Within the grand scheme of the great web, Ulu'gol knew that this night would be amongst the worst in the series of terrible experiences and decisions that would eventually lead him to a life of self-imposed solitude. It had been meant to be the turning point in his career, a triumphant return to the limelight after having been cast out by talentless usurpers and their simpering idolizers. He, along with a few of his "peers", had been commissioned by the estate of Ec-Shavar to commemorate his recent conquest of Ganaxavori and the cementing of diplomatic ties with Q'ab, the extravagance of the night being one of many concessions made to prevent the devastation that had marked much of Cizran history. All of his aspirations were dashed on the rocks, figuratively and in a sense, literally, as that monstrous stone-eater destroyed his masterpiece and nearly his life. 

Lidless eyes watched in budding horror as the stilted form of the "Prince of Flowers" lurched towards him. The fine hairs on Ulu'gol's cephalothorax bristled as he observed Xo'pil stagger towards the crowd of fawning socialites and sycophants, a drink having appeared in one hand with its contents dangerously close to being splashed across those gathered. The fool always made a spectacle of himself at each of his showings, and his behavior only seemed to enamore the Cizrans more with their prodigal pet. Especially that Plangó; who catered to his every eccentricity and afforded him deep pockets and even deeper protection amongst the more scrutinizing aspects of the empire. 

With nauseatingly impeccable timing, the diminutive furball quipped as Ec-Shavar's boisterous introduction came to an end about the odds of the night ending with the jingoistic Cizran ramming his flagship into the gallery, in a gross misunderstanding of artistic interpretation. A polite round of nervous laughter was elicited from the group as the artists met gazes. Xo'pil's face split into a wide grin as he wrapped his arms around one of Ulu'gol's injured legs, embracing it tightly. "Oh, take a look at you! You poor bastard, what have these mutants done to you?" The Azot gave the polished metal of a hovercast a curious series of knocks. "Couldn't get a new piece out of you, so they've strung you up on display have they?"

The alakast's pedipalps rubbed against one another anxiously as he spoke, his voice modulated slightly due to the encumberance of the breathing apparatus he'd been outfitted with to prolong his existence. His words came between shuddering breaths, the rasp of the air intake lost within the sea of casual conversation and soft music. "I... am honored... and gracious... for the hospitality... and understanding... the Q'ush have... shown me..." Internally, he seethed at the mock familiarity and undoubtedly dishonest interest for his well-being. He grimaced, or he would've if he'd had the proper anatomy, as Xo'pil ignobly downed the rest of his drink with a sharp toss of his head and immediately beckoned for two more. 

Ulu'gol shifted his weight in an attempt to escape Xo's attention when the gravitational repulsor engines of several of his hovercasts failed  and he found himself now backed into a corner of the gallery, watching the ethereal forms of Ec-Shavar and Plangó moving amongst the rabble, seemingly deep in conversation with one another as the exuberant voice of Xo'pil ranted and raved about some moment of divine inspiration, or intervention, he couldn't quite follow as the Azot's behavior deteriorated within minutes until he was little more than a wildly gesticulating spectacle that slowly wandered off into the crowd, mumbling something about a womb of ignorance.

"That... could have been... worse...", he said aloud, and as if in response, the remaining engines faltered and he crashed to the ground with a thunderous squelch, a raspy rattle of air escaping his mandibles.

***

"I sense a weakening of your spirit." The words hung in the air despite the commotion in the room. The empathic bond shared between the two Cizrans had fluctuated subtly as Plangó Felho'Te-vesztø made a circuit around the gallery. What was normally a rushing spring of sensory and emotional information had waned to a trickle. It was an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation, something akin to having his psyche scoured, micron by micron. He approached his host, a resplendent column of kaleidoscopic majesty, and began to keep pace with him, the other guests giving them a wide berth as they conversed. 

"To the contrary, never have I been so mighty." The response was a worrisome one. Much could be made from the statement, and in their history Ec-Shavar had always been one to measure his words and actions to the utmost degree. It was his shrewd, tactical mind that had seen him survive several wars since the Kr'Nalus, the great rendering. The skein of Plangó's memories stretched out before him, plucking from them the rich fruits of their past. It was an epoch whose tenets had been emblazoned into the cultural psyche of the Cizrans, an event of such magnitude whose worship had always seemed profane to the Governor. It was a fall from grace he, and the Xo'Xan sought to rectify.

Ec-Shavar stood tall as a pillar of might during turbulent times for the empire. Many of their host had been lost during the Kr`Nalus and its repercussions would be felt throughout the empire for centuries. One of which was the need to reconquer many of the worlds they had dominated during their time as a collective; and it was during one of the last campaigns that he found himself serving under Ec-Shavar in an official capacity as liaison for the Av'sti, an Inquisitorial branch of the Church whose upper echelons were hidden amongst a veil of bureaucratic and mystic nature. 
 
"That is surprising, considering the term mighty has not been used in conjunction with a Xo'Xan in eons." There had never been a need for much political navigation before the time of Kr'Nalus, but the sudden development of differing opinions and viewpoints saw much in-fighting occur between the former Cizran host as lines began to be drawn and sides taken. One of the many factions to arise at this time had been the Xo'Xan, a hubristic group of zealots who saw in themselves aspects of divinity manifest, and sought to constantly change themselves until such a time that divinity had been attained. They subjugated and quantified every species across the empire, taking from them whatever advantageous anomalies their genetic code contained, while exterminating others as wasteful aberrations. 

The words held a tinge of contempt and more than a slight lack of courteousness. He doubted that Plangó had come just to exchange barbs; there must have been another reason for his coming. The recent attempt on Ec-Shavar's life, combined with all the other difficulties as of late compelled him to consolidate his power, something he always did when he felt threatened. And what was power in Cizran society if not information; its applications and withholdings tantamount to the finest of maneuvers in any battlefield. He decided it would be best to draw in his opponent, playing off of his well-deserved notoreity for treachery and subterfuge. He bristled theatrically, with all the subtlety of a slorax in heat, as they paused to observe the controlled orbits of a troupe of dancers, their choreographed movements interpolated within the design of the Cizran homeworlds, projected over them as an ever-shifting hologram. It replayed the sequence of galactic events that had led up to the Kr'Nalus, or an approximation of them as much of their records of the time suffered from its backlash. 

"To talk of might is to not truly comprehend it, and delusions of grandeur are hardly becoming of a being whose most recent accolades have been won by the works of a Wa'ali." He unfurled a gleaming talon and pointed it towards Xo'pil just as he sent a wave of shudders through the group surrounding him, undoubtedly speaking of great grotesqueries.

"I have no qualms in admitting that all of the accolades bestowed upon me are completely unnecessary, and symptomatic of an antiquated social system that continues to fail us." If Plangó had had eyes, it was at this moment that he would have sharpened them in a predatory fashion. Instead of any overt visual cues, the hues at the fringes of his being pulsed in hypnotic patterns. "We both know how long it takes for the Noema to affect change in policy, and even longer for it to be implemented." Too much and his words would be fragrantly blasphemous. A gentle hand would be needed to gleam anything relevant. "Just look at how long it took to move away from the slaughterous history of the Xo'Xan. To think of all the culture that was lost, of what hidden knowledge we could have discovered had there been a patient Si'ab amongst the Av'Ilys to stay such careless hands. Yet rationality prevailed and we find ourselves at new heights, bolstered by the wit and craft of those you defame as Wa'ali. This is why it's been...Ah, the years escape me. Just how long has it been since you've beheld the grandeur of Su-Lahn's Ja'regia. Since you've strolled through the gardens of Rumai, who spent the better part of his countless years perfecting his art, finding the most beautiful specimens across our lands. How long, Xo'Xan?"

By this time their conversation had taken them in a full lap around the gallery and they found themselves upon a balcony overlooking one of the estate's molten pools and just as Ec-Shavar turned coldly to respond, another round of trumpets and a dimming of the lights brought all attention in the room to the kneeling form of Xo'pil, a gnarled staff within his hands. Behind him was the towering form of a shrouded structure, the masterpiece of the night so many had gossiped about. It was time for the unveiling.

***

The room was hushed as the hooded figure that was their focal point began to speak, his gaze steadied on the end of gnarled staff clutched within his grasp. Five ominous raps against the artificial surface of the gallery floor. Thoughts rose to empyreal heights only to crash against the rocks of his consciousness as Xo'pil, an apt description of the cognitive dissonance he was experiencing. His words tonight would most likely be his last before a Cizran audience.The extent of its circumstances an uncertain knot of probabilities he would have Epit'li working on if he'd had time for repairs. Huilo was drained from his work on the unveiling...Recognition came crashing upon him as he remembered where he was and resolved himself to the tides of fate.  

"Civilization is in collapse. This collapse is well documented: by philosophers and scientists, novelists and artists. Through this collapse, at the precipice of insanity, are those who organize to quantify all civic life into a continuum of warfare. Of conquest. Galaticists work alongside military specialists to better prevent or control the slightest disturbances. They seek to continue if not further present cycles of exploitation. To quantify all experience to more readily assess and ajudicate. They do not see the inherent absurdity in such actions."

As he paused and gave his words a moment to sink, a minute parade of ideograms began to spiral out from the center of the pristine white robes he wore. The script seemed to be in a constant state of agitation, undergoing rapid changes yet somehow maintaining a fluid artistry in their fluctuations. The further they spread from the epicenter, the duller their colors became; beginning with bright and bombastic hues of orange and yellow that cooled to a golden hue.

"Our conception of reality is flawed. We begin with the world, made up of external beings. The world outside ourselves. But we ourselves are also a thing, which exist in analogy with the other things that surround us, coming to a consensus on the nature of reality. But there is a presence to us which is not a thing; self-awareness. The thoughts with which we think. Consciousness. We are an abstraction of an even greater abstraction we call nature."

He rose from his kneeled position and began to circle the veiled object with methodical footsteps. By this time the vast majority of his robes had become enveloped in the glyphs, an intricate weaving of visual elements that dazzled the senses. There seemed to be a light glowing within each symbol's depths and it eerily mirrored the rhythm of his movements. 

"We make claims at an apprehended identity. On what does this apprehension depend? An observer? Does there exist an eye so mighty to behold all? If so, what would we look like to such a being? What would we say to the Divine, when we are Nothing within its scope? When the insignificance of your existence must be accented with a futile search for meaning, an act of hubris in which we are all complicit."

He stopped after having completed five circuits around the installation, whose veil turned tumultuously as if caught in a storm. Xo'pil turned and raised his staff to the cloth, the length of its gnarled wood having succumbed to the runes and laid it against the diaphonous material. The denoument had arrived and the rate at which events were culminating was accelerating. He could feel it deep within himself that the trajectory of his life would deviate wildly after tonight's initiation. The symbols virulently transferred surfaces and was the catalyst for his speech's crescendo. Xo turned to face those gathered, lush patches of his indigo coat becoming more pronounced as his robe began to fall away in a manner reminiscent of dying leaves.

"I see this, but I do not see my sensations of it. What I see will always remain, no matter how much its image may be turned or altered. I'll always have the same content of consciousness. Although very different contents may be experienced, the object which is perceived remains the same. In whatever way we may be conscious of the world as universal horizon, as coherent universe of existing objects that are constantly active on the basis of our passive having of the world. This is true not only for me, the individual ego; but rather we."

There was the distinct sound of shattering coming from the veil as the morpheme completed etching itself upon the entirety of the structure's surface and layers of the statue began to fall away in large shards until beneath it all there remained a floating and pulsating eye carved out of a crystalline substance that seemed to act as a plasma but retained the appearance of substance, albeit one whose inner dimensions contained dizzying depths.

"When stripped of ideological veils, the imperatives of autonomous subsystems make their way into the lifeworld from the outside- like colonial masters coming into a tribal society- and force a process of assimilation upon it. The diffused perspectives of the local culture cannot be sufficiently coordinated to permit the play of the metropolis and the world to be grasped from the periphery. Consciousness is fragmented into the twin demons of alienation and false consciousness. Let me show you what lays beyond such primitive understanding."

The word came to life within the folds of the eye, its luster caught in endless reflections. And from the darkness erupted a chorus of bellows.