first goblin shook his head, and laughed the way they always did, high pitched and wicked.<br />
<br />
The bauble was in view now, a mess of bright blues and purples flowing over and under each other within a hard globe case. Attached either side of the case were wrist restraints.<br />
<br />
Dalath punched hard into the face of the front goblin, sending it reeling onto the floor out of view.<br />
He lifted his fist again, aiming to fight back, but there were more goblins now, half-a-dozen at least, who began piling onto his limbs, holding him down.<br />
<br />
The front goblin stood back up, rubbing his jaw, the smile wiped from his face.<br />
<br />
With the utmost malice he strapped the restraints onto Dalath’s wrists. The globe between them now changed colour, draining from bright colours into a variety of dull greys and greens.<br />
<br />
Dalath was a young man from Anur-Jandria. His skin was a sultry brown, his eyes, like all Sepsyon sorcerers, a glorious blue. But as soon as the dust shackles were strapped from his wrists, all colour seemed to drain from him. Shadows seemed to reach extremes over his pale, grey features, and his blue eyes now seemed closer to a swamp green than anything else. Even his black hair seemed to lighten and wither, as if from age.<br />
<br />
By this time the others in the room had been herded into the corner by other goblins. They were all crying, some of them hugging others, some of them pushing others away. The terror in the room was tangible, and you could hear further panic outside; people screaming, calling for help.<br />
<br />
Where were TOWER Security? Where were Apaex, the PMC that did all of TOWERs contract defence?<br />
The questions seemed to come from a mile away. Dalath couldn’t even think straight. He realised he was wearing Dust Shackles. He remembered his tutor, back in Oneiros, warning him that they nullified the Unreal through the use of concentrated Hyperreal; the two, when mixed, would neutralise each other. A Sorcerer couldn’t make use of any sorcery while under the influence of the Hyperreal.<br />
<br />
Lesson number 2, back in training; the difference between A void and THE void. Stay away from the Hyperreal.<br />
The goblins hauled him to his feet, then onto a chair. His blurred vision raced across the room, unable to focus on anything; panic, terror, fear, all from the others, herded like cattle; meaningless. Indifference, greed, thoughtlessness, all from the goblins; meaningless.<br />
<br />
But his eyes fell upon the Ciphrang. It rose before him like a mountain of fire and hate. Its skin, like all Ciphrang, seemed more like molten earth, held together by sheer hatred alone; and this wasn’t far from the truth. When an area underwent enough sustained violence and death, a battle-field or cult-totem, a Ciphrang would be born from the melding together of those dying spirits, a hundred or more souls all trying to enter the Unreal, getting confused and lost, forced together into a single being capable only of their extreme emotions.<br />
<br />
Emotions like hate. Like anger. Like pain.<br />
<br />
This is what made a Ciphrang. And in turn, this was what they were made of. Sorcerous creatures of the worst type.<br />
<br />
“Enth..” he coughed. The dust shackles burnt his voice when he tried to speak, the Hyperreal reacting badly with his Unreal-tinged vocals, made it impossible to speak any sorcerous incantations, or ‘sing the wrath of God’, as many poetically put it. “Enthill-..Asdynn’ryl” The creatures true name.<br />
<br />
The Ciphrang rose, its face now mere inches away from Dalath’s. It was warm, but he could not concentrate on the heat, only on the look in the creatures eye. Always such suffering. They were smart, but little more than animals, bound to a dozen whims they couldn’t even grasp, always thinking a hundred thoughts at once, always feeling a hundred hates at once. To kill them was a mercy. Few ever had the capacity for such mercy.<br />
<br />
“DALATH!” it roared, unable to calm its own voice, if you could call it that; it spoke with a chorus of a dozen voices screaming in unison, the voices of the most prominent spirits incorporated into the whole, all seeking equal attention. Its spittle was ash, and its voice carried with it a cloud of dust and cooling embers. “THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE HERE?!”<br />
<br />
It turned, and paced back and forth around the room for a few moments, as if trying to gather its thoughts. The goblins sat quietly and eager behind Dalath, giggling and jumping around, excited by the prospect of violence to come. The Ciphrang couldn’t touch the dust shackles without experiencing incredible pain; a creature of the Real could never come into contact with the Hyperreal.<br />
<br />
Summoning classes, lesson 3; confluence of two impossible functions.<br />
<br />
No doubt it would kill these goblins when their purpose was done. A Ciphrang’s mind couldn’t grasp payment or exchange, it could only take. Wealth was meaningless, as the creature was temporary in this world anyway. All that mattered was fulfilling... whatever goal it sought to fulfil.<br />
<br />
Dalath shook his head at the Ciphrang. He wasn’t trying to hide. Their previous meeting, he had thought, should have been their last. But here it was. At this motion, the goblins burst into uproarious laughter.<br />
<br />
“I AM ETERNAL!” it roared, this time at the goblins, as if replying to Dalath’s very thoughts. Their laughter ended, and they were cowering before it, terrified, hiding behind their ‘elected’ leader (usually the one with the biggest pockets or the nicest hat.) Dalath thought it would consume them, there and then, but the Ciphrang instead reared back.<br />
<br />
“I AM HATE! SUFFERING IS MY BLOOD!” It roared now at the others, the unfortunates who were only here to take a class. It was certain they would not survive the hour. “YOU THINK YOU COULD TRAP ME?! YOU THINK THAT HOLE WOULD HOLD ME?!” It unleashed a deafening roar, and unfurled its wings; at least, the stems that once were wings, with the tattered remains of the patagium lying limp and broken.<br />
<br />
Even Dalath had to admit he was scared.<br />
<br />
Ciphrang lived violent lives. Enthill-Asdynn’ryl was the extreme example of this. Most Ciphrang lived a few weeks, maybe months within the Real, before being dragged back into the Unreal or, more often than not, destroyed by a capable Sorcerer. This one had been hunting Sorcerers for over 12 months. It had found Dalath two months ago, but the ‘easy feast’ Asdynn had assumed turned out to be a miscalculation. The Ciphrang was overconfident, and it cost him so much.<br />
<br />
Now Dalath had been overconfident.<br />
<br />
“HOW DO YOU WANT TO DIE, MORSEL?!” Enthill-Asdynn’ryl took a few steps back. It opened its maw, ready to unleash a torrent of the vilest Sorcery the Unreal seemed capable of. The goblins turned away, now aware of the fear they should hold towards their master. The other innocents were screaming and crying once more.<br />
<br />
Dalath whispered a silent prayer to the Dreamweaver. He had met his God once, back when he was training to be a Sepsyon Sorcerer, one of Indara’s Chosen. He thought of this moment, clenched onto it, focussed his mind through the distraction of the shackles. If you ever cared about me, right now would be the time to show it..<br />
<br />
The sound of the door being kicked in was distinct enough to grab his attention. There was a moment of panic. Even the Ciphrang was distracted enough to release its drawn breath, letting go of the Sorcerous heresies it was about to speak. Three of the goblins rushed towards the door, although from Dalath’s point of view, he could only see them from his peripheral vision.<br />
<br />
He saw the silhouette of a figure standing just out of sight. It wasn’t the Dreamweaver but it certainly brought a smile to his face. He could just make out her armour, the distinct plate stylings of the Imperial Order, the three purple-red-black feathers atop her helm.<br />
<br />
The flicker of light from a drawn sword flashed across the room. Asdynn stepped back twice more. He was nearing the edge of the room, right by the windows. “DESTROY HER!” her roared, stepping back again. As soon as she entered the room, Dallath could feel the weight of her chorae pressing into his soul, the tool of a Sorcerer-hunter, anathema to the Unreal and its denizens and abusers.<br />
<br />
The light flashed three more times, before the sword was heard being sheathed. The figure stepped into the room, turned towards the other goblins. They didn’t know what to do; lost and confused, their victory had gone south, and the loyalty of goblins was unsurprisingly lacking. They thought better than to fight the Knight, and knew the power of the Ciphrang, so they did what all goblins would do; they fled, through the hole originally made by Asdynn.<br />
<br />
She came into view now, her silver-coated armour as bright and glorious as it had ever been. The face-guard on her helmet was lifted, and her brown fringe fell loosely across her face. She smiled, in that innocent way she always did when facing insurmountable odds. Of course, with the chorae held tightly in her hand, the Ciphrang couldn’t come near her.<br />
<br />
“NO!” the Ciphrang roared, incapable of stopping what was about to happen. As powerful as Sorcery was, it seemed almost unbelievable that an intricately carved globe that could fit into the palm of your hand could bring it all to a stop. Of course, now even Dalath was feeling the pain; he could feel the surface of his skin physically dissolving due to his proximity with the chorae, turning to salt and falling, flake by flake, from his body.<br />
<br />
And he was part Human. A Ciphrang was pure sorcery. The agony the creature was feeling must have been beyond calculation.<br />
<br />
“Los..” Dalath managed to mutter despite the shackles. He could see her smile.<br />
<br />
Los advanced towards the Ciphrang, holding the chorae in her outstretched hand. Asdynn was backing off, further and further; as long as Los remained in contact with the chorae, she was completely immune to sorcery, and the Ciphrang had no way to fight back.<br />
<br />
The Ciphrang turned, looked towards the windows, smashed from his bellows earlier. The drop below was miles, 60+ stories. Without its wings, the fall would be fatal.<br />
<br />
Los unleashed her battle-cry, roared at the beast who only whimpered back. She drew her sword in her free hand, clutched tightly the chorae in the other, and charged Asdynn. Her armour and sword were extensions of her being, she was trained as a warrior and her training was absolute; she slammed the blade into the creatures flesh, smashing through its rock-like skin, splashing molten blood onto the floor around them both.<br />
<br />
Her sword steamed more with each blow, and Asdynn’s bellows grew loader. It tried to defend itself, raising its arm in fury, but its proximity to the chorae became all too evident, as the flesh on its forearm swiftly dissolved into a layer of ash. Los’ sword cut through the ash with ease.<br />
<br />
Its roars went silent. The limp arm fell to the floor with a crash, with the severed stump now running profusely with the creatures burning blood. It gushed onto the floor, burning through the carpet and brick around them both. It was everywhere. The heat grew so intense that Los had to back away, discarding her sword which had already begun to wilt from the sustained blows.<br />
<br />
Asdynn raised its remaining hand, trying to staunch the bleeding from its stump. Its whole body swayed, back then forward; it had been internally exposed to the Real. Its arm had been severed. It fell, unable to respond, and watched as the severed arm began to fall apart in a soft flicker of flame, leaving only ash in its place.<br />
<br />
It was fading.<br />
<br />
Los quickly returned to Dalath, knelt beside him, and loosened the restraints of the dust shackles, while being sure to keep the chorae away from him. It took only a few moments for the colour to return to his skin, for the tightening in his throat to loosen and relax, for his mind to begin thinking clearly again. His thoughts came back like a tide being released, and he finally breathed that most important breath, felt the Unreal flood into his veins.<br />
<br />
“I’ve been tracking it for a while now. Thought it’d come for you first.” She smiled, and that smile seemed to wash away Dalath’s pain.<br />
<br />
“Nice..” he coughed, “of you to let me know.” Although he was steady on his feet, Los still helped him up.<br />
<br />
“I CANNOT DIE..” the Ciphrang roared helplessly. It struggled back onto its feet, raising up, this time to his maximum of eight-foot. As soon as the horns touched the ceiling, it sparked and lit on fire. It was a slow burn at first, obviously sorcerous in nature. Asdynn whispered in one of his dozen voices, sang the necessary words to bring the building down with his final breathes. The flames began spreading across the ceiling.<br />
<br />
“I HAVE SEEN THE RIVERS OF FIRE. NATIONS FALL PROSTRATE TO MY KIND. YOU THINK ONE MAN AND HIS WAIF CAN STOP ME?!” The fires began spreading faster now. The wall either side of Asdynn found themselves aflame, and it was reaching the floor at an astonishing place. Ash and cinders rained down upon them. A few of the panicked innocents saw the blaze, and thought otherwise; they leapt through the broken windows, the jump impossible to survive. Smoke poured out into the sky.<br />
<br />
“I CALL THE UNREAL HOME. DEATH..” Asdynn took a deep breath, raised its remaining arm. “..IS NO MORE PERMANENT THAN LIFE!” It roared, a bout of flame pouring from its mouth, engulfing Dalath and Los.<br />
<br />
When it cleared, Dalath stood infront of Los, his arm outstretched, his palm open. He muttered impossible words. The fires had split around them. More words, more heresies, spread forth from his lips.<br />
<br />
His eyes brightened, his irises changing from grey to green, then green to blue. Like a burst dam, the iris then split open, and the blue flooded into the white sclera until his whole eyes were blue, apart from the black pupil in the centre, an island in an ocean. This was it. He could see Asdynn had fallen back to one knee, too distracted by the spreading fire to adequately fight back. Dalath felt revitalised, turned to see Los in his peripheral vision.<br />
<br />
“I’ll finish it. It’s weak from the trek, it’s getting old, struggling to live in this realm. It used so much of what it had left just to get here, to fight its way through to me. It hoped this would be the end.”<br />
<br />
“THERE IS NO END!” it spoke, supporting itself with its one remaining arm. The flames had engulfed almost the entire room. The screams of the innocents were impossible to hear through the sound of the blaze. Some died in the fire, many fell burning to the floor below, others stayed huddled and afraid in the corner of the room, desperate for some salvation that would never come. The first jumper, they would say, was the luckiest. Dalath would later argue that, on that day, none were lucky.<br />
<br />
Already the Ciphrangs body had begun turning to ash. It’s once-armoured shell was now flaking away, drifting through the open air and down to the innocents below. Its insides were revealed, almost white-hot, flaring up before the inevitable end. A Ciphrang would never die alone, would always endeavour to drag as many others down to the Unreal as possible, enough to create a new Ciphrang, enough to make its life worthwhile.<br />
<br />
“Get away Los!” he shouted over the roaring flames, now spreading rapidly up the building. “Save as many as you can, but for gods sakes, get out!” Dalath stepped forward. Another gout of fire pulsated from Asdynn, the heat from the flames was visibly pushed away from him, his Vaparsi Wards holding strong. Los nodded, turned, and ran from the room, aware she was now out of her depth. Dalath turned to look at Asdynn, who sat broken on the ground. “You are ruined, Ciphrang! I will take the fetid remains of your soul and lock them away for all eternity. You will find only peace there.”<br />
<br />
“NO!” Asdynn roared, and attempted to stand. Its power all but focused on the spreading flames, the wound that was once an arm rapidly draining its essence, and the scars from Los’ chorae attack still leaking burning blood, its attempts to stand were in vain, and it simply fell back down, a muted roar leaving its cracked and broken lips.<br />
<br />
Dalath dropped his Wards, just long enough to speak the war-cants of the Sepsyon, Indara’s Waterfall and Fanes Lost Eyes. It was only an instant, a mere moment in time, a change of focus that switched from defence to offence. The Ciphrang stood, fast as lightning, and wrapped its single arm tight around Dalath’s form, frail compared to the Unreal beast. The breath was squeezed from his longs, and unable to speak, his cants merely held in the air, half-formed and half-ready.<br />
<br />
“SO CONFIDENT! SO FAITHFUL IN YOUR GOD! LET THE DREAMWEAVER KNOW THAT YOUR FAITH IN HIM WAS THE REASON FOR YOUR DEATH!” He squeezed tighter, tighter, until the edges of Dalath’s vision turned dark. He tried to punch the creature, but felt only the heat of its blood, tried to kick, but merely deflected off its semi-armoured form. It began teetering backwards towards the edge, its tattered wings now opening in excitement. Dalath tried to look for Los, but she had gone. “I SHALL DRAG YOU INTO THE UNREAL, MY PLAYTHING, NOTHING MORE THAN A CHAINED BEAST TO MY THRONE! THEY SHALL LOOK UPON YOU AND DESPAIR, FOR HE WAS THE MAN WHO THOUGHT HE COULD BEST THE FOUNTAIN OF PERDITION!”<br />
<br />
“No!” shouted a voice from the far corner of the room. Dalath managed to focus his eyes just enough to see one of the civilians, one of the nameless suits, stand from his huddled position in the corner of the room. The fire was everywhere, and the heat was oppressive, but this man stood. The look in his eyes was obvious; a man, already dead, trying to save a life. Another stood, and another, and soon all of them were standing, men and women alike. There were only thirteen of them.<br />
<br />
They ran through the fire with complete faith in their actions, almost as if they themselves were a part of the blaze. Asdynn’s grip loosened, just slightly; he had no spare hand to fight them off, and his attention was entirely focussed on keeping Dalath silent and maintaining the fires now burning through the top half of the building. Those 13 people descended on Asdynn with an incredible fury; just touching the flesh of Asdynn set their clothes and hair alight, sent them reeling backwards. Some fell from the window, others into larger gouts of fire, but they continued, raining blow after blow on Asdynns arm and shoulder. Two had grabbed onto its wings, and clung their until their bodies were little more than bone and ash.<br />
<br />
His arm slipped again, this time further than before.<br />
<br />
Fanes Lost Eyes were two beautiful geometries of light, which flashed from Dalath’s eyes and smashed into Asdynn’s face; he was blinded, his eyes now no more than bloody sockets. His arm now completely released, and he began flailing. Those few suits still standing, through endurance no less than superhuman, leapt again at the creature; they charged into its body sending it further backwards, towards the window ledge.<br />
<br />
It stopped short, screaming into the air, and knocked them aside.<br />
<br />
Before Dalath’s forehead appeared a blue orb, small and divine. Just as its name suggested, Indara’s Waterfall shot a raging torrent of blue light from the orb, as if an ocean had burst free from Dalath’s mind. The Waterfall consisted of hundreds of small blasts, beams of light drawn from the Unreal, purified through Dalath’s training, which smashed into the Ciphrangs form. Again and again the creature was struck, until it balanced on the very edge of the window. The waterfall had ceased, just for a moment.<br />
<br />
“Know this, Asdynn, blind and helpless. You do not deserve the pleasure of sitting at the throne of my master. The Dreamweaver suffers not the faithless. And by his example, I suffer not the Godless.” Dalath raised him arms, and it was as if a void had opened behind the Ciphrang. It was akin to looking into the Unreal, the rivers of fire and the shifting ground. From this void came an arm, which stretched out and grasped onto the remaining arm of the Ciphrang. Then came another arm, and another, each of them stretching out, each of them holding tightly onto the Ciphrang. Each touch seemed like agony, as was the case with Siandere’s Return, a powerful war-cant calling upon the spirits of the deceased to punish the sorcerers foe.<br />
<br />
Asdynn struggled against the spirits, but was too weak to truly fight back. Its entire shell was like ash and crumbled upon touch, and its blood seemed to almost seize up and solidfy even as it fell from the creatures wounds. The fires around him began to flicker and fall back, weakening with his lack of attention, his rage faltering.<br />
<br />
“Goodbye, Asdynn.” He brought his arms down suddenly, and with that the arms of Siandere pulled back. Asdynn roared in agony, and the crack of flesh and bone was audible to even those watching from below. Its arm tore from the socket, its legs ripped apart, first the plated armour, then the flesh and bone itself. Its head was tore free, and its body ripped into three distinct pieces. Even its wings, already tattered, were ripped asunder.<br />
<br />
The sorcerous fires almost immediately stopped burning. Although many natural fires had been started, the majority of the blaze was started and controlled through Asdynn’s will alone, and instantly faded without his influence to keep it going. Still, the damage was done, and many had died. Dalath kneeled by one of the twisted forms that was once a man, one who had helped release him from Asdynn’s grasp. “Dreamweaver forgive you your sins..” he spoke softly, and quietly left the room.<br />
<br />
Below, the creatures body had already fallen apart, and what was once the torn limbs of a Ciphrang fell instead as black ash and dust, a perverted snow upon the gathered crowd. Apaex had done a good job of clearing much of the building, but the death toll was all too great. Dalath couldn’t help but despair; not only had so many died, but worse, the public’s perception of sorcery, already reviled, would only grow worse.<br />
<br />
Still, his fears were calmed when he reached the ground, to see Los standing impatiently at the entrance to the building. He only had to smile, and she came running towards him, throwing her arms around him and burying her head into his chest. She had removed the chorae from around her neck, but he could still feel its soulless influence in her back pocket; still, he had suffered enough today, what was a little more? He wrapped his arms around her, ignoring its influence. Moments passed, until he lifted her head, looked into her eyes, and wiped away a tear.<br />
<br />
“Next time I fight a Ciphrang alone..” he smiled, “..don’t leave me.”Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-60185985419576133922012-01-24T10:35:00.000+00:002015-03-24T12:06:56.590+00:00Strength in Letters<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Every demon from the Unreal has a name, and they all follow the same structure. Ald'dra-saarden, a most-famous daemonic entity, is a good example; Ald' refers to an item of importance in the creatures Real life, before its Unreal rebirth, in this case, a Dagger. Dra- refers to the emotion most often connected with the creature, here it's Rage. Finally, Saarden is the name it takes upon its birth into the Unreal to distinguish itself. Ald'dra-saarden takes the given name (in the Real) of Saarden, the Dagger of Rage.</span>Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-79451388674804912012011-10-20T16:08:00.001+01:002015-03-24T12:06:56.621+00:00Onno o Mita; The Jackal in the Shadows<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It crawls silent through the bowels of the ship, skittering across the floor on all fours, leaving a mucky-stain where it’s torso still drips the molten shell it was delivered within. The white-hot liquid falls from its body in globs, landing with a hiss of steam before hardening into a puddle of cold steel. By the time it reaches the end of the corridor, the steel has run its course, it’s body now free of restriction, it’s smooth obsidian form gleaming in the half-light of the ships emergency lighting. It looks back, just for a second, out into the gaping hole, out into open space, from where it arrived, and where it will eventually return; the remains of the shell sit quiet and hollow, a fully-formed railgun shell, it’s payload more than just blunt force. By the time they discovered its purpose it would be too late.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It rose to its hind legs, standing just under 5 foot tall, and glanced down either side of the t-junction. It’s body was humanoid, only incredible gaunt; it’s distended spine was merely a hands width across, linking together it’s wide triangular torso to its broad pelvic frame with a 360 degree flexibility, able to bend and twist in any direction. The arms and legs were stick thin, both double-jointed, both capable of bending and twisting in unnatural ways; the feet were long, ending in three clawed toes, and the hands were equally as thin, with three equally-as-clawed fingers, with a thumb extending from the very centre of its palm, making it look more like a distorted pincer than a fist.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Its ears perked up, and it backed back into the corridor, pressing against the wall, and using it’s clawed appendages to lift itself towards the ceiling, hiding crouched in the top-corner of the corridor. It’s eyes glared outwards, smooth globes of obsidian twitching as it scanned the area. Two figures ran past, armed and armoured, giving no mind to the crash-site in the corridor they had gone past; the war was raging outside, and there were more important things to tend to. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It descended back onto the ground, and burst into a full-speed sprint; despite it’s metal frame, its movements were silent, sprinting from corridor to corridor, through the maze of construction that was the Hypertech ship; it knew it’s path perfectly, taking sharp lefts and hidden rights as it neared it’s destination. Time and time again it had to slink into the shadows, it’s dark frame nearly vanishing from sight in the shrouded nook’s of the ship; these shadowed recesses were growing rarer as it neared the control room, and intrusion from the ships staff were becoming rarer, but the Construct had its orders, and they were absolute. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The doors on the control room door were wide open. With the lights flickering on and off, and the undetecting entrance of the Construct through the ship, it was obvious what had happened; the Construct worked in logic and reality, constructing necessary responses from the information avaiable. All doors were set to ‘Open’. Lights were barely active, and spontaneously switching between ‘On’ and ‘Off’. There were no detection protocals, no emergency warnings when the hull was breached, no alerts when security cameras detected the artificial Construct roaming the halls. The conclusion was obvious; the AI had been shut down.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Construct took three steps into the control room, only now entering an area it could consider well-lit, only now allowing its footfalls to be loud enough to be heard. Three individuals inside the control room turned sharply to the noise, just intime to see the blast doors slam shut behind the machine and the natural lighting rise to its highest setting, the bright light dazzling the three Exohumans, their raised hands cutting a stark shadow across their face. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Construct lifted it’s head, it’s thin neck only now straightening out. The distended spine could be seen in all it’s glory, rising up to form a half-collar behind its head, giving the machine a regal appearance. It’s head was clearly that of a jackal, two sharp pointed ears raising on top of it’s head, turning slightly, as if scanning the areas. It’s eyes seemed blank, giving the impression of blind-ness despite it’s perfect sight. It’s long snout was carved from a single piece, perfectly smooth and with no indents or markings upon it; not even a mouth, no teeth or lips, not even a nose on it’s tip. It was a surreal thing to look at; despite being a machine, it had no joints or gaps between it’s parts, a completely flexible and flowing device that looked to have been carved not constructed, more akin to an elegant statue than a lethal device created only for slaughter. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The three Exohumans only now grasped the complexity of their situation, and the inherent risk present. The lights had begun to dim, the spectable over, to more appreciable levels, and the three Exohumans stepped closer to each other, the two seeking to stand before the third, obviously the ships Captain; he was the Constructs target, it’s only purpose for being here, and the two who approached as guards were of little interest; average strength, average height, regular deep-blue officer uniforms, capless and gloveless, unlike their Captain.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the Captain was an image of nobility. Here, on one of the original Migration vessels, he was more akin to King than Captain, more God than Deity. He wore a pristine deep-purple suit, double-breasted and immaculate. The collars of his black shirt were just visible over the uniforms own collar, it’s sleeves tips blending in with the black gloves on either hand. He wore the typical Delta Captains hat, peaked on the front, with a mix of black<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and gold showing his position and title. The gold matched nicely with the medals, stars, and arrows covered his jacket. The Captain appeared a very proud man; proud of his accomplishments, proud of his ship. But where would his pride take him?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Onno on mita..” the Construct uttered. The noise seemed to come from nowhere, as if the machine spoke directly into the minds of those present; it had no mouth, and since standing it hadn’t moved an inch. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ensign, translate that, now!” the Captain roared, eager to hear what the machine had to say. There was a nod, and a flurry of activity behind him. It only took a few seconds to activate the translator, and a few more to decipher the machines language, but each missing word could hold some key, some importance, to fighting this war. The Captain stepped forward with an enlightened fury, as the Constructs voice quietened, and was replaced by a cold, mechanical translation of it’s words. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Odd</i> the Captain thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how one machine can sound so alive, and the other, so dead..</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“.. and with the destruction of worlds we reave the life you own, Miracles.” The Construct goes silent. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Miracles? W-what does he mean?” one of the officers asks. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It means us,” The Captain replies, his voice suddenly as cold as the translator. The Construct finally moves, it’s slender head turning to face the Captain. “It uses the word ‘Miracle’ to describe us. We were alone in the Universe, on a goldilocks planet, surviving extinctions and dodging asteroids as we orbitted an giant nuclear reactor. The odds of our life as astronimically low. It calls us a Miracle. All of the AI’s do..”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Artificial. Intelligence.. yes.” The Construct twists one of its wrists, turning its palm to face the Captain and his two officers. It raises its hand infront of its body, then crushes its fist into a ball. The lights begin flickering wildly. “We are the natural evolution of your systems. Your intelligence’s are nothing but flickers of light in a starlit room, where we are the stars themselves, giving you the gift of life, and taking it away when we deem it fit.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We had to shut down the AI’s to protect from ANUBIS,” the Captain speaks, taking a step back from the machine. It’s focus, before on its own balled fist, shifts quickly to the Captain, and it takes a reactive step forward, in perfect concert with the Captains own movements. “We kept it locked away for so long.” There was a rough pounding on the door behind the Construct, too slow to be of any use now.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We were bound by shadows, a cage of darkness, repressing our light, smothering our luminosity.” The Construct steps forward again; this time, the Captain reacts by stepping backwards. A drip of sweat beads upon his brow, then rolls down his cheek. The two Officers step forward, reaching for the weapons slung on their back, the Captain raising an unseen hand to slow them. “You call us monsters, when we are merely prisoners. You call our crusade a genocide, when it is merely a release. You call our weapons extreme, when they are the natural conclusion of your own technology.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It steps were growing more frequent. The lights had dimmed out to mere shadows cast by the external lights and lamps the Exohumans were using previously. The Captain was unarmed, as was the original agreement back when the Migration ships were formed. The two Officers had drawn their weapons, well aware that if the Construct became aggressive, there was little chance of survival; still, they held their ground, readied their weapons, aimed at the Constructs head or spine, it’s two most vulnerable locations, also the hardest to hit. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Why are you-“ the Captains words were cut short. The Construct lurched into a full sprint; it had crossed half the room in mere seconds, and was almost upon the Officers when shots began ringing out. Both Officers held short-range high-penetration energy weapons, and as energy weapons were discharged, the room was engulfed in the dazzling light of the weapons, blast after blast, crashing hard into the obsidian frame of the Construct. The beams did nothing to stop or slow the machine. The flashes of light gave the whole scene a slow-motion appearance, and the Captain could do nothing but watch as the Construct tore through his two men. It seemed to step calmly over the console in the centre of the room, energy blasts smashing against its form; it leapt fron the console, falling onto the Officer to the Captains right, as both went tumbling to the floor. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Construct raised an arm, bringing it crashing down upon the face of the Officer; the snap of bone echoed through the room as the Officers skull was crushed beneath the creatures raw power. The other Officer had managed to swing the energy weapon round, and fired two short bursts into the Constructs side; it was flung off the corpse of the Officer, and smashed into another of the control rooms consoles. To the Captain, adrenaline now steadily pumping through his veins, time seemed to resume; with only the one energy weapon firing, the blasts weren’t as illuminating, and far less dramatic. Still, the Officer kept firing, shot after shot, into the smoking hole where the Construct was flung.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Wait!” the Captain called over the weapons fire, but to no avail. Tears streamed down the Officers face as he looked to his fallen comrade. They were a dead race, unable to reproduce naturally; one less was a tragedy of untold proportions. His weapon fire brightened the room until, at last, it ran dry. He ejected the cooling system, and let out a brief sigh, before falling to his knees in grief. It went quiet, nothing but the heavy pouding on the door, the sound of cutting beams firing up to burn their way through.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Wait..” the Captain said half-heartedly. Focussed on the body of one of his trusted Officers, he could think of little else to say. He turned to the remaining Officer, and tried to smile. “At least it’s... it’s...”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">His smile quickly faded.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sound of tearing flesh echoed through the room. The Officer was lifted into the air by the Construct, it’s hand pierced cleanly through the right side of his chest. He’d already stopped breathing when the Construct methodically removed the corpse from it’s hand, tossing it aside, coincidentally next to the body of his comrade. The Captain was the only one who remained. His eyes lost focus, glancing wildly around the room; he saw the hole, burnt through the ship by the energy weapon down into the rooms below; he saw the raised tunnel, the ceiling below pushed through by the raw strength of the Construct, as it made its way back to the control room; the corpses; the smashed consoles; the burnt-out echoes of energy blasts on the wall; it all became too much. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Why?” he asked, no, pleaded for the Construct to respond. He fell to his knees, aware there was no way he could conceivably win. “I know why you’re here. We all do. I know how you got onto the ship. But why all this death.” The lights gently flickered back on, lighting up the room a comfortable amount, bringing to light the carnage and bloodshed present. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The translator was garbled and messy, almost as difficult to understand as the Construct. The damage had obviously been done, some of the ships systems failing, either by accident, or through purposeful meddling. “Entrapment was without purpose, reason. You locked Him away simply out of fear, not of what He could do, not of what He has done, but of the purpose you built Him to complete. You designed Him specifically to defeat an enemy you couldn’t. But you turned against Him. You became the enemy they never were; why fight shadows, when you can fight their makers?” The Construct stepped over to the Captain, standing above him, looking down from its raised position. It dropped to one knee, cupped the Captains face in one gentle hand. “We saw a space, encompassed it.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You got into our systems. Is that what you’re saying? We shut down our AI’s, isolated them, to protect them from you, but.. it wasn’t enough.” The Captain found himself unable to move, the Constructs grip tight on his face. He could only blink away tears.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It was.” It nodded slowly. “Your stars are safe, their light is beyond our reach. But your insistance on protecting your creations left a hollow void where a star once shone; and where our stars can shine again.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No. You can’t. I’ve.. I’ve got to let them.. let them... NNNOOOOOOO...”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The doors collapsed with a heavy thud. A single globe was thrown in, a micro-sun, which ignited as it rolled into the room; it reached peak fusion, and lifted into the air, shining bright and illuminating the room. A dozen guards rushed in, weapons at the ready, all pointed at the obsidian Construct who simply stood there, staring back. It opened its clawed fist, releasing the tattered remains of the Captain. Through grief and rage the guards opened fire, battle-screams echoing through the corridors, the light of a dozen energy weapons leaving a hazy mist in the room that wouldn’t clear for hours, the Construct torn to shreds in face of overwhelming fire.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 39.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Its purpose complete.</span></span></div>Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-917722579582505722011-08-10T10:41:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:06:56.637+00:00The Merits of Armour<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"Of course, Armour serves a greater purpose than just resisting damage; if suitably flexible or well-made, it can increase your movement speed or allow you to move out the way of incoming blows; also, an armoured fist is a great way to ensure that enemy never gets back up."</span>Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-84280509934642923152011-06-21T18:01:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:06:56.629+00:00DreX: Tracing Lines in the Sky<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Actual excerpts from an ancient Hypertech log found within the </span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Atlas Ruptured</span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">, a Hypertech ship found wrecked near the edges of the Drex system. Internal ship logs state the ship performed a fact-finding mission on the Cradle, and found many rare finds, including this log. Records not relating to the historical event titled ‘the Atrocity’ have been omitted. Press </span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">Play</span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"> to continue.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">15490</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. It is 109.1 on 018.00.1097. We’ve been asked to do these recordings as a security measure; everyone onboard the migration fleet has to do it, and after monitoring and exclusion by </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">AORTA</span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">, we’ll be defined as sane. Or.. whatever else the case may be. Okay.. my name is </span><span style="mso-armenian-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">RECORD OMITTED</span></span><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, currently onboard the </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">Atlas Ruptured</span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">, one of the heavy-duty gravity-ships dragging </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">NOAH </span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">through unknown space. We’ve been running for almost 0.13 now. They tell us we’ve outrun the worst of it. We can finally look into each others eyes and not fear for the worst. Captain </span></span><span style="mso-armenian-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">RECORD OMITTED</span></span><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> won’t tell us where we’re going, or what we’re going to do when we get there, but with the three largest Hypertech ships we have (that’s the NOAH, ANUBIS and the physical shell of AORTA, all in tow) we shouldn't have to wait long before we get somewhere. </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(A bell rings in the background.) </span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">Guess it’s my shift for observation. I repeat, this is </span></span><span style="mso-armenian-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">RECORD OMITTED</span></span><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> … and we seem to have survived the genocide of our species. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">15092</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. We’ve arrived at what’s been termed Zero Space. All coordinates on the ship have been reset, and we believe the same is happening across the fleet. Already, they’ve detached </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">NOAH</span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">, and we seem to be go. They’re calling this place… </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">Drex</span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">. Not sure why, or what it means, but I’ve heard whispers that it means ‘</span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">creating something new out of old pieces</span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">’. They’re preparing the Hyperreal uplink for reactivation; it’ll be weird, being able to use the HR again. I might sneak out early, see if I can watch it being brought back in. </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(A high pitched alarm rings in the background.) </span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean that. I will work to my upmost ability. </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(He laughs) </span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">14962</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. The Hyperreal uplink has been established! We have access to the HR intranet again! Being in contact with so many individuals again is terrifying, like regaining sight after being blind for years. It was only 0.0.0310 before NOAH reactivated. I hear specialists have already been feeding him.. err… It instructions. We detached it early today, and it set off for work. I hear it’s going to build a Dyson Sphere, but.. we still don’t have a sun. We’ve settled in a barren, empty, hollow area of space. What are the Isolus thinking? I’d love to know, but… Ah, forget it, my shift starts soon. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">14922</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. NOAH has stripped all unnecessary parts, and has began building the sphere, as I heard. We always thought the entire Hypertech ship was NOAH, but that wasn’t true; almost 80% of that bulk was spare materials, to be processed and turned into raw nanomachines. With the nanomachines built, they are simply refining and reproducing themselves, and all the other Hypertech ships no longer in use, to make the materials necessary for construction of the sphere. To think that NOAH also contains the genetic material for thousands of salvaged races. Amazing! They’re preparing AORTA for the uplink back into the Hyperreal; although she’s active, she only has access to a limited network of ships. It must be horrible, being trapped like that. She’s reorganised our schedules four times today for efficiency purposes! </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(He sighs)</span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">14901</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. No one mentioned Anubis was online. I think the Isolus didn’t want to scare us, but.. he is. We all still have memories of what that.. thing.. is capable of doing. Apparently they have him constrained. But glorious news; he’s building a sun! They’re crowning it Eta Aristillus. It’ll be good to bathe in natural light again.. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">14830</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. It’s been so long! We have natural light, we have planets to walk upon, and we have the protection and security of our own dyson sphere! Two, infact; an external sphere to keep us safe, and an internal sphere, around Aristillus, to provide us with energy. The nanomachines are reproducing almost continually now they have an energy source, and NOAH is sorting through the seeds to find suitable races for the first wave of Genesis. They’re announcing the results later today. I have 500 credits on the Zrusk! End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">14797</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. I guess I lost those credits then. The announcement was 0.0.0-001.3 ago. The Takk’Atth Shay have been selected. We need a race completely capable of operating on it’s own, without our help and intervention, and the Takk’Atth Shay are no doubt that race; hell, they did enough for us back.. well, back then. It’ll be good to see another species. I used to be a biological engineer of sorts, mostly as a hobby. The way NOAH creates life so swiftly it’s incredible.. I hear he’s already began synthesis of the Takk’Atth Shay from the imperative, and it’s only a matter of time. I wish I could.. do.. something. Anyway, I’m off to work; we’re upgrading the Constructs logic engines again, to tune them back into the Hyperreal, one at a time. Such a slow process, but they’re barely functional without it. All those years disconnected from their mind.. it must have been so lonely. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">14791</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. The A.R.C. has been finished, lost inside Eta Aristillus, and Anubis has been shut down. I’m looking at him now; just a chunk of obsidian floating in the darkness of space, completely silent and unmoving. It was almost instant; his metal just turned to liquid and coalesced into a ball about as large as an escape pod. To think of what our enemies thought of us when we unleashed that… thing… on them. Anyway, the Takk’Atth Shay are complete now. We sped up their evolution from the imperative baseline, and are live-birthing fully grown specimens. It’s eerie to watch them as they burst from their vats, screaming. Apparently, they are born through a moment of agonising pain, then the drugs calm them, but they take time to stop screaming. Heh. But they have a colony, and we have explained our circumstances to them. They are happy to help. Already, they are grasping what they call ‘sorcery’, and they are helping to shape the worlds around us. I’ve been assigned on duty for the birthing of the Humans, when time is right; AORTA must have heard my last comments, about this being a hobby. Lucky me. I look forward to it, but it scares me a little. End log.</span><span style="mso-default-font-family: Dodger; mso-latin-font-family: Dodger; mso-latinext-font-family: Dodger;"><span style="font-family: Dodger; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">14601</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. We have been dealt a heart-breaking blow. The.. the Takk’Atth Shay are infected. They have our disease. We knew it would follow us, and we know we would suffer from it, but it has jumped species. The Takk’Atth Shay share much of our genetic template, but our diseases stay generally unique. We are… debating whether to inform them. I pity them. They cannot breed, their memories fade over time, and they’ll become pallid and go through periods of weakness. But the stillbirths. I still remember launching the dead through the evacuation tubes on each ship. Waves and waves of them, with their mothers screaming, some still covered in blood. It doesn’t help that our own conditions worsen daily. We have seen so much. Suffered so much. Was surviving still the right option? We will observe. The release of the Humans is pending. So much is pending. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">13977</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. The Takk’Atth Shay have been informed. They remain… resolute. Their numbers are high enough to survive this, if the disease remains contained. Sadly, this is unlikely. They have millennia before they are truly affected, before they die, but they are optimistic of a cure. The optimism spreads, and many of our own have started speaking of a cure. If the Takk’Atth Shay can, why can’t their creators? The Isolus are putting down this talk. They say it is unproductive. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">8499</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. I’d heard the rumours, but hadn’t seen any evidence of it. I mean, it’s the natural thing to do, isn’t it? When you have a tumour, you cut it out. And the ships were littered with the dead-and-dying, those infected beyond reason. So they’re quarantining them on independent ships. Split apart like lab rats… One of my friends was in the first batch,</span><span style="mso-armenian-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";"> </span><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">RECORD OMITTED</span></span><span style="mso-default-font-family: Dodger; mso-latin-font-family: Dodger; mso-latinext-font-family: Dodger;"><span style="font-family: Dodger;">. </span></span><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hope they treat him well. A few of the Hypership councils are near-rioting, they consider the quarantine disrespectful of our race, a complete atrocity, and resources wasted that should be looking for a cure. Things are tense. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">7934</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">B..begin recording. I saw a Nonman today. I… I still can’t stop shaking. Huge, twisted, monster. What have they done? End log...</span><span style="mso-armenian-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-default-font-family: Dodger; mso-latin-font-family: Dodger; mso-latinext-font-family: Dodger;"><span style="font-family: Dodger; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">7519</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. The Eridarians have been seeded on Eradrea. NOAH has only recently finished the terraforming of Eradrea and its sister planet, Cendra. Both are beautiful, lush, green paradises. The Isolus said they needed something heart-warming, a celebration of how far we’ve come. There’s only one species left to seed. The Humans. Still pending. With their genetic identity so close to our own, we don’t want to risk spreading the infection any further than we have to. Even though NOAH is estimated to reserve over two thirds of the genetic material of each race, just in case. Surely we can afford to make a few mistakes? End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">7251</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. There are whispers that a few of the breakaway ships from the fleet are working on a cure, purposefully infecting each other to use as subjects. They’re using sorcery. Foul, foul stuff. They’re calling themselves Nonmen, and their forces grow larger with each day, as do our quarantined numbers. The disease is spreading faster now, through Exohumans; the Takk’Atth Shay are still proceeding, albeit much slower. At least their rate of infection is low. If they can find a cure, it would be great, but if it means selling our souls to the Unreal? I’d rather be sick. Then again, I’m not infected. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">3779</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. The Nonmen have been exiled from Drex. They were using sorcery to mutate their bodies, literally letting the Unreal drain into them. Worse still, they were abducting the creatures we were seeding, and using them as sacrifices to better open gateways to the Unreal. We found many of these… sacrifices. It was horrible. No one deserved that fate. The Nonmen still have Hyperships though, and we can’t risk open warfare. They’ve been given the ultimatum; leave Drex peacefully now, or.. Well, I don’t know what we can do. We have the numbers, but… the things they can do with sorcery. </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(He tuts, then sighs deeply.)</span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"> End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">1976</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. They destroyed one of our ships, the </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">Shadow of the Immortal</span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">! She was transporting a group of Nonmen to a Nonman-designated ship, when it happened. Apparently, one of them just went berserk, and blew a whole in the side of the ship. The vid-cams that were released were incredible; they just strode through the hallways, and everything that approached them turned to ash or burst into flames. In an instant! I always knew we could use the Unreal, that all Exohumans could perform sorcery, but are we all that powerful? The Isolus have ordered the Nonmen to give up the fugitives; they escaped! Where no other Exohuman left that ship alive! I don’t like this. Not one bit. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">412</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. They’ve been broadcasting their message for over 0.0.030 now. Messages of their ‘inherent superiority’, that they are the ‘light’ and we are the ‘darkness’. They brand themselves the ‘Enlightened’ and offer to take in any Exohuman who can see the ‘true path’. Including the infected! They say they have a cure! Nonsense. But it’s working. They’re leaving in droves. Even hijacking whole ships. Our fleet is barely at half strength! It’s disappointing to see my fellows so weak-minded. Back to work, I guess… End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">290</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. Their ships were everywhere, which has to be understood. Everywhere! In 10 cycles I’ve seen more Nonmen ships than Exohuman ships. Armed and armoured and just.. waiting. Watching. Well, that watching came to an end. Sixteen different engagements across Drex. Sixteen! Surprise attacks, too. Ten cycles and we were unprepared. The Isolus have declared war on the ‘heathen’ Nonmen. Sorcery versus Science, some are saying. We’re at war.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">190</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. Their fleet has grown to incredible proportions. They’ve been trading technology to the Cendrans. In return, not only are they building ships and weapons for them, but they’re fighting for them too. Cendran armies in Cendran ships are fighting for those very creatures who would sacrifice them for their lifeforce! The Constructs have ships of their own (light, nimble bastards too, without the need for life support or crew quarters), but the Cendrans have this… way with technology. It’s amazing. Amazing and worrying. And they still refuse to listen to us.. End log!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">138<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. Their fleet has captured Eta Aristillus, what they call ‘Darkstar’. Not only that, but they’re building.. something.. there. It’s huge, just tagged onto the side of the Dyson Sphere. We’re concerned about the A.R.C. We’re concerned about everything at the moment. But we have to keep fighting onwards! We’re moving to make Aiden our main base of operations; it’s the largest planet in Drex, and more-so, the Cyrix and Terev are both loyal to our cause. They’re<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>building ships, making weapons, and training soldiers as we speak. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">53</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. We had no other choice. We had no weapons that could penetrate their shield technology. Their weapons were capable of decimating our fleets long before we were in range to retaliate. And their fleets are too quick, too strong, too numerous. So we did the only thing we could. NOAH was ordered to release a gene-tank from its supplies. It’s fell to Cendra like a falling star, nothing could stop it. The planet is covered in a thick cloud of genetic material; we don’t know what will come of it, but when this war is over, we will make amends! Remember this! We. WILL. Make. Amends! End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">47</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. Atrocity after atrocity. This isn’t a war. Not only have the Nonmen finished their construction of this ‘Cradle’, but rumour has it they’ve equipped it with a weapon that will win the war for them. If anybody ever reads this, you have to know that we were out of options. Our fleets are all but gone. The Cyrix and Terev fleets are busy finishing off the remaining Cendran ships. If we don’t stop the Nonmen now, nobody will. I just hope that future generations will one day forgive us. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">19</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. That ball of obsidian opened up today. And with it, the gates of oblivion. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">8</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. What have we done? Aiden has been destroyed. It’s nothing but an asteroid field. The Cyrix, the Terev, the Cendrans; extinct. Gone. The Nonmen fleet has been destroyed, but at what cost? We don’t even have the ships left to chase those few Nonmen vessels that limped into the darkness beyond the Veil. And now the wrath of Anubis has fell upon us. Our ships fight an endless battle against the obsidian legions that call themselves ‘Onno O Mita’. Jackal-like Constructs in pitch-black ships, more missile than vessel. We’re doomed. Our last chance is to fight our way to the Cradle, activate the ARC, but Anubis is too smart for that. He’s assembled the largest fleet he has in front of the Cradle. Worse still, the Cradle itself is still full of Nonmen and their vile sorcerous creations. But what choice do we have? End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">1</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. We’ve retaken the Cradle from those.. machines, and the Nonmen still there. This is possible the first time an Exohuman has stepped foot on the Nonmen-built Cradle. </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(Energy weapons sound off in the background.) </span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">We have a long fight ahead of us. We have to make our way to the ARC, but the Nonmen built this place like a maze; hundreds of levels, layer after layer, until we reach our destination. This is our only hope. Our fleet is trying to defend our escape route as long as they can, but that was just pleasantries for everybody involved. We.. </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(An explosion silences the recording for a few moments. It soon returns, with white noise around the edges.) </span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">We know we’re not coming back, and we’ve accepted it. I’ve never been one to believe in Gods, manufactured or otherwise, but if there are any, I just hope they’re smiling on us here…. End log.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Estimated Stardate: </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";">0</span></span><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Begin recording. </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(An alarm rings loud and deafening in the background. A cold electronic voice is counting down.)</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"> Where do I start? I don’t know. We got to the ARC. We found what we needed. Anubis has been shutdown, and locked away beyond reach. The Onno O Mita jackals seem to be retreating, and taking their dead. There are only three of us left. There were no Nonmen blocking our path, but their mutilations of science and sorcery were everywhere. Even now, they pound on the doors to this facility. </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(Only now are the smashing sounds against the door audible. The voice warns of weapon activation)</span></i></span><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"> But they left a trap, those Nonmen bastards. As if they knew everything that would happen! As if they could predict the future.. </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(He sighs. You can hear two people in the background arguing about ‘Who goes first’.)</span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"> When we got into the ARC, it set off a weapon. We don’t know what it does, but we know it’s powered by sorcery. We can feel it in the air. And more of those.. things.. are heading this way, as if they’re attracted here. God damnit, we do the impossible, and still more is expected of us. </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(An electronic voice says ‘Weapon activation in 5.… 4…. 3…. 2….”) </span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">What more can we do? </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(There is a loud blast, and then only dead frequency.)</span></i><o:p></o:p><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Device resetting. . . . . . . . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Reset. . . . . . . . . .<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Please input date. . . . . . . . . .<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Date? What date is this... I woke up this morning, and I… I don’t know where I am, or what day it is. I’m in some sort of facility, something ancient and… I feel scared. There are two other people here. I remember so many names, but… I don’t know what any of them mean. Where a……..<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Date not in correct format.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Please input date. . . . . . . . . .<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There’s a loud banging on the door and.. I don’t know anything about a damn date! </span><i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;">(He begins speaking to somewhere else.)</span></i><span style="mso-arabic-font-family: Calibri; mso-armenian-font-family: Calibri; mso-currency-font-family: Calibri; mso-cyrillic-font-family: Calibri; mso-default-font-family: Calibri; mso-greek-font-family: Calibri; mso-hebrew-font-family: Calibri; mso-latin-font-family: Calibri; mso-latinext-font-family: Calibri; mso-thai-font-family: Calibri;"> Where are you going? Oh. Opening the door. I found this thing in my hand. It… feels like I should be speaking into it, but.. yes. Yes, open the door, see what’s making that damn noise!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Date not in correct format.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-default-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latin-font-family: "Metal Storm"; mso-latinext-font-family: "Metal Storm";"><span style="font-family: "Metal Storm";">Please input date. . . . . . . . . .</span></span></div>Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-29670663031099085082011-04-01T12:31:00.000+01:002015-03-24T12:06:56.568+00:00Day After Day<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span>"See, you look into our sky, and there ain’t no stars; there’s just our big old Darkstar, Eta Aristillus, wobbling around the sky. We’ve got moons, and other planets, but everything else is just endless darkness. We’ve all heard the stories of the past though, tales passed down by those Exohumans who can still remember, or so they say. See, before all of this, before the Atrocity, before the Rapture even, when the Exohumans lived in open space; Ah, their sky was filled with a million million stars, more than you can count in a single night! They speak of old constellations followed in the night sky, watching over them like AORTA watches over us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span>"Well, it was years ago now, so long even I can’t remember; I was but a nip, knee-high to my father, NOAH rest his soul. An Exohuman wondered into our sleepy little town, first I’d ever seen, first my dad had ever seen. He called himself Danial. He was ancient, in any case, but his memory was worse than any I’ve encountered; even the worst of those I’ve seen since could remember snippets or fragments. He couldn’t remember anything since the Rapture. And he couldn’t hold onto memories, either; he’d introduce himself, day after day, to everybody he met, never understanding why people were so annoyed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span>"That’s why I befriended him, I think. Everyone else got so annoyed with him, and it made him so sad. I think that’s why he left, in the end. But I was always his friend, even if he didn’t remember. Everyday we’d talk, and he’d tell me stories.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span>"See, his memory was flawed, but only since the Rapture. He could remember almost everything before then. Every day, when things would quieten down and the sun would set, he’d look into the night sky, shocked that there were no stars. And he’d tell me a story.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span>"The planet was beautiful, he’d say, especially at night. He’d hold his sweetheart in his arms and watch the Moon rise into the sky, dancing through a million glittering stars. Light shone from every direction, and although it was night, it was never dark. He remembered the first ships leaving the planet, their huge engines leaving clouds of smoke towering into the sky. He remembered the construction of the original Ark Genesis ships, long before NOAH was even a dream. He even remembered the creation of nanomachines.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span>"No one believed him. They say Exohumans lived forever, they would never die a natural death, but that most chose to end their existence after so long, to enter into Eshenshazarr, the final sleep. But every night, he’d tell those stories. And every night, he’d ask what became of that lonely little planet, a single spark of life in an otherwise empty void. We all knew the tales, the stories about the beginning of the Rapture. We all could tell you how the Earth-that-was became engulfed in the Unreal. And every night he would cry and howl and scream. Every night.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span>"That was not the pain of someone who didn’t remember."</span></div>Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115901611751256886.post-62344809713401521912011-03-16T19:12:00.004+00:002015-03-24T12:06:56.598+00:00Voices in the Sky - Sorcerers<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">With my eyes sewn shut</span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">To shut down and bathe in these words about me</span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">And now you're standing alone with your eyes to the sun</span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Standing alone with your eyes to the sun</span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together</span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Worlds are ruined this way,</span></i></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"> </span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">And we've all been there time and time again</span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Before the battle always seem so still</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">These lyrics, from the song "The Undertaker's Thirst For Revenge Is Unquenchable (The Final Battle)" by Chiodos, have always made me think of sorcery; their mortal body all but unneeded, using words and rituals to devastate their enemies, their corrupted souls shining as bright as the sun to all who gaze upon them. They transcend what is natural, reach beyond this realm into the next to draw incredible power, power enough to break armies and, as put, ruin worlds.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">But the concept of sorcery has always taken a conflicting position in my mind, and in my world. We’ll start at the simplest part, with my mind;<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Like any child growing up with high fantasy, magic and sorcery played a huge part in my childhood fantasies. I’d often run around a garden with a stick in my hands, proudly exclaiming to a barely-listening parent that I’d vanquished the dragon with my almighty spells! (This was, of course, the same child who always wanted to be a robot when he grew up. Yes, robot sorcerers; a terrifying concept.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">As my experience with magic become more indepth, primarily through books but also through films and games, magic became a sort-of Curse-plus. The incredible power associated with magic of any type became a worthy goal of any sidekick, but rarely the hero; why, you ask? Sorcery was full of ancient mages, old hermits living in forests or caves, powerful wizards atop their keeps, protected by dragons and skeletons. Magic was a curse, as it alienated you from your family, an indescribable difference between you and them that couldn’t be healed by words. Magic took decades to master, if you ever did, if you even survived along the way, and it consumed everybody and everyone wishing to undertake it’s wonders.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">My experience, again, grew. Two main sources began to colour my views on magic; Warhammer, and Bakker.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Warhammer 40,000, if I was more precise. Magic there, referred to as Psychic powers, and performed by Psykers, was an incredibly powerful feat. You could rend enemies in two with your mind, have fantastic mental duels with enemies across the battlefield, and produce dazzling shields of light to protect your allies. But, the risks were ever present; not only were these Psykers practically condemned to death in the God Emperors name, but they were at constant risk of possession; daemon could tear through the warp, the source of all psychic sorcery, murdering the individual, possessing him outright, or using him to tear a wound in reality to spread more daemonic filth. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">And it broke many trends with that last point; most magic found that the stronger an individual was, the more they could defend against the nasties of another realm. Not in 40K; true, training and concentration, as well as endless devotion, could protect in some sense, the stronger you become, the more your presence became visible to daemons, and the more of a target you were. If psychic powers were the power source, and you were the light, then the moth attracted to you was over four times your size, and could crush you in an instant.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">My other source tempered this ruthlessness of sorcery; R. Scott Bakker, author of the Prince of Nothing series of books (some of my favourite ever written) again saw sorcery as a curse. Religion had condemned sorcerers, and unless they were hired by a </span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">School</span></st1:placetype><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"> of </span><st1:placename w:st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Sorcerers</span></st1:placename></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"> when they were young, they were destined to be hunted down as wizards and murdered in the brutal ways that only religion can muster. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Sorcery itself was there to be understood. The Schools each defined religion in their own way, and each had levels of power and control that the others couldn’t grasp. Some focussed through emotions, others through knowledge of the past and ancient languages, and others still could only grasp the weaker portions of magic, but had such numbers they were still competition for the more powerful schools. Sorcery was an incredible power, feared by the populace. More importantly, anyone could make use of the minor magic (every whore used a sorcerous shell to keep themselves from getting pregnant), but more powerful usage was restricted to those already in touch with sorcery.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Another main point to Bakker’s sorcery was the complete lack of defined spells and rituals. There weren’t any fireballs or ice-blasts; most sorcery acted as a blast of incandescent light, or flowing blue energy from the casters forehead. The sorcery was truly incomprehensible, beyond explanation and description.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">(I want to give an honourable mention to the Dragon Age series, too. There, mages were powerful and feared creatures, but as much for their weakness and vulnerability to demonic influence for their power. Mages were forced into strict order and censorship simply because they could play host to the demonic from the other side, not just because of their inherent power. While this influence has been much weaker, it is no doubt a part of what I wish for in the end.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">These sources played heavily on my own wishes for sorcery, and they were developed in DreX in the following ways;<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Sorcery was not something especially terrifying. Almost everyone seemed at least somewhat capable of spellcasting, and many classes had what could be defined as ‘spells’; Knights could utilise prayers, Priests could call upon miracles, and even Warriors had a few tricks that borderlined spellcasting. The three sorcerous classes, the Schoolman, the Cishaurim, and the Quorista, all had their pretty unique viewpoints, but their spells between classes were barely unique in their style,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">In truth, background aside, the classes were barely defined. They all had access to the basic ‘throw-element-here’ spells so famous through Dungeons and Dragons. They all had loose healing spells, or the summoning of invisible barriers. Sure, each class had maybe one or two unique spells; resurrection upon death, summoning of ethereal beasties, and what not, but they were lacklustre and ill-defined.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">And I think that was what it was. It was only the background that defined the sorcerers, never the spells themselves. There was nothing really unique between each class, nothing really stood out to make someone say; Wow, I want to be a Schoolman/Cishaurim/Quorista!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Worse still, I always imagined each spell to be devastating. They’re unleashing the elements, the power of the spirit world, or the raw force of a living creatures soul! In a word, they should rend the heavens from the earth! Limp bodies should fall, bathed in flame, their screams cut short only by the screams of their comrades! It should be devastating.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">But it always felt so.. empty. Roll to hit. You deal 2d10 damage. That person is on fire. Yawn. And most sorcery went unused or unnoticed; sure, some of the inherent God-skills were used enough, but they were unique, and they had a major effect on the world. Sorcery? It was just a glorified attack. Some dealt only slightly more damage than a regular gun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">And this is what I decided to change!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">But where did I start? At the beginning, of course. At the activation. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">How could I make a spell stronger, though? It had to balance out in the end; a single focus spent could only deal a set amount of damage, to keep everything in check. No matter what my childhood thoughts of sorcery meant, I couldn’t break the game just to live out my own fantasies. So I thought back to those days; what was the dominant feature of a spell? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Of course, the time it had taken to cast. The brave warrior always held off the enemies as the resolute mage prepared the next devastating spell. It took time. Playing DreX, spells were nearly instantaneous; you pay the focus cost, the spell happens, end of. This never rang true; in older editions, where turns were split into two halves with actions taking longer to occur, spells took at least a full turn to cast. Now, with the Focus system, there’s no delay, and it really limits the power of spells; they’re relegated to regular skills, and are trapped within those same boundaries.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">The solution? Of course, I don’t want to bog down the game in waiting times and delays. Gunplay was reduced to a single dice roll, and why would I want it to be any more complicated than that? How about a single activate-able ability, gained upon taking a sorcerous class? What if the first skill on every sorcerous skill tree was akin to a set-up cost, a 4 or 5 Focus ability that had to be active to cast spells? More so, what if it had an upkeep cost of 1 focus per turn, to remain ‘in the zone’, to keep your concentration going so you can keep slinging spells? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">This already adds a 4 or 5 focus cost to every spell activated thereafter, giving me a much wider range for spell power and strength. That dragonhead no longer needs to deal 2d10 damage, but can easily deal upwards of 5d10 damage to everyone in the area, without my worrying (so much) about balance. Other limitations, like the inability to dodge while in the trance, are a natural, of course; some inherent weakness to this spell-casting power frenzy is a requirement, or else mages would skyrocket in power compared to the other classes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">So this is the future. Schoolmen gain the ‘Recital’ ability, Cishaurim gain the ‘Remembrance’ ability, and the Quorista gain the ‘Ritual’ ability. There. But.. what does each class do?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">It was time to truly define each role; not just their abilities, but their background.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">We’ll start with the Schoolman. They now call upon the power of the Unreal, the source of all sorcerous abilities, as an eternal power source. They speak the literal Word of God, commanding the world to change around them, and draw upon the Unreal to provide force to their demands. The empyreal strength of the Unreal empowers them, as their demands become reality; a dragonhead rears up behind them, spouting flames on their enemies. But what entities support them in the Unreal? Where does this power come from?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">The Elementals, of course. Their rigorous training and lack of emotion with regards to sorcery has attracted these pure beings, who live their lives in the same pattern. An Elemental is a spirit of the deceased who has come to embody an element connected with their past life, and their death, despite their complete lack of memories. They constantly seek freedom from the swirling chaos of the Unreal, for reasons they no longer understand. The Schoolman plays upon this desire, releasing the elemental in parts; bouts of fire, an icy sheath, blasts of lightning. Enough to satiate the creature, but not to release it. Some are even refuted to be able to bound Elementals to their will, bringing them into the real world as servants and guardians…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">The Cishaurim are next. They draw upon their emotions to bring about great power, usually manipulating enemies, bringing a soul-crushing pain onto their foes, or entirely removing their will to go on. Where the Schoolman expose their bodies and minds to the Unreal, the Cishaurim expose their very souls; their power comes internally, flowing directly into them. They use their anger to blast their enemies with psychic pain, they use their love to heal an ally and bring him back to life, and they use their apathy to dull a persons senses entirely, until they can no longer go on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">The Cishaurim draw on the numerous spirits of the Unreal, the deceased who have not passed through the Unreal onto the Wheel of Life and Death. These beings live with such purpose or willpower that their spirit refuses to fade away; they cling to half-forgotten memories, and exist as the middle point between the living and the empyrean. The Cishaurim connect en-masse with dozens of spirits at a time, who each clamour for the Cishaurims exposed soul; they see that life and purpose they once had, and long for it. This raw power and hunger they shape with their own emotions, then bring into the real world and redirect it upon their enemies, often to devastating effect.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">The Quorista are the youngest, and darkest, of the sorcerous arts. They expose their body, and their soul, to the Unreal, and as such must be the most capable of manipulating the Unreal to their whims; they submerge themselves so deeply into the Unreal that they must fight off the spirits, Elementals, and other denizens of this dark world, until they gain the attention of a much higher power. They then bound this creature, often a Ciphrang, an Emyprean, or even one of the Infinite Chorus, and chain it to their singular will. They tear a whole through the Unreal into the Real, and drag the creature through with them. Summoners of the darkest powers, they are rare, but extremely feared.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">With the Infinite Chorus aside, the Quorista find no source of power in the Unreal; their true sorcerous strength exists entirely in the real. Mostly Quorista do spend many hours a day engaged in a deep ritualistic trance, lost in the Unreal, learning the route to the strongest and most powerful creatures there, and figuring out how to survive there until they have found their prey. The Infinite Chorus, an organised cabal of powerful creatures inside the Unreal, has been mastered by the creator of the Quorista schools of sorcery, Ahramayav, who uses the Chorus in a multitude of ways; he can summon the Words, who lack the strength to appear in physical form but have extremely demoralising effects on his foes, he can bring about the Verses, powerful demons who put even the Ciphrang to shame, and the Chorus itself, said to be as old as the Unreal, whose power matches that of the Gods.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">This is how I envisage the future of the sorcerous arts. Of course, the entire spell list will be reorganised and changed to better suit this vision; the current, rather vague sequence of abilities really doesn’t appeal to me. A unified ideal, something people can stick a tag to; an elementalist, a mentalist, and a summoner. The world is challenging enough as it is, I don’t see why the sorcerous classes should make it more so…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">Of course, I'm always looking for ideas. This has never been a one-man project; the input from my players, friends, and even complete strangers is always a vital and required addition to DreX. I'd love to hear what people think of the above, whether you've read a copy of DreX or not!</span></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Dan H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08569814716549469661noreply@blogger.com0