12/19/16

it was a cold winter evening. the chill of the air was sharp, tactile. a simple wave could send shivers up the arm.

it feels like i've been walking forever.

trudging through the snow and ice, looking for a light, in vain.
a glance at my phone revealed i had not a tenth of power left.
each breath was colder than

gusts of the frigid winds began to wear me down.

it almost felt as though i could feel my very core freeze.
as if my soul had became solid ice, waiting for me to collapse and shatter.

but just as soon as i thought it couldn't get any colder

in the distance, though the night was moonless, pitch black, there was a light.

it ran from head to toe.

something was scanning me.
reading me up, and down.
amber eyes pierced my very being.

the energy; the life in me returned.

i shuddered.
adrenaline rushed through me with the gaze.
and suddenly it all became so warm.
so warm.
the iced eyes drew closer.

i began to run.

"they would not catch me" i thought.

each lunge became more and more difficult.

i turned.

they were there, very near.

i drew my sword.

and with a flash of red, the smell of burning flesh; a blood curdling screech echoed across the tundra.

it was a monster of darkness. a beast of cold. a devil all its own.

the scent of sulfur and burned hair, but the beast, no where in sight.

it disappeared with the flash of red.

surely,

i am dead.

suum defessus.

The night was coming to an end. a layer of spilled booze coated the floors of the bar where numerous patrons were indulging themselves on greasy food, and slowly drifting away, drink after drink. here in this bar sat one patron who stayed though all his friends left, with the bartender who was to close this now quiet evening.

he too had been drinking this evening. he looked up from his empty plate and he caught sight of the clock behind the bartender, who was tediously cleaning the many glasses that piled behind him. a weak, red glow flickered from the digital clock 2:45.

tall, with unkempt and curled brown hair, the bartender relaxed and stole away from his work with a drink in hand, making his way over to his last patron. he seemed somewhat anxious and, as stated before, everyone went home but this last patron. rather high cheekbones and blue sunken eyes, clad in somewhat tattered clothing, he raised his glass to his face as he sat at the bar and lowered his head after his sip.

"Is there anything else I can help you with this evening sir? Do you maybe need a ride?" the bartender inquired of the man.

the man looked up from the porcelain and with a sullen edge, nodded his head, stating with this that he needed nothing of the bartender.

the ominous glow of the silent television set that was set to static, hummed. the bartender nodded in turn. the gentleman then said "i'll be going shortly, though i have no one to go to now. not even my own shadow follows my footsteps anymore."

the bartender leaned against the lacquered birch bar and questioned the man. "What do you mean your shadow doesn't follow you anymore?

"under the night lights and street lights, he walks along with better men than i. he is all the wiser. he became more of me, and where i used to leave him behind, here i am now; in his dust."

he rose to his feet and stood. his shoulders were broad and his patched canvas jacket looked quite warm.

"don't let what you love slip away from you."

he turned to the door, set it ajar, and slipped away into the cold winter night. he plucked a string in the bartender's heart, the start of a concerto of sorrow. he placed his drink and wept.

Sand Man: The Divine Clock Maker

"I HAVE HEARD tales of this man, this immortal being of utter and sheer power. He controls a world which is said that all worlds meet, and all mortals will see.", my grandfather said with his raspy, withered voice.

"He claims all, child. He knows all as well. The past and future are well acquainted with him. What he cannot see is our current time, they are obscured views that only we can see.: That being said, is it safe to say that my grandfather believes our lives are predetermined? Yes, you could say that might be true. Grandpa closed his eyes now. He drifted off to sleep. It was late, so I too fell fast asleep at the foot of our household hearth.

I woke in the midst of a lush, green grove. surrounded by tall oaks. Light danced on the grass as it pierced the canopy of oaks. I looked to my left and saw my grandpa sleeping next to me peacefully, without a note being spelled from him. I rolled over onto my stomach so I could push myself to my feet, once standing, I filled myself with a deep breath of the crisp and cold morning air while stretching my arms. It was such a serene environment. I could hear birds chirping, running water on a brook, the leaves swaying as they're buffeted by the gentle gusts of winds the flow through the forest.

I stumbled from the clearing down to the brook to wash my face off and try to wake myself up. The birds flew away though, their songs ceased. I knelt before the river and dropped my hands into the water and drew water to my face. The water was warm, until it touched my cheeks. It was ice cold.

Something was wrong. The water trickled down my face to the creek, but I couldn't hear the droplets hit the body. Not only this, but I couldn't hear the leaves rustling with the wind. I reached for the brook again. This time, when my hands touched the water, it too, was ice cold. Withdrawing them revealed that my hands were no longer hands. They were bone and ligaments. I was overcome with awe and pain, Beneath my hands was a murky mixture of blood and tainted water. I rushed up the hill, tripping the many stones that covered its bank until I met the treeline.

Suddenly, the leaves of the canopy fell in troves the forest was disintegrating at a rapid pace. I made it back to where the grove once was, but the leaves were all gone; stolen by am icy wind. Grandpa was still sleeping on a big boulder. I screamed cries of anguish and desperation in hopes that he might wake up, but he still slept on the rock. I reached to grab him with what was left of my hands, but the strenuation of the muscles upon the bone, collapsed them. Grandpa's eyes shot open, pitch black, he said: "Time is coming." and he turned to sand.

➡➡

     A BRIGHT LIGHT pierced the darkness of this very large and empty room; only flecks of dust are found littering the gray and void space. From the light which gave life to the room came a pair of withered hands. The hands were completely identical A snap from the fingers of these cadaverous hands spawned a box, whose enormity dwarfed the hands. The hands cracked the fingers of one another, and then promptly delved into the box.

     The box shuddered rapidly and violently from time to time. The convulsions were followed by a series of esoteric sounds; a cacophony of sounds befell the now populated hall of gray. From the sounds of bells ringing, to the roars of mighty beasts, the mania ceased; the hands had returned from the interior of the mysterious box. The hands were grasping something unseen, however, it was clear that the what the hands held in their clenched fists was something of immense power. A miraculous and incredible light, more mysterious than that of the light that currently illuminated the hall, peeked through the cracks in between the fingers of the hands. The hands fluently drew away from one another, then clashed, creating a blast of light, and from this light, another pair of hands was made. Different from the creator pair, this pair had a left and right hand.

     Following the second pair's creation, the hands smashed together, again, with tumultuous force, joyous of what they had made. The spawned pair were confused by this display, but, nevertheless, awaited orders. The creator hands ushered their creation to the box of enormity. The creation did too, delve into the void of the box for some time, whilst the creator hands took the light that graced the grey room and clasped it between themselves.

     The creator revealed the "light", which was no longer light; it had been formed into a small, babbling little beast, pink as flesh, cute as a button., adorned atop a pedestal of bone. The beast wold babble and babble nonsense about how he lacked a means of moving about. He cried for arms and legs, and a torso for he to sit about. The creators took more light and did grant the miserable little beast his wishes.

     Meanwhile, the pair inside the box had tilted the box over, and dragged a great mass with them as they departed from the box. The hands created a sphere, flawless and lacking any evils. the sphere was blessed with light from the creator's gift, which, in turn, created Life.

     The Creator Pair had but one more bit of light and hadn't thought as to what to do with it. They turned to their ever-babbling creation to ponder. Time and reflection upon the creation allowed the Creator Pair to decide that the creation should hear itself, so it may be silent. With what light was left, the Creators gave the beast ears, and it was silent.

     The Creators took their creation to the pair of "Perfect" hands and gestured towards the now, silent little being, so silent, that only the murmur of its heart could be heard. The Perfect hands elevated their fifth digits to their Creator and plucked the beast and cast it onto the sphere.

     Life on the sphere flourished. The creation of the Creator's hands multiplied. Each beast was given a box; a box with infinite possibilites. All the creations were the same. Identical. The boxes which they possessed had infinite possibilities within them. Still, they were all the same. Their creators saw this, and lowered their fifth digits.

     But the Creators had forgotten.

      They gave their creations not the gift of sight.

      A day once came though, when a creation found itself taking pieces of the world around him, instead of what lay in the box, and crafted itself a means of vision. This single creation, could see.
   
      He saw that his hands were both that of right.

Ah-Loth (Three Plains/Planes)

I had heard the echoes of the lost calling to me from the city's most prominent temple. The echoes called out from the Astral Planes, where I was born. The darkest monstrosities come from that world. Even I am considered to be a being of evil.

The temple was dedicated to the omnipotent titan who rules all of astral-kind. Lothos. Here in the Terran Plane, those who escape Lothos's clutches live within a devastated island, known as Ah-Loth.

A gate from our realm, the Astral Plane, was opened in the Terran Plane. A light from the Terran world's heavenly bodies was release late one night. People from the "Earth", as they call it, believed this to be a catastrophe, the end of their world; the largest and most renown city in their world was sunk by this fallen star. It was a blessing to us.

The cathedral of which our god dwells was built in this new world. The fallen star was the product of an attack against Lothos. A hero among astrocities, Uurlok. He led a rebellion against the titan, but was obliterated by He who enslaves us. The titan lost an eye during the attack of Uurlok and his men. Because Lothos lost an eye, a gate to the Terran Plane was opened for a short period of time. The many slaves of the Astral realm had escaped to the Terran world, and spawned in the land, which was nothing more than a wasteland, but the escaped called it home: Ah-Loth.

The cries grew louder as I approached his statue. Anguish and sorrow beset my heart and tears grew within the heights of my cheeks.

A proud monument to his sin; he stood piercing the titan's right eye with a long, heavy sword. The expression of the titan's face could not foster the agony the titan had felt, nor could an artist depict the suffering Uurlok should feel as he was promptly ripped to pieces by the titan's gaping maw.

I presented my offering to his statue so that I might appease his cries for another day.

The titan watches from his void while the Terrans sleep.

Dream, dream, O restless ones, you may never dream. Kneel before the savior of astrocity kind, the giver of salvation and freedom, so that we might steal yours away.

Capitulation

A sharp, yet defined rap echoed through my hall as I was seated upon my throne, gazing into the sands of my hourglass.




The last few grains trickled down the bulb, and the rap grew into a cacophony of hands, beating at the iron spiked door of oak, coated with the greens of moss.




I saw the face of an old man, staring back at me from the reflection of the glass. His face scarred with wrinkles and littered with cuts and bruises.




I saw myself, of course.




The rapping grew into a steady and continuous pounding. Cries of anguish could be heard from outside the powerful door, holding back all the angry and crazed hands. I raised my hand from the armrest and slew the watch glass to the ground; it's contents lay splayed about my court on the marble tiles.




Louder and louder, they had beaten down the first door.




The captain of the guard and his men stood before the souls. Their plate emblazoned with the luminosity of the mob's torch.




"Schießen!" the guard ordered. The royal guard stood with their pikes in hand, forming a strong wall that prevented the advance of the mob, and overhead, archers fired volleys into the mob.




The mob, of course, didn't stop at this. Their shouts could be heard from inside my hall. I rose from my throne to my plate. My armor. My blade. Once used to unite my realm with the bonds iron and flesh. No more.

Again, I saw myself. A broken man. Once a proud and honorable monarch, true to his word, true to his people, but now? I am no more.

I walked about my scarlet carpet, leading to the steel doors that lead out onto the facade of which my men where. I found our sculptures. Busts of our family. 

We were once gods. 

There was no one higher than I or my brother.

We were respected by all men and women alike. Where are we now?

I forced the busts to the ground. The beautiful and meticulously carved marble fell to the ground, and shattered.

I no longer heard the commands of my captain. The mob was afoot once again, this time, at the door of steel, ramming the door. I found myself on the balcony, looking over my kingdom, my dominion, my realm. My home.

All in a wave of red and orange.

The mob was finally rushing through my hall.

But when the came to meet me on the balcony, all they found was my crown and blade.

They were not ready for a reign of love and wisdom. Blood and iron was forever in this land. 

Forever the dream of my brother.

Will

I saw him bound on his hands and knees, in a pool of his own sweat. For long, he writhed within his bindings, helplessly trying to piece himself free, his efforts in vain. Incapacitated, he lay there, slump in a pool of his own failure.

Sad, isn't it?

He was beautiful too. A work of God's art, from his long, flowing brown hair, his crisp blue eyes and a very defined nose.

His hair cut, locks scattered in a puddle of blood, which had poured from his now cracked and misshapen nose. What could have done this to him?

One thing.

It is a almost holy thing, talked about all one's life.

It battered his will, once wrought of iron. Tore his mind, cast of gold. Shattered his heart, once of glass.

His cold eyes meet yours and you feel them, piercing your soul, melting your heart.

Everything he does is a blatant attack of your home, your temple. He only seeks now to defile every temple he can; to steal the tithe and upset your font.

Nothing can save him, he is unbound. His soul was swept away from him, as he lay bound. Wisps of smoke rose above his head, the soul sought no more anguish. He forced it from himself.

He feels no longer.

His body is warm.

His touch is cold.

His eyes?

Much colder.

Your temple will become his own. A house of pain and sorrow. He will pray to your god so that he might be set free, but the same of him will happen to you.

You will know sorrow, you will know pain.

He will smash the stained glass windows, mutilate your effigies and destroy your altar.

He will become your god.

He will become all your think of.

All you dream of.

You will have many sleepless nights.

All because you let love crush you the way it had crushed him.

Reditio Naturorum

Dollar sign.

DOLLAR sign.

DOLLAR SIGN.

That's all I see them as. That's all they are. Dollar signs with legs. You think they have heartbeats? What makes you think that they have the same thought capacity as you and me?

Do you see the gods they worship? Silicon bodies and their teeth so perfect? They're royalty.

But truly? No. They simply have more paper than what they know what to do with. Benjamin's pure power, baby. Nothing can stop the almighty dollar sign.

That's why we keep our eyes on them, our dollar signs. These mindless thralls that wander the streets we call ours. All we have is because of them. All they have is because of us.

Without that little ping every so often to make them feel like they're important, they draw less and less away from the almighty dollar sign.

Eventually, they'll see that it's all a sham. They'll realize that it's all a power struggle. It's an obsession.

One big game of "Who the hell can hoard the most paper?".

They dedicate their lives to us, unknowingly, yet willingly.

The more paper they collect, the more powerful they become. That's why they die before they can see the world from where you and I do.

Some of them are more dangerous than others. They see past our ruse, they see our game and they think they're strong enough to become a part of it.

They too, are pawns just as all the rest are.

No matter what the case may be, the mindless demoralize those who speak out against us, shunning the thoughts of those who care to think, who care to try; those who want to make a difference.

Perhaps someday, they might.


WITH THE ADVENT OF MACHINE, Man has achieved many splendors.

Man has even replaced Man with Machine.

The coming of the age of machine means one thing though: The downfall of the almighty dollar sign. The dollar sign will no longer possess the strength of a god, machine will.

Machine will make all of Man return to it's roots. The return to nature.

In troves they will flee from cities to the darkest of shades under canopies that cast a divine shade.

Man will learn once again to work with one another and live in harmony, but in fear of the mad gods who manipulate their machines.

The gods though, will find themselves powerless.

Without their thralls, their workers, their slaves, there is no power to exercise over Man, thus, leaving the gods much less than gods. They simply become false idols.

Without any followers, they lose power, they lose their will. They submit to the power of Man and leave the Machines that they have tried to replace Man with.

The men who once sought to change the hearts of Man have had their wish granted to them. They wish not to abuse the power of leading Man, they only wish for Man to love one another as they have been made to.

They have awaited this day.

The day that Man could finally live in perfect and true harmony with it's home, it's goddess, it's mother.

Earth, the one and only god that Man should and shall ever have.

"Who am I?"

He's watching me and you both. He's around every corner, waiting for us.

Waiting for us at our weakest moment. The moment we crack.

The moment that he can make the bones in our back shatter. He hovers above us like a dark cloud, never allowing us to see the sun.

He torments us.

He dangles our happiness but within an arm's reach in front of us, but every time we grasp for it, he pulls it away.

He is all that is dark and evil in this world. He is soulless, mindless and heartless.

He doesn't even have a body.

He comes to us in the blackness of our shadow. He follows us wherever we go.

He forces us to trip on every rock, fall down every hill we climb and crushes every dream we've dreamt.

I can't speak anymore, he's watching me now as I speak this to you.

Run and hide, before he finds you, like he once had me.

Humility

It turns out no matter how strong we tell ourselves we are, we will be crushed by the weight of our actions and our words.

All so powerful; they will come back to crush us.

This fellow wouldn't be in this predicament if he hadn't cast his life aside from himself.

Here he lay now, his corpse, now coated in filth, garbage, with maggots writhing beneath his flesh.

A gruesome scene.

He believed himself to be invincible. Was he wrong?

Of course. His ego was his downfall. He let it all go to his head.

He thought he was untouchable.

The kind words of others made him think this way.

He abused them for their words of empowerment.

The flies speak the truth. The pungent scent of rot heavy in the air.

You might ask yourself, "Am I hearing things?" or perhaps, "Where are you?".

I'm watching you. He's watching you. We're all watching you.

You'll crumble just as he has.

This is a wake-up call. A warning.

Your influence that you think yourself to have is nothing but a lie.

You are not the strongest being alive.

He is an example we should all learn from.

Power is a dangerous thing.

Do not give power to fools.

Do not be the fool to receive such power.

The Arena Part 1 (TAK)

Star Date: ... Systems malfunctioning... No service available...

Octavian's gaze lies drawn to the bloodied sands where he defeated his opponent. A look of sorrow fell upon his face. A strong feeling of remorse is overwhelming his weak heart. He stands at the top, among the seats in the arena; it is completely empty. The seats are dirtied with foul remains of their occupants. Grasping the cage within his flesh and metal hands, his head falls into the rings, sending the harsh scraping of the cage's rings rubbing one another throughout the room. He's sobbing. Crying.

He knew nothing of the acts that he had committed within the sands of the arena. All he could remember was the chanting of the crowd, being face to face with another monster, like he.

Behind him, a man wearing tattered and dirty rags descends towards the sobbing monster. He is missing a leg, his right leg to be precise. Only a metal bar was left in it's place to support the man. With a frail and ginger arm, he reaches out for Octavian's shoulder to comfort him.

Octavian wasn't the least startled by this. He was still drowning within the emotional wave that had overcame him.

The man stood and gazed into the pit as Octavian wept. For long he wept.

"Octavian." The man blurted out. "It's not your fault. It's they're fault. It always has been." Octavian's head pivots to the figure behind him. A further observation reveals a large, bushy beard and his face bears an ugly scar, stretching from the reaches of his forehead, across his eye and, into the depths of his chin.

It's his father.

Wiping the tears from Octavian's face, he continues in a hushed tone. "They made you what you are. I know. They almost did it to me too." Octavian seated himself onto a bench while his father spoke on. "You're what they called... A defender. When the cities were to fall, you were to have been one of the beasts to defend against the rogue and alien forces on earth. It is a horrible fate, but you have powers like no other breathing being. You have your own strengths that no man or beast can counter."

With a smile he said: "You have the heart of a beast and the mind of a man." Octavian grinned at this too. Shouting further up in the stands alarmed Octavian and his father. "I have to go now. I'll tell you all I can later, if I'm able to reach you."

"Thank you..." Octavian paused trying to find the word- "Father."

"Good luck to you in the sands, my son." His father said as he climbed the steps of the arena.

Octavian was alone again, in the arena.

Octavian II

Star Date: Unknown, requesting maintenance... Unable to contact servers... Shutting down...

With a sudden crack, our hero awakens. From a strange chamber of some design, he collapses into blood stained sands. He quickly realizes that he is surrounded by a horde of people, seated high above him. He stood in awe of the crowd's enormity, empowered by their cries, though, he is greatly confused. Little does he know, he is in grave danger. A quick and effortless scan reveals that he is not alone in the arena of sorts.

Another chamber, almost of the exact same design is inside the arena. Octavian feels different. The look of pure blood lust and savagery fills his eyes. Octavian was much different. His body has been heavily augmented and tested upon. Small incisions rivet his skin. Carbon steel spikes line his back in an asymmetric pattern. It appears all too painful. His posture has been affected as well. The weight of a robotic arm causes him to be slightly hunched over. The most disturbing of all his augmentations would be his eye. One of his eyes were completely removed and was replaced by a small ball. He can still use it to see, somehow, but by unknown means. He doesn't notice any of this though. It's almost as if he is in a trance of some sort.

Adopting a new and natural stance, the beast within Octavian releases itself.

The pod across the arena bursts open. The crowd roars, gasps and shakes the cage that is encasing the two monsters. The audience wants blood, it is all too obvious.

A long and vicious howl blasts from the pod. silencing the crowd, they looked on with great interest. Peering into the cage with their greedy eyes. The pod shudders and the beast within erupts. A creature on all fours, two headed and with a nasty looking stinger on the end of it's tail.

The two-headed monstrosity dashes towards Octavian with an unrivaled speed. 

Octavian reacts swiftly, connecting a blow to the beast's left head with a snap. The crowd once again, roars on.

The beast raises itself to its feet and once again strategizes the next move. Octavian blinks and loses sight of the beast. Another blink and the beast's right head is tearing into his back. He tries to toss off the beast but has no luck. The two then reach a bloody stalemate as the beast claws away, ripping into the panel on Octavian's back, revealing wires and veins alike. Sensing a near death event, dubious instincts of Octavian's new self, kick in.

Beast on back, he flexes his powerful leg muscles and lunges into the air to a considerable height, reaches the ceiling and clings onto it with his mighty arms. In complete shock, the two-headed beast knows not what to do. The crowd is again, silent with anxiety and anticipation.

Octavian releases his grip on the cage and falls to the ground below, quashing the beast between the sands and his spined back.

He then peels off the beast, takes it by its two heads and rips it in half. Uncontrollable rage, happiness and excitement fills the air. Octavian emerges victorious in his first fight. He looks around again though and reaches consciousness from his rampage.

He isn't in space anymore. He's very much far from human now, too.

He is what he saw in the lab. An animal. A beast. 

But why?

Illumination

She started running was all I could remember. Everything else slipped my mind.

It was completely black. She couldn't see even a foot in front of herself, and suddenly she found herself basking in the bright, white lights of something she hadn't expected.
Being it that she had no where else to run, like a moth, she flew towards the light.

As she sprinted though, it all went dark again. Her foot was caught by the root of a tree and she tumbled back into sheer darkness. Pitch black. She simply laid, crying quietly to herself. She knew it. She had seen the light, but she had no idea when she'd see it again, and even if she did see it once more, she knew she'd only end up tumbling about in the darkness once more.

A sad thought, a sad, sad world she lived in.

But to her, she couldn't find enough light. She grew accustomed to the pain that seeking out the beautiful lights had brought her. Her heart raced with every second she spent hurling herself towards the light up until the very last time she would run into the light, she found the source.

It was a system of flood lights, left abandoned. She had heard footsteps milling about the vicinity, but no figure revealed themselves.

She played about with the buttons and found another system, this time of television screens. On display was a man running about the same place she was, running towards the lights. Endlessly, trying to find the source, but his efforts were in vain, as he would only collapse when he thought he had found the source.

She loved the pain the man felt. She loved the tears of anger and sadness that he shed. She was now in control and played with the lights and the man's mind until he finally gave in. He stopped running. Stopped chasing. He was a broken being, far beyond human.

Though, many others came in search of the source too, only to be burned by the woman, who sought her happiness with the torturing of men and women alike in this maze of lights.

She became what she hated the most, but in the end, she loved every second of what she was doing.

If it wasn't for me, hundreds and hundreds of lost lives would go out in vain. She's gone now, I promise.

But it won't be long until the maze is once again filled. Be wary, my friend.

Holo-Tome #1 Titled: "Pouli"

Pouli

Not only was it Orion that was besieged and annihilated, many other worlds were aflame. The Pouli were the first to feel the vigor and strife of the fires. They hadn't a home planet for centuries; the species lived upon a naval marvel that sheltered the entire Pouli race. Some felt sorrow for the race, living the depths and vastness of the stars and cosmos, but the Pouli were proud of their ever growing masterpiece. It was a mechanical wonder. Spanning several lengths of Earth, the ship was a mobile trade hub, a bustling capital and a war factory. The ship was constantly worked on daily by the master architects of the Pouli, the shuttle never slept, never ending wisps and flares of blue could be seen from all over the hunk of metal. It was a work of art to them.

All Pouli are hatched aboard the Nest Ship (which was one of the many names for the capital ship) with the innate ability and desire to create a machination that they bond with through their lives and work on throughout their entire lives. The machine is entirely robotic and possesses no organic qualities. They do however, share properties that sentient organic beings have, such as emotions. It is thought that the heart of these machines are the only biological piece with inside their chests. They can feel the pain that their partner has. If one of a pair has a physical pain too, they share that pain and the partner has an uncontrollable urge to stop the pain by any means necessary. The duos are never found apart from one another. The Pouli often create nooks along the plating of their metal companions or perch atop their shoulders so that they can travel comfortably with their partner.

If one of the two in a duo should pass though, it is observed that the Pouli go into a state of pure loathing and fury. Their size and frail stature does not stop them though. They continue to fight until the cause of their robot's death is dealt with appropriately. They shortly expire after this outrage. The state destroys the victim's heart completely by working far beyond the abnormal heart rate of the Pouli.

On the other hand, the steel and wire golems will often fall onto the ground, no matter where they were at the time of their creator's expiration. It is said that they do not die but, their heart breaks. Without the vibration's of their creator's beating heart, the robot's heart freezes in an overwhelming wave of pain and remorse for the loss. They remain until their bodies are recycled. The heart, though, mysteriously disappears...

Dark Tides (TAK)

Star Date: 2116, February 17th.


The days grow nearer and nearer to the advent of Operation "Skyfall" as the higher-ups of the Kingdom's authorities have been calling the return to Earth. It is truly a chaotic time. Small rebellions against the idea of the great fall, but their efforts lie in vain. They, the brave, are now incarcerated in the Cell's prison. Their fate undetermined.

"So what is it we plan to do with the rebels? Are we going to execute them for treason?" an officer mumbles to his counterpart.

"I haven't the slightest clue what the lord will have of them. I haven't even seen the containment facilities yet. I don't even think we have the clearance to that sector-" he said as he raises his mug and  casually quaffs of. "-It's almost as if they're hiding something from all of us." The two men's attention was stolen by the large blast-door that loomed at the far end of the hall from them, which had just slammed shut. Above the door in red lights declared the room was "Derelict", although in all truth, it was aways from derelict.

On the other side of the door was Mr. Terach, with two large guards flanking him. Androids. Flesh over metal; they possess enormous power within themselves and have taken Octavian to the "containment facilities". He struggles within the grip of the mimics to no avail. His struggle grinds to a halt as he is in total awe of what surrounded him.

Each wall hosts several alcoves holding beings that were very much far from human. Or appeared to be. Some scales, a few with organic scythes for arms, some covered with steel plates. The most horrific had yet to come. As the party of three progress through the hall, moving from path to path, they came upon the human experimental test facilities. The hall had a dark and ominous blue glow to it. Within each cell was a horribly disfigured construct of flesh or metal. So grotesque and twisted, that the scientists congregating about the hall obviously view these men and women simply as animals, not even humans. Their anguish goes unheard though as they attempt to free themselves.

They would never be the same.

"What's this one here for?" a scientist inquired as he prodded about Terach. "He's said to have been conspiring against Skyfall. The guide believes that you can make a great use of him. We've noticed that he's a quite lively specimen." the android proclaimed in a monotonous voice. Binding him, Octavian was then thrown to the feet of the scientist before him. "We're definitely going to have fun with you." the scientist mumbled, picking up Octavian. They then walked off, Octavian was exhausted, afraid and hopeless as he was taken through another blast door to parts entirely unknown.

The Sullen Meeting. (TAK)

Star Date: 2116, January 31st.


In a large and sparsely decorated auditorium, a gathering was being held. From the walls and many orifices of the room hang many banners of a regal design. A purple crest, trimmed with gold that has two swords crossing one another were portrayed on these mantles. In the auditorium's seated are the numerous citizens of Sky Cell 19. One young man in peculiar, stood out. He, Mr. Terach, stands near the entrance of the auditorium, leaning against the hall's wall. The occupants of the seats are silent, waiting for someone or something to happen. Many of them are on the edge of their seats, dying from the quiet.


Just then though, a large man wearing a rather dapper suit waltzed his way onto the stage, in front of the crowd.He clears his throat, it echoes throughout the hall. The listeners are anxiously awaiting his word."Greetings, citizens of Sky Cell 19. It is your guide, Godfrey Wilheim. I have extremely important news with me." From his jacket, he produces a envelope. Again, he clears his throat.


"As a collective and whole society; the wise and valorous leaders of the Sky Kingdom have debated for decades now on when it would be safe to return to our true home. Earth. Scientists of the Kingdom have done all the research they could regarding the radioactivity of the wasteland. The data to them appears that the world may finally be safe enough to start a new on. Humanity shall not falter."


The audience was shocked, outraged at the least. Some stood up in protest, yelling at the man and questioning the idea presented before them. Some cried with their hands covering their faces. The silence of the hall soon became an uproar of unhappy men and women. All went quiet as soon as the intimidating cocking of air-rifles was heard. The protesters returned to their seats. Mr. Terach however, moved forward.


"I know that the idea of leaving this sanctuary in the heavens is ever so worrisome and foreign to all of you, I will tell you as your overseer that only good can come of the return to Earth. Civilization must sprout anew from the ground of which it was originally birthed. We cannot thrive among the stars."


He paused for a short moment, looking down and the back to the audience, "It is not our place here.""We should be leaving Earth's orbit sometime in the next month. I promise you all that it will not be the last thing we all do."


Tension only strengthened in the room as the meeting dragged on. Godfrey continued his theory and tried to convince the people of Sky Cell 19 that the return to Earth would be the greatest thing that could ever happen to mankind. Quote: "It's like we can all start all over again. Do all the wrong things... Right." Unquote.


He wasn't very convincing. Within the next few days, Godfrey from himself in the infirmary because of a crazed cultist believing that he was getting in the way of harmony. The cultist was later jettisoned from the Cell. His attempt at remaining in heaven, ironically, failed him.


Octavian was amazed when presented with all of this information. If the sky was the limit, what used to be within humanity's reaches?

The Steppes Part 1

"So this is what it comes down to then? War?" a man clad in bronze whispers to his comrade. They both are perched upon the palisade enclosing an unimposing encampment in the outlying region of northern Macedonia.

"It seems so. Ever since the philosopher arrived at the camp, strange things have been happening. The air has grown cold and the grass near his tent has died." the comrade grumbles. Their attention is suddenly drawn to a tent with several foreign patterns stitched onto it. The entrance folds open and a man with a cyan garb appears from the tent. He is carrying two cubes with what appear to be runes.

"That's him. That's the one. The philosopher, Aristotle. He and his cubes. The commander said he crafted these walls with those." the bronze emblazoned man mutters. "Preposterous!" his comrade replies "You do not believe that to be true, do you Val?" "I've heard rumor from recruits from the southern provinces that he constructed the new fortifications there. Rumors or not, we shall see for ourselves, watch."

Suddenly, the ground near Aristotle begins to shake. His hands are moving faster than the eyes of the soldiers are able to see; they are a blur, a flurry of flesh and stone. They stop and the tremors around grow louder and louder. A stairway of earth rises in front of the philosopher, which he promptly climbs. He silently made his way to the two men.

"Any strange phenomenon occurring near or far from the walls my friends?" Aristotle inquires. "Nothing that we could notice. It is rather dark out." Val responds somewhat sarcastically. "Aside from those fissures you caused just now..." "Well, if you do happen to see anything that is not of my doing, be sure you raise the alarm immediately. There is trouble afoot. The oracle preaches of a great danger near. Even my instincts are warning me." Aristotle then turns and treads down his stairs, which crumble back into the earth with behind each step he takes.

Val and the archer remain vigilant throughout the night, finding nothing out the ordinary from their post. A fog rolls in as it nears dawn and their vision is obscured. Chanting is heard in the distance through the fog. The chanting excels to an uproar. It is a barbarian raid. Sparks and flames are now seen in the thick fog. The soldiers scramble towards the earthen gate to raise the alarm...

Concordia

Concordia

It was another day that the sun hadn’t shined upon Sicily. The sounds of battle and war was upon the near and far horizons. Sicily, the home to three of city states, these three being unique in the way that they fought. They fought with one of the most savage tools that they had mastered over many generations of constant war with one another. Instrumenta musica. The only way these barbaric states knew how to use these was for war. War was all they knew. They used them for only the fiercest battles an each state had developed their own variation of instrumenta. One forging theirs under the hammer of Vulcan, the Orichalcum. One carving theirs with the god Pan, the Ventiligna. And the city state only binding theirs with the thickest of hides killed by the god Mars himself, the Percussiones.

These cities however, hated each other with a passion. A passion that had burned for so long that they had forgotten why they quarreled with one another. The dynasties that led these three cities had continued the violent clashes against one another, simply to prove who the best of the three was. But as of now, they hadn’t seen what they had been doing. They didn’t know what they could do with their instruments. Often pillaging and destroying towns on the outskirts of the opposing cities, many innocents lost their lives from the war. Never would they understand what true music sounds like, for in their last moments, they only heard the screams of war. But there was a hope for those who still sought out true music. A glistening light in the darkness of war that encircled the island. It was Mercury, the Wayfinder.

As the personal oracles of dynastic rulers of the three states had spoken, one day the Wayfinder would come to their home to find their horrible wars, battles, and their uncivilized way of using music. Not for joy, nor pleasure, but only for themselves. Never to share happiness, only to make them frown and flee once they had heard the sounds of Ares’ pounding war drums, the wail of Pan’s flutes, and the screams of Vulcan’s trumpets.

Mercury was sent by Apollo to investigate the strange sounds that had come of the isle of Sicily. Mercury, looking to get his daily run in, gladly accepted this request and sprinted off in his winged sandals to Sicily, straight into a maelstrom of harsh notes and loud booms. He scuttled away from the fight onto a nearby hill, covering his ears, and watched the battle unfold. Specks of crimson flew into the air, which was thick with smoke. The dead grass scattered with bits and pieces of drums, armor, and other equipment. Mercury, silently watching the men play their instruments across the field from each other in the form of columns. Men were blown apart by the notes as they pierced their cuirasses and knocked several others off their feet. The trumpeters began to scatter and rout as they saw their brothers fall before them. The earth stained scarlet, Mercury turned and returned to Apollo at Olympus.

Having heard what these barbaric people had turned music into, Apollo was enraged. He lashed out, “These peoples have not a single drop of understanding of what music is! They must prove that they are capable of creating something wondrous with what they have! Not war! Imbeciles!” Breathing heavily, he slowly regained his composure as he looked up at the statue of Jupiter that was in the main courtyard of Olympus. “As white as the clouds,” he thought. It was then as he was staring at the marble columns all around him, that he knew what he had to do. “Mercury, request an audience with father at once. I must speak of their evils to him, to see what a proper punishment for them would be. Abusing the power of what we know as music,” Apollo said. In turn, Mercury wandered off to the grand hall of Jupiter. Massive marble columns and busts of the gods and goddesses of Olympus surrounded Mercury. He gazed at the tapestries of velvet bearing Jupiter’s bull and thunderbolt, as he slowly approached the massive god sitting on the throne in front of him. With a full, white beard, kind eyes and a strong and deep voice, Jupiter called out to Mercury, “Ah, Mercury my child. Come, sit and feast with me!” Mercury quietly took a seat at the table to the left of Jupiter. “Now, what information have you brought for me today, Wayfinder?” Jupiter’s voice boomed as that of thunder, which also shook Mercury and made him drop his silverware. He stood up before Jupiter, cleared his throat and then spoke “I have information regarding a request from Apollo. He sends to you that he wishes for Typhon to be quelled by the fighting states of Sicily.”

“Music soothes the savage beast, eh?” Jupiter responded. “So be it.” 

Mercury, sprinting from Olympus, returned to the island and told them of their task that would end their quarrels. He told them that they were to calm the raging Typhon or their island would be destroyed. Fearing for their lives, they mustered their forces into a massive army and marched towards Mount Etna, where Typhon was beginning to awaken. Black from the molten rock that coated him, he peered at the army moving towards him. Collaboratively, the army played the nastiest tune that they had known. This did nothing but irritate Typhon. He let out a raging roar as he lowered his head and charged across the Tyrrhenian Sea into Vesuvius and set the mountain aflame. Fiery rock emerged from Typhon as he turned his head, blinded from the ash, he struggled. He then turned and saw the source of the terrible sound. Again, he lowered his heads and charged back towards Etna. “No! This is not what you are to do!” Apollo screamed as he rode on his golden chariot towards them. He took his lyre from his back, and gave the war drums a beat. The flutes understood now what they had to do, as did the trumpets. Apollo led them to victory as they played the softest, most beautiful song that the world had ever heard. Typhon collapsed, infatuated by the astonishingly the perfect pitches of the song, returning the underside of Etna, destined to slumber for another eternity.

The people of Sicily finally realized that this was what music really was all about. Coming together and working as one; as an ensemble. The City-States then moved on and formed one country that loved music together and they called it Concordia. From then on, the best bands in the world were led by the grace of Apollo and his lyre.

The Tartarian Emperor

Remus of Aventine

Let us feast upon the sight of this glorious, no, magnificent hall; home to the brother of the Aventine Hill, Emperor Remus. Vanquished from his hill, he now manifests the darkest reaches of the Underworld, Tartarus. Not long after he was slain on the Palatine hill, the blood that was left by Romulus drew back to Gaia. Gaia then gave birth to four, winged beasts. The monsters were coated with several different hides that radiated miraculous powers; one was engulfed in a blazing fire, another was crystallized freezing ice, the third was covered in scarlet blood that pulsated angrily, and the last was submerged in a hue of gold.

The furies though, had an obligation that need be fulfilled.

Remus roamed about the river Styx for months after his death, as he could not cross without the help of Hermes, but Hermes was at Rome, celebrating its founding with the Gods. It was up to Remus's children to escort him. These flying creatures came to be known as the Remian Furies. They are distinctively different to that of Uranus's furies. Their goal was to indirectly assist Remus with the vengeance against his brother. The four furies carried Remus across the banks of Styx. They then ventured deep down to the abysmal depths of the Underworld to reach what would be Remus's kingdom, Tartarus. When Remus and his retinue arrived at said dark and undesirable pit, they established the palace from which they would rule.

Out of the sheer cliffs of Tartarus, the Black Palace was founded.

Although, Tartarians were at first reluctant to their new self proclaimed ruler. The pitiful and unintelligent scum the inhabited Tartarus revolted for five horrible years. Remus was a man of virtue, in the beginning of our story, he only wanted to impress his brother. He built high walls to prove to his brother that they both were equals and that Remus was fully capable of protecting the people of his hill, but Romulus proved otherwise when he murdered him. By bringing about Remus's death, only more blood was to be spilled. Before entering the underworld, Remus knew not what to think. He was disowned by his own flesh and blood; his own brother had slain him. The furies turned him cold. They convinced him that he deserved to slay every single citizen of Rome. They all deserved death because of Romulus's idiotic and horrendous act. The furies all taught him important, yet abhorrent lessons. The fury of fire taught him rage and destruction. The fury of ice taught him that there was no mercy for any man, woman, child or beast that stand in the way of his path to glory, they were to be expelled from the path all the same. The fury of blood taught him to love the sight and taste of bloodshed and finally, the golden fury gave him the "gift" of greed. Remus needed all of these traits to attain victory over the Roman Republic on the surface world. With these traits, Remus grew in power and built an army to overthrow pockets and cells of resistance groups, to demonstrate that he was the emperor of the Underworld.

He grew to such a power, that not even Hades inquired of his actions.

Remus built an unstoppable army. It spanned the reaches of the Underworld, near and far from Tartarus. Supreme might fueled the Remian Empire, but their might could not depart them from the Underworld, an outsider was needed to open the gates for the army to leave. Remus called upon Greece for help. His cries for help echoed and oscillated to thousands of oracles on the surface, and finally, a client was reached. An oracle cried out to a philosopher by the name of Aristotle. From that day forward, it was he and his lexomancers' task to free Remus and save Greece.

Commander Grey

A Short Story for Content

I peered around the corner of the concrete facade that obscured my vision, a bloodied, burning battlefield lay adjacent to it; I feared for my life. Volleys of colorful and deadly hues pierced the smoke and darkness around me and rattled the earth.

The machinations and their masters towered over us; my block was not to last much longer. The small and feathered beasts grappled the flanks of the machines; upon stopping, they would repair the exposed hull of the mechanical titans. A group no larger than six lumbered towards us. This was it, the Deuses de Technologia; the Gods of Technology.

The citadel was wracked by flares which flew from the hearts of the machines. My men prepared to retreat, we gathered whatever supplies we could. From the bridge of the fortress to the depths of the basement floor, a tide of men traveled like water. I saw men being trampled, fighting their way through. I led the line though as we rushed out the secret access tunnel, hidden in the tall forest to the east of the fort. It was a dark and damp run. Not everyone made it. The tunnel collapsed in segments and killed many; all I knew was that we would not stop. We marched on.