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The penumbral sky was awash with spectral lights that danced like frantic, bioluminescent insects over a fresh feast. Lilac lightning arced between floating stone to swarming clouds to ashen tempests far above the black dunes. Astral bodies, natural and fabricated, decorated the dusk that ever blanketed the dark world. It was a never-ending performance that illustrated the penumbral planet and the dusken denizens within – and it was only the beginning of a long, drawn-out performance.

Zaphariel, Malik of Pandjoras, peered up from within the lavishly decorated chambers of Neu Alamut. The weathered armaglass of old had been replaced with crystalline, gilded glasscrete, bordered with imagery of his reign. Draconian rockrete had been meticulously renovated with gravcrete, a precious material harvested from the atmospheric stone-like anomalies. [color=orange]A thousand and one[/color] different effigies of the dusken world had been painstakingly carved into the structure. His environment had rapidly changed, yet the Palace of Varranis was the least important.

Even to the naked eye, the Malik could see the work that he had prepared a year ago taking shape. The metallic corpses of Old Pandjoras floating in orbit were being repurposed. Stations, orbital elevators, starships, and more were beginning to populate Pandjoras’ virgin atmosphere. Where once the sky was devoid of traffic aside from harvesters and void serpents, now there was a constant trail of blinking lights and atmospheric stabilizers. Even the immediate sands outside of Neu Alamut were transforming from the barren fortress of House Varranis to the Metropolis of the Malik. How many years would pass before his home would appear like the cities of legend?

The dusken deity turned his attention away from the sight of his rapidly transforming world – the world that he had walked down the path of metamorphosis. He was greeted with the original reason for his current setting. Albeit not nearly as grandiose as the council chambers of Neu Antioch, Zaphariel sat in the middle of a utilitarian audience chamber. He was adorned in a Varranian robe, dyed in charcoal-and-orange with his gravitational crown overhead. What had once been the Grandmaster’s meditation room was replaced with seats, rugs, cogitators, and tables necessary to receive envoys on a grander scale. Several Pandjorans patiently waited in front of a table carved in the shape of House Varranis’ sigil – the blade and dusk sun. To the administration of the Sultanate, he knew they were ministers of the minor houses. To himself, they were nobodies of importance outside of being Pandjorans.

“Continue, Hajib Armarr’z,” the Malik of Pandjoras said. His orange eyes had never left the delegate. Only through his peripherals did he enjoy the way that his dusken world changed. 

“Thank you, al-Malik,” the minister replied. He closed his eyes and bowed his head thirteen times in Zaphariel’s direction. A custom in some courts across Pandjoras that the dusken deity wished to destroy. The Malik resolved to accept it until he could standardize their customs. After bowing his head, Armarr’z opened his eyes and spoke once again.

“An alliance between House Korvaix and House Tuturan has been announced, cementing their blood in marriage between the fourth son and fourth daughter. House Abdullahar and House Delukar have come together in unity to merge the Penumbra Fields and the Gravity Ocean through a mesa-canal. House Bahamut has lifted exploratory sanctions from House Galos after a series of inner house punishments.” The delegate concluded after presenting his dataslate for inspection. Zaphariel refused, offering a thin, toothy grin in response.

“Very pleasing, Armarr’z! Thirteen days and thirteen nights of preparing these events was well worth the fruit it bore,” the Malik responded with a pleasing lilt. He would’ve preferred the words being directly communicated by the House leaders or their heirs, but the exploitation of the minor houses was a normality. One that would persist.

Hajib Armarr’z bowed his head thirteen more times before stepping back and taking his seat, allowing another to replace him before the Malik. Another minor noble dressed in the finery of House Tallora, decorated in azure, alabaster, and amber. This one was more experienced than the last, forgoing the old customs of the minor houses and bowing her head once before speaking.

“Hajib Shamaara, al-Malik,” she said as she bowed. Zaphariel nodded in approval, gesturing with one of his talon-ringed fingers to raise her head. She continued with her eyes glued to a dataslate, “per your instructions, the previously untouched mesas surrounding the Valley of the Void have been excavated for minerals. Extraordinarily deep reservoirs of precious metals have been discovered with House Tallora beginning extraction and processing. Emir-i-Thanaa reports several days before the first products are ready.”

“And House Tallora shall prosper, no doubt,” Malik Zaphariel remarked. “The gravitic density surrounding the Valley was immeasurable for decades and unconquerable due to Falak’s presence. Without a void wyrm to haunt the slopes, the Sultanate can prosper from Emir Thanaa’s diligence. Cooperate with House Nathaz and begin shipment to the cities.” 

As Hajib Shamaara bowed her head and stepped back, the dusken deity was reminded of previous progress reports. The unification had brought the dunemen, ashwasters, and serpent-tamers from their tribal homes. All of the Houses had grown in just a single year, Neu Alamut most of all. With a new influx of materials from the Valley, Zaphariel knew that they would grow ever closer to an ecumenopolis. Everchanging, ever shifting sands, he thought grimly as the final courtier approached.

“Hajib Jerul, al-Malik!” An androgynous courtier said with enthusiasm. Their dusken skin was blanched with the telltale signs of an ashwaster, reinforced only by the Bahamutian robe they wore. The faded stench of oil and machinery clung to the courtier’s grey-and-purple clothing, typical for their allegiance. A faint clicking, audible only to the dusken deity, confirmed the presence of hidden augmentations. Their cowled head dipped once in a bow before rising again to speak.

“Three more gravity palaces have been restored by your will, Prophet of Dreams! Your ten-year plan has shaken the very foundation of the Bahamutian maintenance cycle. We are truly in awe of your incredible intelligence, Malik of the Black Sands! Your dream of the thirty palaces is achievable, so report the great Saahir!” Jerul concluded, splaying both of his arms wide in a reverent bow. Zaphariel had become accustomed to the overt display of religious infatuation. This was one of many that he had received just today. 

“Magnificent! Inform Saahir that these three are to be properly relinquished to the subsequent Houses without one. What of the seer-taming devices and agricultural experiments?” The Malik of Pandjoras asked, already knowing the answer. He had [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] hassan spread across Pandjoras. There was never a moment he wasn’t aware of the situation on his homeworld.

“The Great Saahir reports that the augmentations are taking hold in the Urahalan desert-singers, allowing them greater control of the spirits. The first interstellar prototype will be ready for the reclaiming of the Star Serpent in months, al-Malik!” Jerul quickly responded, their milky eyes reading from something in front of them. Zaphariel could read the sigils that flitted across the surface of the courtier’s eyes. A recent creation from the mind of Saahir. 

“The development of genespliced flora to weather Pandjoras’ dusk is progressing slowly, Deity of the Dusk Ring. Even with the assistance of House Delukar, we have reached an impasse. Concurrently, however, Emir Bahamut has made astonishing strides in genemanipulation. He believes that the creation and implementation of several organs could make the average Pandjoran-“

“I understand, Jerul,” Zaphariel interrupted with a soft chuckle. The response was enough to nearly melt the Bahamutian, who locked their legs to refrain from descending into a deep bow.  “Tell Saahir to continue delving into the dark sands of gene-research, if he cannot make more strides with agriculture. The Star Serpent will open [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] new avenues on that front.”

As the Bahamutia Hajib bowed low, Zaphariel watched him leave with fresh thoughts on his mind. How would the duskborn look after genemodding? Would they become svelte asasiyun with skin as dark as the black sands, as pale and hardy as the most legendary of ashwasters, or as scaled and monstrous as the void serpents of their home? Perhaps, he thought with excitement, they would be like me.

[i]Siblings[/i], just like himself, it was a thought that excited him greatly. His kin were family. Ramses, the Old Man, and all the people of Pandjoras, yet there was an obvious barrier between himself and them. His stature, abilities, and charisma were beyond that of a normal duskborn. He was not one-in-a-thousand born with special gifts. He was more than that, though Zaphariel did not know why. It dawned on him that his gleefulness was drawing attention to himself from the ministers. The train of thought was forgotten as he stood.

“Glory to you, Hajib of the Minor Houses! Continue to pursue the dusk dreams that we all see and the Star Serpent will soon be ours. Glory to Pandjoras!” Malik Varranis roared with delight, earning himself a cheer from the delegates as they quickly left the chamber.
The dusken deity fell back into the seat he had just risen from, allowing himself a momentary rest as the envoys left. His thoughts lingered back to Saahir’s genetic attempts and the things he had seen in various different ruins across Old Pandjoras. How many times had those before the Cataclysm attempted the same experiments? He wondered how successful they were. Ultimately, it mattered little as they were dead and gone. The silence was quickly replaced with the bickering of Pandjorans in the Varranian dialect.

“The young sheik that grew up tormenting Neu Alamut is quite busy!” Ramses said as he entered first, throwing back his cowl to reveal his maturing features. 

“Thy days of terror are eternal and unbound,” Muahad, the Old Man of the Mountain, responded in a voice as tough and stony as gravitic rock. The alabaster skull mask warped his voice, deepening it into a grim tone.

“If I had known unification would bring endless torment in the form of endless sycophants, then I would’ve stayed in Neu Alamut to count [color=orange]a thousand and one grains of black sand[/color].” Zaphariel replied, throwing his hands up in feigned defeat. 

“The price of leadership is grievously steep, dreamer, yet it is among the most honorable burdens a soul may bear.”The Old Man spoke, seating himself into one of the vacant seats left by the courtiers. He carefully swept his long robes from his knees as he sat, though Zaphariel knew that his adoptive father had never once relaxed in his life. Azrael, the Old Man’s blade, laid across his lap in a silence more daunting than any roar.

“That would be true of any Pandjoran of respectable age, but I don’t think many thirteen-year-old duskborn can say they lead an entire planet. I’d bet it upon thirteen days and thirteen nights of sobriety!” Ramses playfully scoffed, sitting himself next to the strong-yet-ancient Old Man. He was rarely outside of power armor, so it was a rarity to find him in a bodyglove fitted with serpentscale. 

“Would that I could sprint across the black sands without care anymore, but the Star Serpent calls for all of us and we will answer.” Zaphariel retorted, resting his palms against the Varranian table. His taloned jewelry traced the engravings of the piece as he admired the work that he put into it. He continued to speak, “Saahir has begun working on genesplicing the duskborn. No doubt in order to prepare Pandjoras for the stars.”

If the news had rattled either of the hassan, then they did not show it openly with their body language or facial expressions. Ramses raised an eyebrow yet remained nonplussed. Muahad nodded in understanding. 

“Thou hast known this truth for some time, Zaphariel. It is the road once walked by the ancients of Old Pandjoras and now thou wouldst walk in their shadow, seeking to claim the honors left untaken.” The Old Man of the Mountain explained, his words carved with weight. The Malik knew it was primarily for Ramses, who wasn’t nearly as proficient of a hassan as either of them.

“I can hide nothing from you, Grandmaster,” Zaphariel chortled, bowing his head once to Muahad in defeat. “Saahir is a unique existence. An ashwaster with deep understanding of Old Pandjoras. Without him, there would be no Star Sultanate. In some ways, he reminds me of you. Otherwise, he feels born from another world. It is why we have such a strong kinship.”

“In another age, he would have drawn first breath upon a red world, not one veiled in dusk,” Muahad growled in an unnatural way. Zaphariel could tell when the Old Man felt uncomfortable in a conversation. His tone, scent, and body language said it all despite his excellent attempts to hide it. Despite this, he persisted, “the path thy take is like that of the oldest legends. From a world far beyond the Star Serpent’s coil. Tread it carefully, Dreamer.”

“It will take me another thirteen days and nights to understand either of you! Speak plainly for the sake of your uncle, yes?” Ramses spurted out, growing increasingly frustrated with the way the two spoke.

“Genemodding is the work of Old Pandjoras. It is fundamental to our success in reclaiming the Star Serpent, among many other things. The Old Man is warning me because of the Cataclysm; however, there is a way to dispel his fears.”  Zaphariel calmly explained with a growing smile on his lips. One that spelled doom for the retainers of House Varranis many times before. Ramses felt an unnatural chill as the dusken deity spoke.

“We will announce another Scouring of the Ancients. The likelihood of finding the Old Pandjoran genevaults is higher now that we’ve unified. All will join this time, regardless of hierarchy. Even the ashborn, the dunemen, and the jinn will come.” Zaphariel stated. It was not a question or an expression of opinion. What he had said was an announcement. One that Ramses shook his head in distress.

“… The logistics of this will shake the wealth of the Houses for a decade, but it’s the sort of trouble I expected from you, al-Malik.” Ramses groaned at first but started to chuckle and picked himself up from his seat. He clapped his hands together and looked down to Muahad.

“Such an endeavor shall swell the fate of Pandjoras, yet do not think thy desires hidden from mine eyes,” Muahad calmly spoke, using Azrael as an instrument to rise. The action was pointless. Zaphariel knew how strong the Old Man was instinctively. Just the same, the Old Man knew exactly how the Malik thought. 

The time for hiding within an audience chamber was at an end. The Malik of Pandjoras could barely hide his excitement behind his carefully crafted emotional mask. Freedom from the unending quagmire of building a global government from scratch. Something to benefit Pandjoras and to drag him out of the endless torrent of bureaucracy. A year of pure planning to momentarily halt and engage in a frivolous, fruitful adventure.

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The sunrise peaked behind the carcasses of [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] metallic ruins, worn into rust by gravitic anomalies and black sand. Although it only shone for an hour of the day before ascending into the Ring of Muahad, it was one of the few natural beauties of the dusken planet. To view it was to understand the Tears of Pandjoras – the brilliant orange of a duskborn’s iris. The sun danced off of the metals, spraying rays of light across the Ruins of the Old World. Magnificent, teardrop-domed palaces with enormous, broken engines were scattered throughout the region. Monolithic, spiraling towers with weathered engravings poked out of the black sands, while rivers of green-silver liquid flowed from the corpses of ancient reservoirs. They were the bones of an era that had perished during the Long Night.

The dreadful silence of the region was broken by rhythmic thumping. An unfathomable amount of gravitic engines hummed in the air, twisting the tranquility of the dead into an uproar. The sky became blotted with hovercraft, each in varying states of evolution. Some carried the vestiges of the harvester dropships of the old times, while others were resplendent with newly invented Bahamutian technology. Far behind the swarm, a pair of gravity palaces waited like titanic guardians. Their towering walls, grandiose spires, and bulbous domes watched over the region with their gargantuan engines vibrating the black sands beneath. Great banners of serpent silk unfurled from the top of towers, wildly whipping in the harsh winds.

At the fore of the swarm, a great vessel cut through the sunlight like a scythe through penumbral stalk. Half as long as the great wyrm, Falak, and as thick as three gravitic boulders, it was a monstrous thing in comparison to the rest of the fleet. The prow was shaped into the visage of a void serpent, while the body was reminiscent of a harvester dropship and a bronze scorpion. A three-tiered monstrosity, the middle deck was fitted with two dozen graviton multi-cannons. The bottom deck beheld reinforced glass flanking a huge door, while the top deck connected the ship to the sextuple heavy gravitic engines. A pair of orange-and-black banners unfurled from either side of the craft, proudly displaying the kingly insignia of House Varranis upon them. 

Within the vessel’s cockpit, a wide command deck flowed out naturally like a freshly developed dune after a gravity tempest. Graciously sculpted pillars with spiraling snakes held glowglobes around the chamber, while incense burners wafted fresh spice into the area from the walls. A pilot’s throne sat just before an armaglass window, while several stations behind silently assisted. Overlooking the pilot and her entourage was a dais without railing. A meticulously sculpted seat of gravitic stone remained, fashioned with serpents, dunes, and bulbous palaces. Serpent silk rugs and banners with the sword and dusk sun filled the area where black sand did not.

Upon the seat, a dusken deity sanguinely watched the pilot and her crew with a thin smile on his lips. Golden, serpentine eyes peaked out from beneath a dusken cowl. His body was fitted with the ever-evolving powered armor of Pandjoras, thin as a bodyglove and swimming with graviton-particle tubes. Serpent silk robes spilled out from beneath him onto the vessel’s floor, while claw-tipped gauntlets tapped against the arms of his throne. To either side of the being were a pair of men. On his left, a mature hassan with his grizzled features hidden beneath an umbral hood and tabard overlaying his powered armor. On his right, an elder of Neu Alamut with a skull mask and piercing blue eyes. 

“Lord Zaphariel, we have passed Neu Babylos and the Great Ruin. Sensors indicate a great clustering of the old empire within thirty kilometers to the north and northwest. The host eagerly awaits your permission.” The pilot, Zahia al-Bahamut, stated through the intercomms. Her slender form was slaved into her throne, extensive cables running from all parts of her body to several cogitators spread across the chamber.

“And do you eagerly await my permission, Zahia?” Zaphariel ibn Varranis pleasantly asked, leaning forward on his throne to peer down directly on the pilot. He could feel her heartbeat quicken and anxiety filter through her body as the Malik loomed. Teasing others never failed to amuse him, though Muahad heavily discouraged the act. The Old Man had always punished him for indulging in this one vice.

“I do, al-Malik,” the pilot responded with a flat tone. While her body responded naturally to the dusken deity’s words, Zahia’s mind had been further stapled of emotion for more augmentations in Neu Babylos. Her response saw the dreamer softly chuckle before rising from his throne.

“As it should be, my little Bahamutian,” he said with an emphasis on ownership. The nerve-stapler did little to suppress the turmoil within. Luckily, the dusken deity had already moved on from his teasing to begin orchestrating the Scouring. A terminal unveiled from the front of the dais with a long board containing a complete set of Pandjoran sigils. He rapidly pressed several of them in a rhythmic pattern, personally seeing to the completion of his project. The voxnet burst to life as the screen displayed innumerable connected devices across the fleet.

+’People of Pandjoras! Duskborn of the Black Sands! Children of the Dusken Planet! Today we repeat what our ancestors have done time and again from the Cataclysm to the Unification. By right of serpent and scarab, we descend upon the ruins graciously left by the spirits of the old empire. To my people, it is your day to prove your worth in a way that benefits all of Pandjoras. By my authority as Malik of Pandjoras, I announce the beginning of a new Scouring! Drown in dusk, my kin, and parse [color=orange]a thousand and one grains of black sand[/color] for your rewards!’+ Zaphariel heartily spoke with the guile and charisma he was known for. His voice reverberated several times over, dancing across the wavelength of time and space.

The response was monumental. Each of the speakers within the vessel threatened to burst into azure flame from the cacophony they transmitted. Zahia recoiled on her throne from the noise directly relayed into her skull. The attendants shielded their ears to avoid the worst of the pain. All of their agony was ignored. The Malik of Pandjoras greatly smiled as his eyes watched the sight beyond his descending terminal. A swarm of duskborn descended upon the corpses of the old world, eager to claim riches and glory for themselves. To him, it was the most beautiful display of humanity. Each one rushing to their potential doom for reasons as myriad as the shifting dunes of the black desert. How many of them sought riches simply for him? How many for their own glory? How many for their houses?

“Not too bad, nephew,” Ramses remarked with a guffaw, slapping the back of the dreamer in approval. Unfortunately for his hand, Zaphariel was as tough as an elder serpent’s scales and gravitic stone combined. He could feel his digits throb in protest after the action. The Malik of Pandjoras turned to his uncle and flashed his pristine teeth in a wide, cocky grin. Out of the corner of his eye, the Old Man slowly shook his head in disappointment.

“A zone of caution has been deployed, al-Malik. We are prepared for descent when you wish it,” Zahia stated as she recovered from the audible distortion. Her mind processed all that Zaphariel had queued into his terminal in a fraction of a second. She could feel scarab-like objects descend from the vessel as if it were from her own skin. The sensors within loudly communicated her intent while she awaited the Malik’s response.

“[i]I wish for everything, Zahia,[/i]” Zaphariel replied with a wistful tinge to his voice. The pilot knew without guessing that the Malik of Pandjoras mocked her. She disregarded it as she did most of his playing. A thought-pulse from her command throne saw the vessel begin to descend.

As if signaling the start of the Scouring, Pandjoras’ sun dipped back into the Ring of Muahad and dusk claimed the world once more. A blanket of orange, purple, and black fell atop the Pandjorans. The swarm had rushed past the imperial vessel of the Malik, bursting forward to claim glory on their own terms. A great tempest of black sand was unnaturally produced, colliding with the oncoming gravity rain that plagued the umbral world. All manners of wildlife erupted from their hidden dens, terrified by the onslaught of noise drowning their homes. Rough-furred jakaal, bronze-carapaced scorpions, obsidian-shelled beetles, black-scaled serpents, and more stormed across the desert in fear.

“It seems this adventure will take less than thirteen days and nights,” Zaphariel clicked his tongue in disappointment. He watched the stampede of wildlife from the external monitors as they descended. A part of him had imagined that the delve would’ve been fraught with endless danger, yet this display of overwhelming numbers dismayed him.

“Thou art one who bears the burden of destiny, dreamer,” the Old Man of the Mountain responded to his adoptive son’s disappointment. His piercing, azure eyes witnessed the swarm and stampede with callous disregard. As if it was something he had expected. He continued without turning his attention, “know this: many happenings will slip beyond thy grasp. Still thy expectations. [b]Everything is a weapon[/b].”

“[b]Everything is a weapon.[/b]” Both Zaphariel and Ramses replied automatically. The former riding off the waves of disappointment. The latter was more than happy to not have to deal with an onslaught of ferocious creatures. All three of them remained silent as the vessel entered it’s final descent onto the black sands of their beloved home. Klaxons began to bark while crimson lights drowned out the soft glow of alabaster glowglobes.

All six of the gravitic engines whorled and clicked audibly to confirm their engagement into low-intensity form. A horrible noise of metal grinding on metal, similar to that of a sword drawn from a sheathe, was heard from below. The vessel lightly rumbled as the ship finally settled into the desert floor. The objects previously dropped from the vessel illuminated a wide, circular zone around them in soft, orange light. The klaxons fell silent and the deck resumed a natural glow as adjutants shuffled about.

“As you ordained, so it is, al-Malik. Glory to you, Zaphariel ibn Varranis,” Zahia announced in a monotone voice. Although she could not turn her head or body to regard the Malik, Zaphariel felt as if she watched and waved him off with a smile. The adjutants around her began to swap out cables, tubing, and vats of synthesized fluid in preparation for the next flight. He regarded her one last time before absconding the chamber.

The three hassan of House Varranis crossed from the command deck to the hangar in a matter of seconds, offering nods and salaams to other personnel as they passed. None dared to follow the Varranians as they crossed the threshold into the lower deck, entering an automatic descender without a sizable retinue. Unlike during his days as a sheik, Zaphariel no longer needed a large party of asasiyun to go where he pleased. He would be lying if it said it made him lonely, but the banter was always appreciated between the Pandjorans of Neu Alamut. 

The lower deck of the vessel greeted them for one final stretch. Where once a harvester’s dropship butchering-bay doors would await them, there now remained a diagonal ramp ready to be lowered. Stasis chambers and suit lockers stood at either side of the chamber with a plethora of serpent silk paraphernalia of House Varranis on the walls. Powered armor, gravguns, monomolecular armaments, and more could be equipped from the inventory. The three hassan had no need for any of them. Only Ramses paused momentarily to push a rebreather over his mouth before pressing a nearby rune.

Pandjoras welcomed the hassan as it did to all of its beloved inhabitants. A torrent of wind blasted their bodies with [color=orange]a thousand and one grains of black sand[/color]. The air filled with the scent of depleted ozone, pleasing cinnamon, and acrid sulphur. A sky of purple, black and orange loomed overhead, where dark clouds had since started to congregate. The patter of gravitic droplets warped the dark grains before them in miniature tempests from above. Chunks of gravitic stone clung to the air, lilac lightning arcing off of their stony surfaces. It was home to all of them.

“Can you imagine how many more ruins we’ll find of Old Pandjoras in another decade? [color=orange]A thousand and one[/color]? Perhaps two?” Ramses audibly proclaimed as he stepped out into the black sands, effortlessly stepping into the bottom of a small dune. The Malik calmly followed with Muahad a step behind.

“The amount doesn’t matter, uncle, all of it will be claimed by the time we rule the Star Serpent,” Zaphariel replied without pause. Although it wasn’t voiced, he was certain that the Old Man could discern his true intentions. He passed Ramses as they walked up the first black dune with ease, only stopping at the top to listen to continue speaking. “The Ruins of Old Pandjoras aren’t the only region that holds [color=orange]a thousand and one secrets beneath black sand[/color]. Pandjoras is a treasure, hidden in the penumbral stalks like a golden scarab.”

“[i]Pandjoras is no mere treasure, dreamer[/i]. It is a fruit long-ripened, meant to unseal a destiny that stretches into the stars. That sacred fruit lies squandered,” the Old Man of the Mountain said callously as he crossed the dune. The response bristled against Zaphariel’s perfect skin, yet the Promised Dreamer merely smiled down to his adoptive father.

“Come now, brother, we could act like a trio of jakaal barking over a frightened ashwaster, or we could celebrate like a Delukarian on harvest day. We should celebrate that the fruit - which is Pandjoras - even ripened in the first place. Our planet could be much worse,” Ramses cackled, spreading both of his arms out in a welcoming gesture. The act is enough to see the dusken deity alight with laughter.

“Exquisitely said, uncle! I will reflect on my transgressions for thirteen days and thirteen nights, Grandmaster,” Zaphariel said with a deep, exaggerated bow. As ever the Promised Dreamer acted, it was a mocking attempt that was discerned by the Old Man of the Mountain. Despite his display, Muahad’s words would remain on his mind for the rest of their journey. He continued to speak after bowing, “but we shall see what seeds Pandjoras has awaiting for us from here on out.”

The Grandmaster of the Hassan simply stared at the Unifier of Pandjoras like one would look at a humorless, theatrical performer. The glance was enough to unsettle Zaphariel from his exaggerated mocking into a humbled stance. He threw his claw-tipped gauntlets up in defeat, shrugging his shoulders before dipping over the dune with fresh energy in his step. Muahad and Ramses followed after with a silence pregnant in the air, interrupted only by the natural drone of Pandjoras. 

A world of ruins laid before as endless as the black sands of Pandjoras. Although the sun of the dusk world no longer shone on them, they still glistened in the umbral shade. Far in the distance, beams of illumination revealed the searching eyes of other duskborn from their dropships. The stampeding fauna had since fallen to a trickle as stragglers quickly found shelter within abandoned dens and unmolested dunes alike. Only three hassan journeyed across the dark desert in a wide radius around them. Any of the wreckages could’ve been their target, yet the tallest of their number aimed for one in particular.

Jutting from the sands like a megalithic serpent of unnatural proportion, a tower with a broken glass dome awaited. The structure stuck out diagonally out of the black dunes, low enough to enter from the top yet tall enough to require assistance climbing into. As the trio of hassan stepped closer to the wreckage, the detailing on the tower became apparent. Hexagonal in shape, each edge was reinforced with rusted armor. Shards of durable glass stuck out of the sand like spears ready to impale unsuspecting foes. Erosion had scraped away whatever color and imagery it had once possessed. Severely warped metal reflected wherever tempest flakes landed in the great storms of the northern hemisphere. Corrosion dissolved what remained of the engravings on the wreck’s surface. These types of structural remains were typical of the region; however, the Malik of Pandjoras saw something else.

As Zaphariel approached the tower, he instinctively picked up a piece of rubble and lobbed it into the air. His golden, serpentine eyes watched it descend for several seconds before confirming the gravitic density of the area. After the confirmation, the dusken deity launched himself up from standing position to the top of the tower. He rolled through the opening in the dome, avoiding the serrated edges of glass in a feat of practised acrobatics. The act was second nature to the Malik, who calmly awaited the rest of his party with a toothy grin plastered across his lips. He wouldn’t dare to provide aid to the other two hassan, both of which wouldn’t accept his assistance for fear of the dreamer’s mockery.

True to his thoughts, the Old Man wordlessly approached an area below the top of the tower and crouched down. He launched up, utilizing absurdly strong leg muscles and Pandjoras’ unique gravity to leap into the structure. His boot-covered feet lightly landed next to the Promised Dreamer. Ramses, a younger hassan than Muahad, groaned as he stepped several feet back to prepare himself for a running jump. Instead of relying on absurdism, the hassan raced forward and lunged into a somersault with the assistance of his powered armor. He fell into the ruin, recovering from the roll as if he had done so [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] times.

“Do you desire this old man to suffer thirteen days and thirteen nights of joint pain, nephew? Have pity on this seneschal of yours!” Ramses feigned an injury, pressing a hand against his back as he turned to Zaphariel. As requested, the Malik of Pandjoras gave him a pitiful look and inclined his head.

“Oh spirits of Pandjoras, behold, my uncle who is weaker than a duskborn of thirteen cycles! Grant him the pity that I cannot,” Zaphariel meekly requested, clasping his claw-tipped gauntlets together in a feigned prayer. As soon as the dreamer put his hands together, the Old Man split his fingers apart from each other to prevent the conjoining. The dusken deity never had a chance to react.

“[b]Fool[/b]. No spirits inhabit Pandjoras. We do not pray. Seek atonement from within to purge thy confusion,” the Old Man of the Mountain firmly stated. His words allowed no reply. The pair that played their small game physically and mentally straightened themselves out. Zaphariel was reminded why he never took the Grandmaster on journeys such as these. The dreamer simply shook his head and continued down the tower’s length.

From the inside of the structure, Zaphariel could confirm that the length continued far below the black sands of Pandjoras. The tower presented itself less as a living space and more of a corridor directly into the heart of what dwelled beneath. Skeletal remains of unidentified chambers reminded him that the wreckage wasn’t simply an ascender to an observatorium. Corrosion had taken it’s toll from within, callouslessly erasing markings and engravings on structural supports. Thankfully, the rush of wind defeated any amount of horrifying silence.

As his eyes quickly adapted to the dark, the dreamer became aware of several shapes awaiting them. A gang of jakaal - canid scavengers of the ashwastes - viciously tore at a void serpent’s corpse. He approached without care, testing the limits of his unnatural silence. Zaphariel loomed over the first and managed to reach down to touch the shaggy fur of the beast before it noticed him. The creatures yipped and barked in horror, scurrying off further into the tower with adrenaline pounding through their comparatively tiny bodies. If he so wished, Zaphariel could track them for thirteen days and thirteen nights to hunt the hounds; however, there was no need for it.

“It never ceases to surprise me that the jakaal managed to survive on Pandjoras,” the Malik announced as he leaned down. His claw-tipped fingers pressed into the meat of the void serpent, gauging how much blood he could squeeze out in one sitting for a momentary drink. He decided against it after removing a broken jakaal fang, dripping with blackened ichor. The meat had been ruined and so too was the vitae.
“Pandjoras was once cradle to [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] species. Yet the folly of thy ancestors sundered a world in harmony. The jakaal remain - stubborn strugglers born of maleficence," the Old Man responded. The warning was apparent to Zaphariel. How would the future of the dusk world look with even more tampering?

“I’d rather deal with jakaal than void serpents in any given scenario. I’m thankful for their existence, even if they’re typically a nuisance. Now, as much as I love the wildlife, let’s move on,” Ramses said with exasperation. He walked past the dreamer, who finished observing the ophidian’s corpse. The hassan was preparing himself for the worst to come deeper in the ruin. He understood that delves like these had no guarantee of survival, even if the Malik of Pandjoras was with him.

The incline of the tower grew ever closer to upright as the entrance of their section met the trio. A small gap between an ascender platform and an alcove into the ruin proper required no shortage of acrobatics to cross; however, the hassan had no issue in environments such as these. They naturally excelled, regardless of whether they raced across the black sands, danced on gravitic stone, or leapt between buildings. They were born of House Varranis. The depths of Old Pandjoras required higher levels of focus as each was different from the last. Such was the case for this wreckage.

Zaphariel led the way through the structure, which was quickly proving to be an infinitely larger ruin than he originally predicted. Auspex scans and practical experience could only go so far without scouting. In his earlier days, the dreamer assured himself that he would’ve conducted proper reconnaissance before a delve. He made a mental note to refrain from further laxity. It hardly stopped him from enjoying the experience, with or without the Grandmaster of the Hassan observing every one of his actions.

As the Malik of Pandjoras guided them through a large, circular atrium, he couldn’t hide his curiosity for the ruin. Torches, arranged at sporadic intervals, were permanently affixed with blue, burning fire. Murals on the walls were still as pristine as they were before the cataclysm, yet each would momentarily generate static as if they weren’t properly real. Tarnished gold lavishly decorated wall lining and intricate engravings into every surface regardless of relevance. Sigils in a tongue familiar to him flitted in and out of his vision across overhead arches. The wreckages were a great many things, but he always appreciated their majestic sorcery for lack of better terms. The absence of serpent imagery stole his attention more than anything else.

“This one is just like the others, completely devoid of the black serpents of our home,” Zaphariel spoke aloud in feigned ignorance. He ran his claw-tipped gauntlets over the walls, spreading the hazy imagery around as if it were Pandjoras’ dark sand. It coated his digits in phantom slim, which disappeared the further he moved away from the walls. He turned his attention to Muahad, “Old Man, did the ancients not have any kind of snakes during their time?”

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of shattered ceramics, accompanied by a short gasp of surprise from Ramses. Zaphariel and the Old Man placidly turned to regard the hassan with his fingers hovering over the scattered remains of a peculiar storage device. He offered a short, wordless bow as an apology and returned to his exploration. The dreamer breathed a sigh of relief before returning his attention to his adoptive father.

“Thy ancestors claimed not the void serpents, yet serpentine creatures they did claim. The void serpent, as thou knowest, came after the Long Night - terrors born of the Empyrean,” the Old Man coldly explained. Zaphariel’s eyes widened in surprise. He had never made the connection, but it made sense to him. His golden orbs scanned Muahad for further answers. None came except for what he perceived as mockery, “Didst thou not realize when thou feasted upon serpentine vitae?” 

It explained nothing, serving only to frustrate his thoughts. What was the correlation between the void serpents and the cataclysm? What did eating and drinking their meat have anything to do with their origin? How did the Old Man of the Mountain know any of this? [color=orange]A thousand and one[/color] questions flitted through his mind at a speed incomparable to another duskborn. Ultimately, he realized that none of them would be answered by his adoptive father. Muahad was the Grandmaster of the Hassan for a reason, he thought with grim reluctance. 

The trio of hassan pressed further into the structure, now categorized by the dreamer as a fallen gravity palace. Many of the chambers remained the same as the tower or the atrium, devoid of life and filled with the exotic trappings of Old Pandjoras. Some traps remained, set by long-forgotten automata without masters, yet each was quickly disarmed by Zaphariel. Ticking energy bombs, laser rails, screaming vox-scramblers, classical pitfalls, and more awaited them but were all avoided. 

In the dim light of safer alcoves, Zaphariel observed ramshackle belongings from ashwasters and sandlooters. If he so wished, the dreamer was confident in tracking them down; however, he already knew their fates. They had already passed myriad corpses in different states of decay. Some were torn apart by void serpents and others by ancient traps. Few were warped beyond recognition, their disfiguration a result of consuming graviton particles from tempest runoff out of desperation. An understandable, suicidal act. There was no water on Pandjoras. Only blood remained for the duskborn.

Their footsteps, muffled and silent, led them into a large half-circle chamber with an enormous, triangle-shaped door at the other end. The gate was large and slanted, built to deflect energized weapons back into oncoming attackers. Myriad sigils in the language of the ancients dotted across the entrance’s surface. To the right of it remained a terminal with a blank, dustless screen. Curiously, there were no intruders in the area yet trappings remained from absent ashwasters. Of course they couldn’t figure it out, Zaphariel thought to himself as he approached the center of the room.

“Ordinary security of the ancients,” the dreamer remarked with a sigh. His form crossed the room in two paces to the terminal on the side of the gate. He hovered a hand over the sterile screen, awakening the machinery with presence alone. The chamber began to illuminate as it was roused from slumber, azure fire lining the upper rim of the ceiling. His orange, serpentine eyes glanced up to the triangular door once before returning his attention to the terminal.

“[i]Ut pretiosa semina intus aperiantur ac revelentur, vitam nostram in persequendo damus[/i],” Zaphariel enunciated with practiced, lethargic ease. His voice reverberated several times over, reality bending to his will as he spoke aloud. The terminal blinked three times in response, but the dreamer was prepared for such a thing. Wyrd like shifting, black sand swarmed over his claw-tipped gauntlet as he engaged the screen. A single touch from his digits saw the soundless cogitator illuminate a soothing, green light.

“You speak the language of the ancients?” Ramses asked in a surprised tone. He was aware that the Malik of Pandjoras was a ludicrously successful and well-known relic hunter; however, the hassan had not realized to what degree.

“I can speak it, but I do not understand it. These ‘systems’ that the ancients used are tricky. It isn’t just about speaking. It requires a serpent’s song, a bit of wyrd-wielding, and my illustrious intelligence!” Zaphariel responded with a coy grin. Diving into the ruins of Old Pandjoras was one of his favorite hobbies. It was one of the few skills that Muahad had never taught him that the dreamer was truly proud of.

“[b]So that the precious seeds within may be opened and revealed, we giveth our lives in pursuit,[/b]” the Old Man of the Mountain abruptly explained to the surprise of the other two. Zaphariel blinked several times in muted astonishment. He felt humbled in a way that only Muahad could make him feel. The other hassan, Ramses, offered snorting laughter at his nephew’s crushing defeat. The elder calmly strolled into the guarded room, leaving the duskborn in his wake.

As the Malik of Pandjoras had originally suspected, despite his verbal loss, this chamber was indeed their target. White tile stretched from the aperture across a distance as long as Falak and as wide as Neu Alamut’s training grounds. The room was illuminated by soft, alabaster glowglobes as thin as a fingernail. Sterile, fresh air unlike that of Pandjoras filtered through unseen vents. Wards, unlike the scrawlings of the dunesingers, lined the walls in harmonic defense against the unknown. Rows upon rows of sealed shelves dotted the aseptic expanse for untold quantities. Stasis chests as large as a jakaal accompanied each shelf in infrequent pairs. Sculptures, fashioned from varying antiseptic metal compounds, ringed the area just a hair away from the strange glyphs.

“As I wish it, so shall it be,” Zaphariel’s triumphant attitude returned no sooner than it had been defeated. He ambled past the Old Man of the Mountain with a toothy grin spreading across his lips. In his own way, the dreamer had defeated Muahad in a game untold and unsung. The elder quietly observed the Malik of Pandjoras as he investigated their new surroundings.

“It’s impressive that the ancients managed to keep this all going through the Cataclysm,” Ramses stated. His own claw-tipped gauntlets idly massaged his scratchy beard as he passed the Old Man of the Mountain. The hassan’s orange eyes primarily fell on the stasis chests which broadly displayed the contents within. Sigils of the ancients hovered aetherically nearby. He surmised it was the name of the sterile trunk or a date of some kind.

“Reckless meddling. Thy ancestors hungered for immortality, yet none endure to claim the seeds of their folly. A reckoning unseen descended upon them—like a grave tempest of black sand—and swept them into oblivion. All their preparations were for nought.” Muahad intoned, stepping in sync with the inquisitive form of Zaphariel. His azure eyes scanned the shelves as they passed, though it wasn’t the contents of such that fully drew his attention. Nor, did it seem, that they stole the notice of the dreamer.

The sterile shelves with the seeds of the genevault were forgotten for the sculptures lining the edge of the room. Zaphariel’s pupils sharpened as he scanned the first of many. He had never seen compositions of such mysterious perfection in his many ventures into Old Pandjoras. A claw-tipped gauntlet reached out and touched the metallic facsimile. The surface of the statue was surprisingly soft with a warm tinge felt even through powered armor. Each one was dressed in similar fashion to the elder that walked with him. Skeletal masks, suctioned to the face, in various forms of half or full. Long, dark robes accented a large, lanky body fitted with different manners of ceremonial armor unknown to him. Every single sculpture was dissimilar in variation. No two were alike as if ages passed between all of them.

“Old Man, it seems your ancestors had admirers in the days of the ancient empire,” Zaphariel frigidly joked. They were all exquisitely beautiful to him in their own way. It spurred the muse within to develop his own line of statues locked in ageless tranquility; however, their appearance was too similar to ignore. He couldn’t look past the incredible likeness between them and the Old Man of the Mountain.

“The fashion of the old empire, passed down from grandmaster to grandmaster in remembrance. Thy instincts serve thee well, dreamer. The title of Old Man of the Mountain long predated the Cataclysm. Their tales—shrewd memories carved to resist the yearning aetheric tide—endured through their inheritors.” Muahad explained in a rare display of humility. There was no emotion in his voice as he spoke. Only the austere timbre of duty remained. He continued, “Mine own title in the aeons before was borne to rouse the disheartened and safeguard their remembrances. The Old Men were solemn and ingenious warriors, devoted to the pursuit of knowledge - yet the avarice of the old empire was abhorrent. Short were the lives of thy ancestors, forced to wither in squalor beneath the decadence of hedonistic, god-like aristocracy.”

“Thus was it their duty to take their heads… and deliver them as feast unto Azrael,” the Old Man spoke as though Pandjoras herself spoke through him. Zaphariel hadn’t noticed that the black blade had been drawn and pointed into the sterile tile. The weight of infinity dawned on the dreamer. To emphasize his own astonishment, his adoptive father continued to speak. His tone became deathly and devoid of what warmth remained. “There are no gods on Pandjoras.”

“And these are your ancestors, hidden away in a forgotten datavault far from Neu Alamut?” Zaphariel cautiously probed with a question. [color=orange]A thousand and one[/color] thoughts crossed his mind, yet each one was only sparsely connected. Suspicions unbound filtered through the dusken deity’s mind, his genealogy assisting in bridging his many hypotheses. He arrived at a conclusion that toed the line between insane and mystical

“[i]Nay [/i]— naught but pretenders, who clawed for dominion over the mortal coil to sate their own vain hunger. Thy forebears were wrought of a sublime genome, aye—but the usurpers dared stride beyond the true path. Mine ancestors visage they stole, seeking to bind their wayward creed in stolen flesh. Yet all their striving was for naught — for they foresaw not the coming of the Long Night, nor the doom it bore upon their folly.” Muahad concluded. It had been the longest that the Old Man of the Mountain had spoken in Zaphariel’s entire life. To the dreamer, his adoptive father’s words were ringed with truths and lies that weaved naturally together. How much of it was a tale passed down from the inheritors? How much of it was personally witnessed by the Old Man? He offered a reinvigorated grin in response.

“I don’t believe that the Old Man of the Mountain is a title. I believe that you - and your supposed inheritors - are all the same,” Zaphariel announced quietly to his adoptive father. He never turned to regard him with the accusation, simply saying it aloud to the elder. Muahad, after all, was known throughout Pandjoras as the Grandmaster of the Hassan. Some even referred to him as Malik-i-Hassan in shadows before his ascendancy.

A hushed, gravid silence descended betwixt them after the dreamer’s accusation. Slowly, the Old Man of the Mountain unleashed a noise - not wholly a gasp, yet not wholly a cough - that rasped against the alabaster tile. Zaphariel knew it for what it was: [i]laughter[/i]. The first such utterance he had ever heard from his adoptive father. The action terrified him more than any possible fate that awaited his long reign as Malik of Pandjoras. His eyes - azure, cold-burning stars each - narrowed in baleful delight as he turned his gaze to his adoptive son.

"[color=orange][b]O’ foolish whelp - clever, covetous, thief-born son of mine. I am no more mine ancestors than thy are naturally born of Pandjoras’ black sands. Thy boldness amuseth me. Thy suspicion nourishes me. Thy hunger for truth stirreth mine own heart. Thy meddling shall be the grave that closes ‘round thee, my son. Temper thy hand, lest it carve thy epitaph upon the dark dunes,[/b][/color]" the Old Man of the Mountain responded. For a heart beat, Zaphariel saw it beneath bone and shadow - a fleeting glimmer of a toothy grin alight in azure flame. In that moment, the dreamer felt as if his adoptive father was stronger and taller than he had ever chosen to appear. A grim specter, midnight-clad bearing the apocalyptic blade that murdered the gods of a bygone era.

“Those are amazing statues! Thinking of bringing them back to start a new hobby?” Ramses interrupted from behind, several serpent silk sacks full of unidentified objects. The hassan’s tone indicated no knowledge regarding their conversation. An ignorant intruder. The dreamer was thankful for his uncle’s naivete. The heavy atmosphere deflated into a mute tranquility, yet Zaphariel could feel precipitation bead across his forehead. His heartbeat refused to calm. 

“Of course, uncle! They’ll be visual practice for when I travel across the Star Serpent, sculpting my own image and whatever other fantastical beings that cross my path. Perhaps there will be individuals nearly as perfect as I am,” Zaphariel laughed. He couldn’t calm himself, instead resorting to absurdity to quell the turmoil within. The Malik of Pandjoras gestured widely with his hands to the sculptures to emphasize their particular assets. 

“I wouldn’t expect any less from you, nephew! From my limited knowledge of the ancients, I’ve confirmed that this place seems to be the genevault you were looking for. I’ll send a vox to the surface and instruct a team to extract the lab. Shall we leave?” Ramses responded with his own raspy laughter before gesturing to the exit. At this current point in time, Zaphariel desired nothing more than to leave with his goal completed. His curiosity was beyond sated - dangerously so.

“Does a serpent simply wait while others dare to feast upon its prey? Set [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] duskborn on this location and ship the contents to Neu Babylos. Let’s leave this place-” Zaphariel had begun to instruct the Seneschal of Neu Alamut when his golden, serpentine eyes were drawn to the exit. It had never occurred to him that there were more statues that lined the edge of the genevault. He had thought that he had committed all of them to memory, yet one last sculpture managed to escape his vision. The dreamer felt the piercing eyes of Muahad fall upon him as he calmly ambled up to the effigy. Reality felt weak to him in that moment as he crossed the distance.

A shimmering haze obscured the statue's fine details, like the stasis fields aboard the [i]Midnight Serpent’s[/i] arming chambers. Perhaps it was this field that had hidden the statue from the Malik’s sight, or perhaps there was some other, more esoteric reason behind the lapse in his awareness. Whatever the reason, it did not matter now, for the Dreamer saw the statue before his eyes. He could discern no hidden energy source, no thrum of power emanating from the statue's plinth, no reason for the statue to appear as though it were shrouded in silken draperies of dusk. As though the statue's unnatural obscuration had been waiting specifically for him to approach it, the shimmer resolved. The statue beneath revealed itself as though a malady were removed from the Dreamer’s eyes all at once. 

It was another rendering of a figure. This one was a dark-haired woman, dressed in a long, nearly floor-length cloak of vibrant blues, greens, and reds in interlocking geometric patterns. She had a shoulder exposed on her right side where the cloak came together in a simple knot, and a club of exotic wood and lava glass blades was held effortlessly in her right hand. The woman was staring outward, upward even, toward the Dreamer. Her eyes were the rich brown of a fine qahwa, brewed among friends and companions on a short reprieve from a hunt out among the penumbral sands. They were full of life, a burning desire for greatness radiated from them, and an overwhelming sensation of violence barely restrained crept in at the corners of her eyes and the way her smile had been ever-so-creased at the edges.

To Zaphariel ibn Varranis, it was one of the most beautiful sculptures he’d ever laid his eyes on. The ancestral statues of the Thirteen Houses of Pandjoras didn’t come close to the level of perfection that this effigy exhibited. His lips grew into a toothy grin as he caressed the statue’s face with his claw-tipped fingers. An unusual warmth permeated throughout his limb. A word threatened to bubble to the surface of his mind from the unknowing void. As his mouth began to form the words, the Dreamer’s body screamed in anticipation of danger. He jerked backwards just in time.

Azrael - the black blade of the Old Man - cleaved through the statue with the force of an angry god. The powerfield of the blade alighted in azure flame, melting the metal surface of the effigy with a single slash. Muahad had appeared next to him with a hand firmly pressed against his shoulder and another wielding the handle of the apocalyptic sword. Zaphariel’s mind and body writhed in agony as he watched the beautiful sculpture quickly transform into prismatic slag. The dreamer felt as if his legs would give out in despair.

“[i]Father, what’ve you done!?[/i]” Zaphariel screamed out, eschewing what remained of his carefully crafted emotional mask. He bared his teeth in an animalistic snarl akin to a void serpent with its frills splayed in anger. A hiss escaped his lips in fury. How dare the Old Man take away something so precious!

“[b]Such women dwell not upon Pandjoras, Zaphariel, nor have they ever walked its black sands,[/b]” the Old Man stated. There was a cold fury to his eyes unlike anything that Zaphariel had ever seen. His azure orbs bored through the slag as if it were [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] insults given physical form. The blue flames that licked at the edge of Azrael disappeared, deactivated by an imperceptible move from Muahad. He quickly turned away, callously disregarding his adoptive son in that second.

A desire bloomed into his mind like blossoming azure roses in gravity rain. The features, the touch, and the appearance of the effigy had been committed to the peerless memory of the Dreamer. Determination replaced despair in half a heartbeat. His fingers demanded to carve endless sculptures in the likeness of all that he came across. In the absence of a beauty lost, Zaphariel made a promise to sculpt [color=orange]a thousand and one[/color] statues of the things that he loved. They would never escape him again.
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Credits: [@MarshalSolgriev] (Zaphariel/Muahad/Ramses), [@FrostedCaramel] (Weird Statue)