[center][color=orange][h1][b][u]A Dream of Dusk[/u][/b][/h1][/color]

-Forty Years After Arrival- [/center]
[hr]
The [b]Dawn of Pandjoras[/b] – the illustrious flagship of the Illuminated Star Sultanate - was a blur of action. [color=orange]A thousand and one[/color] different tasks took place simultaneously across her beloved, decorated hull. The Pandjorans, accompanied by the Sultanate’s myriad mamluk, worked tirelessly to achieve perfection aboard the spacecraft. Hafiz harmoniously chanted rites of travel while their serpent engraved censers billowed energizing incense. Ghazi patrolled the absurd length of the vessel, trailing duskborn warriors yet to reach their peak veterancy. Hassan of the Thousand-Faces remained aloof, quietly watching from within and out for oncoming threats. Ambassadors, either of House Abdullahar or the other vassals in the empire, feverishly returned to their chambers in preparation.

The length of the dreadnought was in a state of controlled chaos, yet the bridge was a place of muted silence and solemn duty. A hundred duskborn adepts of the Thirteen Houses worked in contemplative quiet to prepare for transition. The sound of overworked cogitators, squealing augmentations, and spewing incense holders broke the tranquility. Save for the Malik of Pandjoras himself, who sat upon the command throne with Shipmaster Samrih by his side. His golden, serpentine eyes watched with pleasure as the duskborn coordinated in perfect tandem. Few could discern his true emotions, but his aura was as perceptible as one could be.

“My [b]Umbral King![/b] Thirty minutes until preparations for transition into the Sea of Souls are completed!” One of the Voxmasters spoke, removing themselves from their dais to bow before the dusken deity. Their voice bordered between urgent and awestricken. A commonality for those that spoke with the Malik.

“Take your time, Hathas, we are in no rush. Relay to the Enginarium and the Seer Palace that preparations are to be finished in a less than rushed manner. Crossing the Sea is as treacherous as traversing the Ashwastes without a respirator. Unless you’d prefer to be swallowed by the Star Serpent.” Zaphariel ibn Varranis cooed, gesturing with one claw-tipped finger for the adept to rise. They visibly eased as if a terrible burden had been lifted from their soul.

“O, [i]gracious Malik[/i], we thank you for your patience!” Hathas replied, dipping their head deeper once and then rising again to return to their dais. The Shipmaster watched them leave with a placid look on their face. It was a look that he always wore, even as myriad scars crossed his imperfect features.

“A recent addition to the Umbral Armada. The duskborn grow more zealous the longer you stay away from Pandjoras. If not for Muahad, and your Thousand-Faced Hassan, then there would be entire prophetic cults in your name.” Samrih voiced his opinion. His voice was dry, scratchy, and as deep as the gravity basins of Pandjoras. He had continued to grow from time, experience, and adversity.

“[i]Faith[/i],” the Malik of Pandjoras started with a hint of disgust on his lips. He recalled every manner of zealotry professed to him in a manner of seconds. He would never be able to forget the distaste he felt at each occurrence. The dusken deity continued, “is a powerful weapon for unifying an empire under one purpose. The Old Man taught me much of how it led to untold slaughter on Pandjoras, resulting in him killing [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] gods. I cannot fathom wielding such a blade, but I understand how effective it can be.”

It was a half-truth as ever he spoke in them. Zaphariel felt abominable disgust in relation to zealotry and fanaticism, yet he wielded it imperceptivity like a knife in the dark. He could not stem the tide of religious fervor, so why not embrace it at the lowest possible level? Everything is a weapon, Muahad had taught him. The Old Man was correct. It was one of the most effective weapons in his arsenal.

“Forgive me, Master, but I must amend what I said. You should [b]return[/b] to Pandjoras after this campaign.” Samrih said with confidence, bowing his head slightly towards the Malik. The dusken deity watched the man closely, then flashed a toothy grin to the scarred warrior.

“You’ve grown too responsible for your own good, Samrih . Where is the Shipmaster that led my beloved dreadnought into [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] Klantor frigates? The one who conducted a precise execution of a pirate battleship? The man who boasted of his closeness with the Malik of Pandjoras?” Zaphariel asked with a playful tone, watching as Samrih’s face twitched imperceptivity from his advances. It was half the reason the man from House Nathaz remained as Shipmaster. The other half was genuine impression from his raw abilities as a void tactician.

“I’m joking, Shipmaster, but you are correct. I miss the Old Man and Neu Alamut. Two-hundred-and-fifty worlds and eighteen years of void travel. Pandjoras beckons.” The Malik stated, raising a comforting hand to silence Samrih’s response. His serpentine eyes turned to the tempered glass, revealing all of the void in its glory. Save for the weeping tear in reality, visible even from where he sat on the command throne.

The wound pulsed like festering flesh, leaking heinous energies into the physical realm. Zaphariel felt as if it watched him. If he were a lesser man with less experience with the unknown, then the Malik was certain that it would have driven him insane. Luckily, it had been a guiding beacon for the Pandjorans since their ascent as a stellar empire. He knew it was ill to use such an oddity as a way marker, yet they had little choice in the matter. Especially now, more than ever, with it as close as it was.

“After the twin systems at the Serpent’s Tongue, my Malik?” Samrih asked, adjusting his stance to account for Zaphariel’s relentless verbal attack. The Shipmaster crossed his arms behind his back, resting his gaze in the direction of the dusken deity’s stare.

“Quite so, my dear Samrih, but reports have already come in of corsairs surrounding the southern fork. Once they’ve been dealt with, then to the black sands of our umbral world I shall return.” Zaphariel conceded, closing his eyes to the Wound. It troubled him to stare for too long, yet it never failed to draw him in. The Malik of Pandjoras continued, “preferably before the full colonization of Hephas, Anedjoras, Asaijhas, and Zeuros. A personal touch must be used for the worlds in the same space as our home.”

[color=orange]A thousand and one[/color] tasks to complete his ultimate goal were required. The four uninhabited worlds surrounding Pandjoras’ star – the Eye of Falak – still needed a leviathan amount of resources to industrialize. Not even the umbral world could provide for her sister planets, despite the Ring of Muahad’s abundance of technology and materials. The last report from House Tallora confirmed the present deficit for the project. A variable that he couldn’t perfectly control. Not yet, at least.

“If it is an issue with personnel, then the mamluk are more than ready to lay down their lives for you.” Samrih offered, earning a fixed glance from the Malik of Pandjoras. The Shipmaster realized that he had overstepped his boundaries and offered a bow in apology. Zaphariel casually waved it off.

“Were you not born to House Nathaz, Samrih? Perhaps a marriage with one from House Tallora would suit you. I can make the arrangements, my friend.” Malik Varranis cooed with a growing grin. Samrih was prepared, however, and nearly spoke once more if Zaphariel hadn’t continued to speak. “Raw resources, not manpower. The Umbral Armada is a voracious serpent in a desert devoid of jakaal. It’s hunger knows no end, yet the end is in sight. Three-hundred worlds were the original number of the Star Serpent. We shall meet that, rest, and then expand further.”

Another response that was dodged. The mamluk. Abhumans. He was aware that it was impossible to fully integrate an entire civilization with untold amounts of traditions and values in it. The only correct reaction is integration and conversion. A long process that will continue beyond his demise, yet it began even now in the genelabs of Pandjoras. For now, they sufficed as necessary instruments. It will all drown in dusk, just as planned, he thought as Samrih moved away from him. The Shipmaster quickly spoke with a vox operator, then turned towards him.

“We are ready, my Malik,” Shipmaster Samrih stated promptly, offering a formal bow to the Padishah of Pandjoras. The bridge looked to their dusken deity for guidance, hope and anticipation gleaming in their orange eyes. They had all walked the same path as he had for countless years. Rest was well within sight. Zaphariel would not keep them waiting.

“Transcend across the Sea of Souls! [color=orange][b]Glory unto Pandjoras![/b][/color]” The Malik of Pandjoras commanded, rising from his throne to gesture over his subjects. His arm spread wide as if to acknowledge all the crew of his beloved warship. The motion was met with muted professionalism, the bridge members bringing their fists to their heart and proclaiming glory for their homeworld. Moments such as these brought a smile to his lips. Absolute, unflinching loyalty, he cooed to his mind.

The Dawn of Pandjoras was not the only vessel. Hundreds of others prepared for an entrance into the Empyrean, merely awaiting the flagship to make a move. The scythe-like instruments stretching from the bottom of the vessels began to glow. Lilac lightning danced along the edges of the ‘blade’, while the rest of ‘blade’ glowed with a prismatic hue. Bolts shot out from across the instrument, arcing into the penumbral void. Great tears in reality began to form. Chaotic wounds that licked out with mauve tongues eagerly welcomed the vessels of the Sultanate. Insanity awaited within for those that dared to venture.

Once again, the duskborn of the umbral world ventured into the Empyrean with courage and faith in their lungs.
[hr]
The Malik of Pandjoras wandered the vast, absurdly long halls of his dreadnought. It had evolved over the past eight years of constant integration, yet the Dawn of Pandjoras remained much the same in other aspects. Beautiful pillars, engraved with the history of the dusken world, rose up to meet the nigh endless floors. Glowglobes, ornately shaped to resemble void serpents, slithered around doors, archways, and other functional causeways. Murals of their homeworld and many others were plastered on otherwise barren, metallic walls. Long, umbral carpets sewn from serpent silk, filled the space between pillars. [color=orange]A thousand and one grains of black sand [/color] nestled into every corner. The faint scent of the umbral world mingled with freshly lit incense, spewing from censer braziers. Every embellishment to the Dawn of Pandjoras made him feel as if he walked upon the umbral world.

[color=orange]A thousand and one[/color] plans circulated through his mind as he progressed through the hull. Leaving the bridge to the Shipmaster was the correct choice. Too many actions to account for and too many objectives to prepare for. None of these thoughts brought his armored form to the Palace of the Malik. He did not desire time with his thirteen wives, nor did he wish to engage in sculpting. Neither produced anything of value beyond vain pleasure, Zaphariel thought. The thought was as quiet as the alcoves of the hull were while they navigated the Empyrean. It had become tradition – and a safety precaution – to isolate the crew during the journey. None walked with him save for the occasional group of hafiz with a seer amidst them he crossed paths with.

His silent footfalls found him stepping into the Garden of the Void. Respirators were prepositioned next to the portal into the chamber, yet Zaphariel had never required one to navigate Pandjoras’ surface. Inside, he felt the raw humidity of the umbral world. It was as wide as thirty dropships and as tall as five elder serpents. The chamber itself was domed with a history of House Sulkat engraved into gravitic stone, laboriously hauled from their world. Bits of black particle clung to the hair, while fist-sized obsidian scarabs loudly buzzed nearby. A controlled populace of void serpent idled within the penumbral stalks or swam in the gravity pools. From the Ashwaste azure blooms to the Alamut umbral plume, all vegetation of his home was present in the life-sized terrarium. The scent among it all brought him peace beyond what any person could.

As he prepared to enter oneness amidst the flora, Zaphariel felt a sluggishness uncharacteristic of his physiology. He sprawled claw-tipped fingers of his left hand against his face to ease the oddity. His heart quickened as he felt sweat dripping down his tan skin. All of his senses suddenly screamed out at once. The humidity of the chamber dropped to a chilling coolness unlike any frigidity on Pandjoras. A foul, sulphuric scent plagued the Garden, where previously it had smelled of spice and freshness. Bile settled at the bottom of his throat. He was no stranger to the Sea of Souls or the Wyrd, yet this felt entirely different altogether.

The Malik of Pandjoras left the Garden as an unnatural breeze began to course through the chamber. He could feel the palpable fear on the creatures within rise as he absconded. The alcoves of the Dawn greeted him once more, yet they were significantly different from how he had left them. The scents were that of the polluted Garden, but incense was pillowing out in clouds of pink. The serpent-bound glowglobes were tinged in electrifying blue, while the wall-mounted murals wept crimson. A pain began to rise in his temple, nearly forcing his eyes to shut in surprised agony. He could suppress [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] daggers in his gut, yet he couldn’t quell this.

Then he saw it standing in the middle of the hall between the Garden of the Void and the Mamluk Quarters. It was a leviathan person draped in shadows with gold peeking beneath. It held an axe as tall as he was in one hand. Tarnished avians decorated the heavy armor that it wore. It steadily approached him with the axe lowered. Only then did he realize that there was a muzzle at the end of the weapon. It sprinted towards him, nearly faster than he could react; however, none were faster than he. The Malik of Pandjoras was unequaled in swiftness. He gritted his teeth and exploded forward, activating the miniature powerfield in his gauntlets. Claw met shadow, followed by a burst of ink-black vitae from the being’s throat. It collapsed to the floor and disappeared into the unknown.

An ethereal battlefield suddenly stretched out before him, devoid of the Dawn of Pandjoras’ trappings. Murky structures in a style unknown to him rose up to meet a sky with a black sun. A horde of shadows in bulky, imperious armor marched around him with strange symbols on their enormous pauldrons. They appeared as if cut from the same cloth, repeated over and over [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] times. Ugly, heavy armaments were carried in their gauntlets. Banners were raised high to a void filled with starships racing to destinations unforeseen. Zaphariel inspected them as one would a fine sculpture, daring to investigate everything he could. It only worsened his pain as each shadow brought agony to his eyes.

The dusken deity pushed through the legions of warriors, smaller than him yet larger than a standard man. As he approached the front of the warriors, one of the banners became clear to him. Upon the surface of the cloth was a number. XIII. It resonated with him. It called for him to interact with it. He refused as he did with his fateful encounter with Falak. The Malik of Pandjoras would not be bent low by apparitions or the ghosts of the Empyrean. As he stepped out of the formation, the warriors reached out to him with grasping hands. Each felt like a desperate, needy attempt as if a child cried out for their parent. Zaphariel heard ethereal weeping, tinged by the wyrd. His claws lashed out, cutting wrist from arm and sending the phantoms reeling back.

“I do not belong to you. You [i]belong[/i] to me.” Zaphariel snarled back, racing forward and claiming a phantom giant in one of his claws. It desperately kicked out as it’s unnatural life was suffocated from it. He squeezed his digits tighter until the apparition disappeared into a wisp of charcoal smoke. The ethereal formation began to disperse in a flurry of ash, black sand, and obsidian tendrils. They twirled around him as he pressed onward through the battlefield, empowering each step he took with equal parts pain and pleasure. His mind felt ready to burst as he ascended freshly summoned stairs into the unknown.

Every step he took to ascend higher saw a different part of him shift. He hadn’t realized it until it dawned on him how massive he appeared. Every part of him was being consumed by prismatic shadows, each tinged in a different shade of azure, amethyst, emerald, and ruby. Great claws of serpent scale trailed down his arms. Talons wrapped around his armored feet. The beat of scaled wings echoed behind him in sound both muffled and clear. He felt illusory ichor drip down from above him in a repetitive circle. Zaphariel felt his body weakening, blood draining from his face, and vitae dripping from his orifices. It was the worst he had ever felt, yet it brought a sensation that he would never forget.

As he turned to regard the battlefield, the Malik of Pandjoras collapsed to his knees. It was no longer a stage unknown to him. The dark sands of an illusory dusken world burned brightly before him. The sky above him was alight with [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] different shells pummeling the dunes of his home. Shadowy gravity palaces fell from the void, crashing into the sands. Starships of strange design rose where the Ring of Muahad would be visible. More of the gigantic soldier-apparitions marauded across the planet, slaughtering everything that moved. He cried out in rage. Unfathomable cackling rang in his ears from a speaker incomprehensible to him.

Fresh images pulsed into his mind at a speed incomparable. Great cities destroyed by the hands of ferocious, tan-skinned warriors in bulky armor. Claw-tipped fingers tearing apart skin to consume the grey matter of an unknown foe. A golden knight cutting cleanly into a right gauntlet, separating hand from forearm. A fortress besieged, yet its besiegers slaughtered to a man with motorized blades and barking guns. It drove him into a fit of psionic madness unlike any that he had experienced before. The Malik of Pandjoras could not comprehend it. He could not fathom it. His will was beyond that of mortal men. He was the Unifier. The Prophet-King of the Dusk World. Lord of the Thirteen Nights.

It came to a climax. He could feel the wyrd erupting from him as if unshackled by an unknown hand. All of his barriers had been shattered. Bioelectricity arced dangerously around him, tinged in the varying hues of his environment. Black sand pooled around him in a tempest not unlike the storms of Pandjoras. His voice became hoarse with reality-changing yelling. It felt like claws were being driven into his skull, scrambling the inside of his mind and rewiring it to nefarious purposes.

“[i]Are you really this weak, brother?[/i]” A deep voice asked, cutting through the madness like a battle-honed blade. The ethereal battlefield melted away from him. The warmth of a reactor purged the chill from his body. A figure stood behind him like a towering sentinel. Its presence brought him an unexplainable strength. A hand, fully encompassing his shoulder, gripped him tightly.

“[i]The Malik of Pandjoras would not falter to such illusions. Stand up.[/i]” the voice demanded, a tone as ruthless as it was reassuring. It lit a flame in his heart. The sands of Pandjoras filled his veins as if it were hot plasma spilling into an enginarium. He began to stand, calming the raging wyrd that shot out of his soul. A wounded, toothy grin began to form on his lips as he regained his courage once more.

"[i]Rise, brother,[/i]" came a new voice, soft yet firm as a river current flowing inexorably across the treacherous reaches of his mind. A hand took his own, smaller than his and yet its magnitude stood amongst the greatest of all. A rush of air like the fresh breeze of a garden world in spring engulfs him as another figure comes to stand by him, resplendent in flowing silks and accompanied by the faint smell of ozone and vanilla perfumes. 

The voice came again, soft and lilting and bearing a melody of humor and melancholy. Another hand draped a silken cloth around his neck, resplendent in the colors of Pandjoras. "[i]To borrow a saying of yours... a thousand times you must fall, and [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] times you must rise again. Stand up, brother, and walk beside us once more.[/i]"

“What a cruel joke,” Zaphariel replied with a laugh, yet he was thankful for the phantoms. His orange, serpentine eyes stared out before him as more shadows formed. They were eighteen in total of various sizes and shapes, emanating an aura of familial tenderness. Their ethereal lips moved, yet only the feeling remained. They disappeared as quickly as they had appeared, swirling into the black sand tempest that rushed around him. He closed his eyes to the world once more, focusing within to harness the wyrd. He refused to be dominated by such flippant powers.

Zaphariel ibn Varranis entered a state of oneness. The battlefield, the apparitions, the shadows, the scents, and the cold disappeared. The wyrd pulsed through his veins as a living thing, squirming and writhing like a serpent caught out of it’s void pool. Voiceless words escaped his lips as the Empyrean was forced into domination. It snapped, barked, and cried out. Things within the dark laughed, cackled, roared, and coughed as he fought back against the tide. Eventually, quicker than the wyrd could anticipate, his body entered equilibrium.

Black sand, azure flame, lilac lightning, emerald energy, and scarlet vitae erupted from him in extraordinary pulse of psionic might. The Dawn of Pandjoras violently shook for minutes after Zaphariel’s psionic backlash. Whatever seer barriers had been delicately maintaining the vessel’s journey through the warp were simultaneously shattered and reborn. A single moment of laxity, however, was enough to drive the crew over the edge. Madness began to run rampant through the hull. The Malik of Pandjoras could hear the duskborn and the mamluk alike cry out in terror. He did not fear for their demise for only he knew how to quickly remedy it.

Riding the waves of psionic might, the dusken deity entered oneness once more. He narrowed his eye as he strained in focus. The wyrd wrapped around him like a warm breeze on the umbral world. He willed his aura out, stretching [color=orange]a thousand and one grains of black sand[/color] throughout the starship. Although Zaphariel could not comprehend their spirit, he could feel the touch of their minds. He whispered through the wyrd, each word vibrating the air around him and reaching where he desired. Reality was his to mold so long as he could speak into it. Their minds quieted, relaxed by the farflung words of the Malik. Perspiration pooled over his forehead as he repeated the same action [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] times.

As the last mind was quieted, Zaphariel felt his limbs desire respite; however, the callous words of the towering phantom resonated in his mind. A reinvigorated grin spread across his lips. He would never forget those words or that tone. The Malik of Pandjoras remained firm in his stance. His eyes opened to the world around him, filled once more with the familiar halls of his beloved dreadnought. Inhabitants of the starship were beginning to stumble out of their quarters. Hafiz were chanting louder and greater than previously before. The corpses of seers were sporadically slumped throughout the halls he had begun to traverse. The dusken deity pressed on.
[hr]
The portal into the bridge opened to him, basking his perspired skin in a wash of hot air. Zaphariel witnessed a single moment of absolute chaos with his serpentine eyes. Dead adepts, cowering crewmen, and panting bridge officers were scattered like [color=orange]a thousand and one grains of black sand[/color]. Blood painted a portion of the terminals from those that the madness overtook. Shipmaster Samrih stared straight ahead into the void shutters with his fingers nearly cracking the command throne. His arrival had an immediate effect as lingering madness fled from their orange eyes, returning to their duties without another thought. Voidsmen claimed the dead, retreating through a separate corridor than the one the dusken deity had entered.

“[b]My Malik…![/b]” Shipmaster Samrih announced, rising from the command throne with blood dripping down his fingertips. He pressed a fist against his chest and lowered himself to a kneel; however, the dusken deity was already there to help him stand back up with a single hand. The duskborn man would’ve denied the assistance, yet he no longer had any strength to rebuke his beloved king. Zaphariel assisted him back into the command throne.

“The Sea of Souls is as turbulent as a gravity tempest the closer we get to the Wound. Luckily, it seems to have subsided,” Zaphariel reassured him with a smile, turning his attention away from Samrih to regard the rest of the crew. They momentarily halted their work as the leader of their empire pushed his full focus on them. Some chose to kneel, whispering in the roughest tongue of their homeworld. Others inclined their heads in respect. Either was acceptable to him at this moment.

“You’ve done well, my friends. You are all born of Pandjoras. Serpent vitae is your blood. Black sand is your air. Gravitic stone is your skin. The dusken sky is your mind. You have survived [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] perils. It only furthers my pride to see you persevere against anomalies odds. [color=orange][b]Glory unto you, my duskborn, and glory unto Pandjoras![/b][/color]” Zaphariel roared with fresh vitality in his lungs. He did not need reality-changing vocals to stir their hearts. The mere sight of him was enough, emphasized even more so by his voice. His smile spread into a toothy grin. They cheered his name, then cheered for Pandjoras, and finally for their voyage before returning to their duties.

“Are you well, Lord Zaphariel? We were worried something happened to you.” Shipmaster Samrih asked with genuine concern in his voice. It touched the dusken deity’s heart that he felt that way. He wondered, however, how much of it was genuine friendship and how much of it was feverish reverence. Both served a purpose to him.

“I am [i]exceptional[/i], Samrih. I merely had [color=orange][b]a dream of dusk[/b][/color] in the Garden of the Void,” the Malik of Pandjoras replied. He withheld the events that he had seen. The wyrd played tricks on their mind like heat phantoms in the black sands. How much of it was real? How much of it would come to pass? How much of it was a lie? Why did he now feel as if many beings were watching him? Too many questions and too many plans to solve. Zaphariel was thankful for it, however, for it had made him stronger.

“Translation in several minutes, Shipmaster!” One of the voxmasters spoke. Zaphariel recognized them as Ashiia, notably not Hathas. They were no longer walking among their number. The dusken deity did not mourn for their loss. Another replaceable tool was lost.

“Begin translation when ready! Broadcast arming protocols to all shipmasters! If the corsairs are waiting for us, then by the Ring of Muahad we will be ready.” Samrih said with an air of absolute authority. The very same that Zaphariel had taught him many years ago. The dusken deity approved as a smith would a finely tuned weapon. His perfected weapon turned to regard him. “Are you prepared, my lord?”

“[i]Always[/i]. It’ll be just as planned.” Zaphariel whispered with a grin, placing a claw-tipped hand on top of the command throne. His orange eyes turned to the voidshutters as the vessel began to lurch. He felt the wyrd stir as the seers began to raise the barriers. They would soon enter reality and unto the next world. Fifty more worlds, he thought with excitement.

Unbeknownst to him, the dusken deity was watched from beyond. Far from the Wound, a light as bright as the galactic core gazed upon him. A radiance unparallel moved, shuffling from the cradle of a broken shell. It spread rays of brilliance across the universe as it spilled forth toward the Star Serpent.