Third post made. Post order resumes.
Spoiler
I may drop an extra description of the core prison later, but that isn't necessary to continue.
Spoiler
I may drop an extra description of the core prison later, but that isn't necessary to continue.
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Merse’s sensitive ears twitched, tickled by a peculiar exchange amidst the chaos. The pirate captain and someone else were clearly experiencing the same rude introduction to the asteroid he encountered some time ago. Though one was clearly angrier than the other, their dialogue suggested familiarity with each other.
After the largest robot partially clipped several Amazon’s wings, damn near taking the diving Aletheia’s head off with his sweeping plasma cannon, an interesting proposition was made. This many rambunctious personalities active on the asteroid made for the perfect storm. Merse could perhaps kill the tweetiest flock of birds that ever existed with one stone. The captain, his crew, the mysterious new arrival, and even Victoria’s stalker could all help in speed-running the black cat’s current objective.
Generally, Merse vouched for a little more finesse for an operation as delicate as this, but he couldn't deny how advantageous this all suddenly became. The fact that none of them died already gave him enough assurance that this was going to work.
Amid the chaos, Merse somehow pulled an off-white brick-sized, antennaed cellphone from his trenchcoat. His black paws blurred with their speed, dialing a 40-digit number in a flash, subsequently hijacking Metallo’s radio signal.
“Ahem!” Only after obnoxiously clearing his voice did Merse speak in an offensively stereotypical pirate accent.
“Ahoy, Ca-P-tain. Lift your patch and take a gander at ye junk folder! Prime Consortium has sent you something far more valuable than any ol pile of gold doubloons….Arrgggg.”
Despite the act, his voice might have been recognized. Then again, he wasn’t trying all that hard to conceal it. Through the radio speaker, it rang clear enough to picture the fictional eye patch he comically envisioned covering his closed left eye. The information broker dropped a detailed map of the prison's schematics, noting every point of entry and exit within the asteroid from the well-known to top secret.
This had to appear awfully suspicious to the group. Still, the coordinates were as real as it gets, etched by the hard work of Merse’s somewhat trusted cartographer, Eal, who, in all likelihood, was in some dungeon on the golden asteroid “tortured” by solar-light whips.
Eal’s rescue, though low on his priority list, was added to the queue. He had far more important things to worry about, like how his stealth mission would soon have its lid completely torn off in a way even he didn’t account for.
With every thunderous flap of her seraphim wings, Solica found the scent she relentlessly hunted fizzling out. She was certain she was close. Nothing ever fooled Solica’s senses. Nothing. Yet something scrambled her sense of smell, tossing them into a blender set to maximum.
Then it happened.
“AAAHHHH–CHHOOOO!”
The mighty Orichalca Queen, famed across star systems for her perfect health, unbreakable discipline, and iron resolve… sneezed. Her sinuses flared. And that meant only one thing.
A cat.
No — the cat.
The one creature in the universe she was allergic to. The one she, like the disgraced and captured CEO, despised above all others. It was becoming a bit of a recurring theme.
Merse was back.
Not many were happy about it.
His accursed aroma was so repugnant, the matriarch couldn’t smell anything else. It sidelined her rabid infatuation with Anfield's scent and consolidated all her emotions into rage aimed directly at the pesky felid information broker.
Starting as a measly seed of light, her left hand erupted into a brilliant white blaze. Birthed by flame, a woven, golden cornucopia with latticeworked gems like miniature stars spiraled into existence.
The Starlet.
A sacred weapon projecting crepuscular rays straight from its bell, ignoring walls, piercing several buildings and the dangling megaflora foliage about. Heat concentrated where the queen felt the detestable smell of cat the most as it announced itself like the rising eastward sun. Everyone in the entire banquet hall noticed the narrow spotlight on the now squinting feline center stage. They had front row tickets to the Merse show.
Recognizing who he was, several oricalca warriors audibly gasped, others screaming as they realized what the beam of light he basked in came from. Merse’s eyes widened asymmetrically. He dug frantically through his impossibly deep inner trenchcoat pocket, pawing past nameless trinkets, relics, and questionable receipts before clenching just what he looked for. Nothing could prepare anyone in the banquet hall for what followed.
Queen Solica gripped her dazzling weapon, the Starlet, with both hands, inhaling fully. The frills of her macramé garments stood on end like static-charged hair. With the full capacity of her royal lungs, she blasted gales into the horn of plenty, unleashing a cornucopia of prismatic flaming arcs, blinding flares, and spiraling constructs preceding world-shaking thunder.
The solar storm that smote the very spot where Merse stood burned so hot it instantly smelted all nearby gold, boring down through the structure’s foundations and shaking the asteroid’s core—disturbing even its Orichalc Gold skeleton, hundreds of times stronger than steel.
Everything briefly looked like an overexposed photograph. The eastward walls of the banquet hall wobbled like sheets of paper, floors buckled, and chandeliers exploded, overcharged with the abundance of solar energy. If Anfield wanted a feast, it was best to pack a to-go bag as the venue marched towards collapse.
At the very edge of the humongous hole the queen blasted, the black outstretched right paw and the upper body of Merse desperately clung, completely covered in a mysterious black sludge. It appeared as if he had a bad run-in with a colossal squid. Not a fiber of his fur and classic noir attire was spared, and for good reason. It managed to shield him from a significant bulk of Solica’s fiery light-based barrage.
The mysterious ink coating Merse bubbled, revealing that its protection came with a catch-22. Beneath his slipping paw, the remains of a shattered vial, label still intact, reading Felidrine Cat Ink. The furthest shard just out of reach bore a warning stamped in bold red letters…
CAUTION: APPLY ONE DROP PER USE.
Googly eyes. Dozens of them, and counting, blinked awake, followed by an accumulating chorus of mewing wherever the ink had splashed. This made Merse quite literally Argus-eyed as hundreds of miniature black cats, writhing and knotting together, poured from his body to no conceivable end. What began as a spill became a flash flood, then a tidal wave. The soft kitten mews avalanched into yowling as thousands of cats fought. They became the straw that broke the back of the already unstable, mountain-carved skyscraper.
One after another, following Merse in his descent, slabs of the banquet hall’s floor dropped in a wave, deep into the crevice widening by the second. To the untrained eye, the information broker appeared to be in a dire situation. To keener eyes, the inky tsunami of cats revealed exactly why Merse scrambled so desperately to summon them in the first place.
Their tiny paw claws endlessly piling on biscuits were undeniably annoying, and surely he did not intend to spill so many, but the Inklings indiscriminately swallowed everything in sight. Merse, the horrified servants, and anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the wave were shielded from storms of stray arrows, ricocheting solar beams, molten shards, and tumbling boulders of debris. Dozens of Orichalca warriors fought on regardless, Aletheia among them, until the roof quite literally came down.
The espresso cocktail of every ink-submerged mortal drained thousands of feet below, individuals slip-n-sliding through countless canals randomly like an ant colony made waterpark. They could emerge anywhere in the prison’s lower avenues, but directly beneath them was the massive junkyard and waste depository, actually a trove of discarded treasures the Amazons ignorantly ignored in favor of gold.
After the largest robot partially clipped several Amazon’s wings, damn near taking the diving Aletheia’s head off with his sweeping plasma cannon, an interesting proposition was made. This many rambunctious personalities active on the asteroid made for the perfect storm. Merse could perhaps kill the tweetiest flock of birds that ever existed with one stone. The captain, his crew, the mysterious new arrival, and even Victoria’s stalker could all help in speed-running the black cat’s current objective.
Generally, Merse vouched for a little more finesse for an operation as delicate as this, but he couldn't deny how advantageous this all suddenly became. The fact that none of them died already gave him enough assurance that this was going to work.
Amid the chaos, Merse somehow pulled an off-white brick-sized, antennaed cellphone from his trenchcoat. His black paws blurred with their speed, dialing a 40-digit number in a flash, subsequently hijacking Metallo’s radio signal.
“Ahem!” Only after obnoxiously clearing his voice did Merse speak in an offensively stereotypical pirate accent.
“Ahoy, Ca-P-tain. Lift your patch and take a gander at ye junk folder! Prime Consortium has sent you something far more valuable than any ol pile of gold doubloons….Arrgggg.”
Despite the act, his voice might have been recognized. Then again, he wasn’t trying all that hard to conceal it. Through the radio speaker, it rang clear enough to picture the fictional eye patch he comically envisioned covering his closed left eye. The information broker dropped a detailed map of the prison's schematics, noting every point of entry and exit within the asteroid from the well-known to top secret.
This had to appear awfully suspicious to the group. Still, the coordinates were as real as it gets, etched by the hard work of Merse’s somewhat trusted cartographer, Eal, who, in all likelihood, was in some dungeon on the golden asteroid “tortured” by solar-light whips.
Eal’s rescue, though low on his priority list, was added to the queue. He had far more important things to worry about, like how his stealth mission would soon have its lid completely torn off in a way even he didn’t account for.
✯✯✯
With every thunderous flap of her seraphim wings, Solica found the scent she relentlessly hunted fizzling out. She was certain she was close. Nothing ever fooled Solica’s senses. Nothing. Yet something scrambled her sense of smell, tossing them into a blender set to maximum.
Then it happened.
“AAAHHHH–CHHOOOO!”
The mighty Orichalca Queen, famed across star systems for her perfect health, unbreakable discipline, and iron resolve… sneezed. Her sinuses flared. And that meant only one thing.
A cat.
No — the cat.
The one creature in the universe she was allergic to. The one she, like the disgraced and captured CEO, despised above all others. It was becoming a bit of a recurring theme.
Merse was back.
Not many were happy about it.
His accursed aroma was so repugnant, the matriarch couldn’t smell anything else. It sidelined her rabid infatuation with Anfield's scent and consolidated all her emotions into rage aimed directly at the pesky felid information broker.
Starting as a measly seed of light, her left hand erupted into a brilliant white blaze. Birthed by flame, a woven, golden cornucopia with latticeworked gems like miniature stars spiraled into existence.
The Starlet.
A sacred weapon projecting crepuscular rays straight from its bell, ignoring walls, piercing several buildings and the dangling megaflora foliage about. Heat concentrated where the queen felt the detestable smell of cat the most as it announced itself like the rising eastward sun. Everyone in the entire banquet hall noticed the narrow spotlight on the now squinting feline center stage. They had front row tickets to the Merse show.
Recognizing who he was, several oricalca warriors audibly gasped, others screaming as they realized what the beam of light he basked in came from. Merse’s eyes widened asymmetrically. He dug frantically through his impossibly deep inner trenchcoat pocket, pawing past nameless trinkets, relics, and questionable receipts before clenching just what he looked for. Nothing could prepare anyone in the banquet hall for what followed.
Queen Solica gripped her dazzling weapon, the Starlet, with both hands, inhaling fully. The frills of her macramé garments stood on end like static-charged hair. With the full capacity of her royal lungs, she blasted gales into the horn of plenty, unleashing a cornucopia of prismatic flaming arcs, blinding flares, and spiraling constructs preceding world-shaking thunder.
The solar storm that smote the very spot where Merse stood burned so hot it instantly smelted all nearby gold, boring down through the structure’s foundations and shaking the asteroid’s core—disturbing even its Orichalc Gold skeleton, hundreds of times stronger than steel.
Everything briefly looked like an overexposed photograph. The eastward walls of the banquet hall wobbled like sheets of paper, floors buckled, and chandeliers exploded, overcharged with the abundance of solar energy. If Anfield wanted a feast, it was best to pack a to-go bag as the venue marched towards collapse.
At the very edge of the humongous hole the queen blasted, the black outstretched right paw and the upper body of Merse desperately clung, completely covered in a mysterious black sludge. It appeared as if he had a bad run-in with a colossal squid. Not a fiber of his fur and classic noir attire was spared, and for good reason. It managed to shield him from a significant bulk of Solica’s fiery light-based barrage.
The mysterious ink coating Merse bubbled, revealing that its protection came with a catch-22. Beneath his slipping paw, the remains of a shattered vial, label still intact, reading Felidrine Cat Ink. The furthest shard just out of reach bore a warning stamped in bold red letters…
CAUTION: APPLY ONE DROP PER USE.
Googly eyes. Dozens of them, and counting, blinked awake, followed by an accumulating chorus of mewing wherever the ink had splashed. This made Merse quite literally Argus-eyed as hundreds of miniature black cats, writhing and knotting together, poured from his body to no conceivable end. What began as a spill became a flash flood, then a tidal wave. The soft kitten mews avalanched into yowling as thousands of cats fought. They became the straw that broke the back of the already unstable, mountain-carved skyscraper.
One after another, following Merse in his descent, slabs of the banquet hall’s floor dropped in a wave, deep into the crevice widening by the second. To the untrained eye, the information broker appeared to be in a dire situation. To keener eyes, the inky tsunami of cats revealed exactly why Merse scrambled so desperately to summon them in the first place.
Their tiny paw claws endlessly piling on biscuits were undeniably annoying, and surely he did not intend to spill so many, but the Inklings indiscriminately swallowed everything in sight. Merse, the horrified servants, and anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the wave were shielded from storms of stray arrows, ricocheting solar beams, molten shards, and tumbling boulders of debris. Dozens of Orichalca warriors fought on regardless, Aletheia among them, until the roof quite literally came down.
The espresso cocktail of every ink-submerged mortal drained thousands of feet below, individuals slip-n-sliding through countless canals randomly like an ant colony made waterpark. They could emerge anywhere in the prison’s lower avenues, but directly beneath them was the massive junkyard and waste depository, actually a trove of discarded treasures the Amazons ignorantly ignored in favor of gold.
YET AGAIN, a woman who could not bother to get the name right of the child she tried to befriend exposed the minor to a level of fright surpassing even their last fiasco less than twenty-four hours ago. As they plummeted hundreds of feet, Victoria's scream, no doubt, at its current decibels, reached the most sensitive ears on the asteroid.
Only when struck by the breathtaking views of the hidden wonder that was this golden city did the girl take a break from desperately trying to pry herself free from her abductor. It happened slowly, and before they'd hit the ground, the girl Ryouko held fainted, now limp like a towel on a rack.
She had debilitating fear in her spirit. So much, Victoria could not hold consciousness. There was no longer a sensation of falling. No sound of wind, nor crash of arrival. Only the bloom of short-lived silence. Like a flower in bloom, the light emerging from the darkness peeled open senses one after another.
The sky had a tinge of gold encountered in the brief moments of each dawn. Ones veined in the memories of every being fortunate to see daily, yearly, or even once in a lifetime. Clouds glided in reverse, casting shadows over the young girl's body, but she felt hot. Beneath her feet, there was no floor. There were only beams of amber light spiraling upward like static-charged strands of hair. She stood—or rather, hovered…in a place that felt as though it had been waiting for her.
“Sun-born child,”
A voice came as a susurrant tide, sifting into her. Victoria's body felt crystalline, wavering warmth passing directly through her.
“So pure... so radiant. Immaculate—beyond the weaving of my own design. Not wrought by my hand. Not even…touched.”
Each word brushed new folds into the young girl’s mind with the reverence of something ancient, learning to be gentle.
“Why do you fear the drop?”
“You were born to fall upward.”
In a trance, Victoria was lulled out of her state of hysteria. She stopped fidgeting around, absorbing her surroundings. No weight, no fear, bearing only the innocence of her questions. The spirit heard it all but responded with its own.
“You are a daughter of no crown. But your blood has always turned toward the sun—do you feel it?”
Hesitant to speak, it was out of character for her to talk to this strange voice, but she did. “I have…I feel a tingly feeling…”
It was the light cradling her like a newborn, slowly enveloping her, tightening like a fist. As an easily frightened girl, this should have alarmed her, but it didn't. Though she couldn't articulate it, she felt…stronger.
A shape amalgamated at the edge of her vision. Something impossibly vast, serpent-like, its scales like tightly woven stars of a galaxy, yet she could see it all. An otherwise incomprehensible Wyrm was before her, yet every movement felt intimate, motherly even. Its two eclipses for pupils gleamed into the nine-year-old's, too bright to stare at, too hypnotic to turn away from.
Victoria couldn’t describe it, but she felt something. It was radiant, reassuring her soul, yet for the time being, it masqueraded as no more than a dream she was sure to forget soon after waking up. The only proof? The glowing sigil on her left arm: a single coiled spiral, already beginning to fade beneath the heiress's regenerating tissue. Unconscious in Ryouko’s arms, it was gone before landing…
A secret sealed by the sun itself. The mark of the Dawncoil.
Only when struck by the breathtaking views of the hidden wonder that was this golden city did the girl take a break from desperately trying to pry herself free from her abductor. It happened slowly, and before they'd hit the ground, the girl Ryouko held fainted, now limp like a towel on a rack.
She had debilitating fear in her spirit. So much, Victoria could not hold consciousness. There was no longer a sensation of falling. No sound of wind, nor crash of arrival. Only the bloom of short-lived silence. Like a flower in bloom, the light emerging from the darkness peeled open senses one after another.
The sky had a tinge of gold encountered in the brief moments of each dawn. Ones veined in the memories of every being fortunate to see daily, yearly, or even once in a lifetime. Clouds glided in reverse, casting shadows over the young girl's body, but she felt hot. Beneath her feet, there was no floor. There were only beams of amber light spiraling upward like static-charged strands of hair. She stood—or rather, hovered…in a place that felt as though it had been waiting for her.
“Sun-born child,”
A voice came as a susurrant tide, sifting into her. Victoria's body felt crystalline, wavering warmth passing directly through her.
“So pure... so radiant. Immaculate—beyond the weaving of my own design. Not wrought by my hand. Not even…touched.”
Each word brushed new folds into the young girl’s mind with the reverence of something ancient, learning to be gentle.
“Why do you fear the drop?”
“You were born to fall upward.”
In a trance, Victoria was lulled out of her state of hysteria. She stopped fidgeting around, absorbing her surroundings. No weight, no fear, bearing only the innocence of her questions. The spirit heard it all but responded with its own.
“You are a daughter of no crown. But your blood has always turned toward the sun—do you feel it?”
Hesitant to speak, it was out of character for her to talk to this strange voice, but she did. “I have…I feel a tingly feeling…”
It was the light cradling her like a newborn, slowly enveloping her, tightening like a fist. As an easily frightened girl, this should have alarmed her, but it didn't. Though she couldn't articulate it, she felt…stronger.
A shape amalgamated at the edge of her vision. Something impossibly vast, serpent-like, its scales like tightly woven stars of a galaxy, yet she could see it all. An otherwise incomprehensible Wyrm was before her, yet every movement felt intimate, motherly even. Its two eclipses for pupils gleamed into the nine-year-old's, too bright to stare at, too hypnotic to turn away from.
Victoria couldn’t describe it, but she felt something. It was radiant, reassuring her soul, yet for the time being, it masqueraded as no more than a dream she was sure to forget soon after waking up. The only proof? The glowing sigil on her left arm: a single coiled spiral, already beginning to fade beneath the heiress's regenerating tissue. Unconscious in Ryouko’s arms, it was gone before landing…
A secret sealed by the sun itself. The mark of the Dawncoil.
Making my next post in several sections.
Legs on fire, Reginald's sentencing lasted an eternity. Was listing all his dastardly deeds in detail part of the torture process itself? You couldn't convince the captured CEO otherwise. At the brink of exhaustion, the shackled man spaced out to the point where one eye grew lazy. So much, the majority of the amazons exiting the arena failed to register like Nalaita's words.
“Stand, insect!” He heard that clearly. It was finally time to be transported. Grips like hawk’s talons snatched Reginald's slumping body as two Orichalca warriors on the younger side flew him directly into one of the arena’s waterfalls. Gasping for air, coughing a pint of water out his lungs, the sight of a rocky door closer to a stone slab stood before him. Illuminating gold glyphs carved themselves into the mountain space as the two warriors drew them with rays from their glowing white eyes. A quaking split pulled the mountain apart like elevator doors. It was one of many hidden entrances to the prison.
Inside it was dark, cold, damp, with only a gentle breeze and the deceptively quiet, gracefully flapping wings of his captors reminding him of his descent downwards to who knows where. After several minutes, a faint light below became larger. With each meter downwards, it grew stronger, brighter, transmitting heat as the soles of the disgraced CEO's shoes singed his feet. At this point, the sweltering glimmers blinded him. Reginald just couldn't keep his eyes open. Finally managing to, the sight before him defied his imagination.
Countless canals of molten gold flowed like rapids, weaving in and around intricately carved sprawling cave systems rooted in the core of the asteroid. Endless lines of laboring souls of many shapes, sizes, builds and races draped in mails of metals sizzling against their flesh lugged crates of pirated golds from the last Orichalca excursion, dumping troves into a skyscraping mound of treasures centering the prison. It was probably the largest collection of rare golds in the multiverse. As bleak as Reginald's situation was, being that he too soon would join the chain of slaves, a devious thought, just one that relied on the slither of a chance he'd manage to escape crossed his mind. It lingered in the back of his mind like a malignant tumor, growing with each second spent in this wretched jail, soon to break him. Before then, he had to get out…
"I will see you again, Victoria…”
In what appeared to be a rare display of mercy, Reginald found himself not immediately tossed into the work lines to slave away, but on the warm marble floors of a dark cell. He wouldn’t be an effective laborer after his last eventful twenty-four hours, so for the remainder of the day, they left him be. At this point, the loneliness of a quiet cell felt comforting. The disgraced CEO didn't question it, overstimulated photoreceptor cells still blasting dancing images behind the blackness of his eyelids. His eyes throbbed as strongly as his heart beat.
“I give you credit. Your resolve is slightly stronger than you look…”
Reginald, suddenly jolted with energy out of confusion, jerked his head around. Who whispered into his ear? There was no one around but a severely emaciated corpse chained in the corner, and everyone in the opposing cells looked as miserable as he did, lacking even the energy to acknowledge him. Even so, he briefly felt a chilling breath against his ear. The voice again echoed, reverberating through the hollows, but drew no response from the Orichalca on watch. Reginald scanned around frantically.
“Don’t make it so obvious…”
Only then did the shamed CEO realise who was communicating with him.
“I can get you out of here. All I need… is a morsel of blood…”
“Stand, insect!” He heard that clearly. It was finally time to be transported. Grips like hawk’s talons snatched Reginald's slumping body as two Orichalca warriors on the younger side flew him directly into one of the arena’s waterfalls. Gasping for air, coughing a pint of water out his lungs, the sight of a rocky door closer to a stone slab stood before him. Illuminating gold glyphs carved themselves into the mountain space as the two warriors drew them with rays from their glowing white eyes. A quaking split pulled the mountain apart like elevator doors. It was one of many hidden entrances to the prison.
Inside it was dark, cold, damp, with only a gentle breeze and the deceptively quiet, gracefully flapping wings of his captors reminding him of his descent downwards to who knows where. After several minutes, a faint light below became larger. With each meter downwards, it grew stronger, brighter, transmitting heat as the soles of the disgraced CEO's shoes singed his feet. At this point, the sweltering glimmers blinded him. Reginald just couldn't keep his eyes open. Finally managing to, the sight before him defied his imagination.
Countless canals of molten gold flowed like rapids, weaving in and around intricately carved sprawling cave systems rooted in the core of the asteroid. Endless lines of laboring souls of many shapes, sizes, builds and races draped in mails of metals sizzling against their flesh lugged crates of pirated golds from the last Orichalca excursion, dumping troves into a skyscraping mound of treasures centering the prison. It was probably the largest collection of rare golds in the multiverse. As bleak as Reginald's situation was, being that he too soon would join the chain of slaves, a devious thought, just one that relied on the slither of a chance he'd manage to escape crossed his mind. It lingered in the back of his mind like a malignant tumor, growing with each second spent in this wretched jail, soon to break him. Before then, he had to get out…
"I will see you again, Victoria…”
In what appeared to be a rare display of mercy, Reginald found himself not immediately tossed into the work lines to slave away, but on the warm marble floors of a dark cell. He wouldn’t be an effective laborer after his last eventful twenty-four hours, so for the remainder of the day, they left him be. At this point, the loneliness of a quiet cell felt comforting. The disgraced CEO didn't question it, overstimulated photoreceptor cells still blasting dancing images behind the blackness of his eyelids. His eyes throbbed as strongly as his heart beat.
“I give you credit. Your resolve is slightly stronger than you look…”
Reginald, suddenly jolted with energy out of confusion, jerked his head around. Who whispered into his ear? There was no one around but a severely emaciated corpse chained in the corner, and everyone in the opposing cells looked as miserable as he did, lacking even the energy to acknowledge him. Even so, he briefly felt a chilling breath against his ear. The voice again echoed, reverberating through the hollows, but drew no response from the Orichalca on watch. Reginald scanned around frantically.
“Don’t make it so obvious…”
Only then did the shamed CEO realise who was communicating with him.
“I can get you out of here. All I need… is a morsel of blood…”
Things We Don’t Say Aloud - Chapter 1: A Place for Dawn
Interlocked hands absorbed the faint chill of the concrete beneath their palms as two adventurous souls sat side by side, feet dangling from the edge of the only structure in the Château that dared stand half as tall as the Veylthorne estate. Despite the monolith, symbol of the might of the throne, domineering over the remaining Katurans aboard the mothership, in this moment, it was just them. Dragoș and Mărseana.
“Look at them up there...We're your saviors! Worship the ground we walk on! They’re everything Leontin said they are.” Dragoș was not enamored by the very people he served.
Not everyone was thankful for the Veylthorn’s wartime heroics. Some even blamed them. The war, as brutal and grotesque as it was, had served as a useful tool—a convenient distraction from the centuries of systemic, socioeconomic division between the people and the elite. Katuran’s for decades could only focus on survival. In the aftermath, people lost their champion, Leontin Bradin. The resistance movement once led by him vanished on the battlefield, with many still believing he’s out there somewhere… lost in the vast expanse of space.
The man was gone, but the vision remained…
“That was your hero, wasn’t it?” The woman beside the soldier teased him a bit, as he often quoted the absent leader of the revolution.
Trying not to ruin the moment, Dragoș quickly understood the point of the tease.“Mărseana, how long has it been since you've seen a real sunset?”
He turned to her as she blinked slowly, turning just enough for her wine-red irises to catch the light. She gazed back at him through as much as her auburn bangs with silver roots allowed her to.
“I don't know. You probably weren't even a teen yet.”
He grinned. “Funny. Your hair may be losing color, but you're not even thirty yet.”
“I still look younger than you, four years your senior. Don't forget that,” she said with a half-smile. But then, her gaze turned distant.
“The last sunset that ever meant anything to me…It was the day we all bid farewell to Katur. I miss it—” she sighed deeply.
“Maybe that chapter has written its last line. We’ve only just set foot on this world, and perhaps… It’s time we look at dawn for once.”
Stunned a little, Dragoș understood her sentiment to the core of his soul. He stood up, hands clenched loosely at his sides as he stared toward the looming estate in the distance.
“That would be nice. Let's see a real dawn then and every night after that, forever.”
“What about your sist–”
“Don't worry. Crina’s pretty tough. It's not like the military will let her go so easily. She’s way too important compared to my standing in it. Plus, she has Franche to look over.”
Mărseana raised an eyebrow. “You didn't tell her about your plan either?”
“Of course not. She'd try to follow me. Plus, once we find something nice–”
“If.”
“Whatever. The orbital scans picked up signs—cities, infrastructure, patterns in the wild. There’s life here. And I’m legally obligated to scout for Katur.”
With a bit of a puzzled look, Mărseana started to think, instinctively placing her index along her bottom lip. “My request was denied for some reason, and I rank higher than you. It could be that the regime sees me as a promising military mind?”
“Or perhaps they don't mind if young troubled soldiers like myself with a history die off. I guess I’m expendable now that the war is over.”
“That's also an option.” She laughed a little.
Failing to return a chuckle, Dragoș spoke very clearly and with the utmost conviction in his voice.“Perhaps. But you're coming with me.”
Shocked, Mărseana immediately thought of the potential consequences but attempted to turn it into a joke.“I don't know. What if they send Scions after us?”
“Shhh! Don't say that too loud!” Dragoș' expression turned intense.
“What, you believe the stories I found in my grandmother's cellar are true? Conspiracy, Elder Vampires, The Cruciata, blood sacrifices, the silent war? You believe all of that?”
“I know it. Veylthornes and many of the noble families. They’re not regular Katurans. They’re vampires. I’ve seen it… Prince Lazarel–”
Mărseana’s hands stiffened in his. Her jaw tensed. Her eyes, now turned inward, lost their focus entirely.“My grandmother wasn't well when she wrote all of that… She tried… to kill me once–” Her lips parted, but it was hollow with no sound as the thought of her past strangled her vocal cords.
Swallowing, Dragoș squeezed her hand a bit. “Only God knows what else she knew that drove her to try to take out her only living relative… The truths she carried…”
Mărseana's heart skipped. Their previously playful conversation turned dark as she couldn’t bridge the depth of the trauma she had just revisited. Looking deeply into his still youthful but war-weary face bearing a jagged scar running diagonally across his left brow, she couldn’t reply. As their exchange faltered, the entire Château itself quaked beneath them, obsidian bones flexing. It trembled, not from within, as it often did when dark magicks stirred, but from the outside.
A colossal swell, a tsunami, summoned by the anomaly moving in the Inland Sea, bull-rushed the ship’s northern face, even nudging it a bit. Built to withstand the harshness of space warfare, the ship was by no means in danger, but it was unprecedented how strong this surge managed to become. Within moments, crimson emergency sigils ignited along the halls as divisions of the Caelira were mobilized. Knights in carmine exo-armor stormed to triage points and breach locks, while the command choir chanted stabilization protocols to ensure reality seams were intact. Internally, and externally, there was no damage, but half the armada docked on the shore was ravaged by the blackened sea.
Still clad in uniform, Dragoș and Mărseana moved without hesitation, stepping into their duties as soldiers, the notion of escape locked away—for now. What a timely interruption, breaking the awkward silence, but their thoughts lingered on. This was about as good a time as possible to do it.
Veins of the Veylthorne
Location: The Veylthorn Eyrie, New Katur
There was a bloody murder! Vaelith's pupilless eyes on full display—cold, flawless, like two perfect diamonds. Silver staked through the heart, the felled queen’s delicate right arm dangled off the bedside, a jangling constellation of bracelets adorned her wrist, and the slender backside of her left hand rested at her pale forehead.
It was a tragic scene.
The oversized dagger sheathed into the Katuran ruler’s heart impaled even the bed frame. It was peculiar for a vampire of her maturity to forgo resting in a coffin, but no lid would have spared her from this untimely assassination. Approaching the cherry-blotted mattress soaking up a vampire’s buffet worth of blood was Luthienne, one of several daughters of the Veylthorne estate. Borderline unmoored from reality, the young vampiress’ sleepwalking habit brought her before the slain queen. Standing at the foot of her mother's literal deathbed in a white Edwardian ruffle nightgown, behind Luthienne's moppy draping hair, her sleep-deprived hazel eyes barely widened. It wasn't because she was heartless. The blood supply shortage due to the war affected the surviving Vampires aboard the Château du Sang in varying ways. Luthienne, classified as a feaster, required consuming copious amounts of blood to offset the frequency with which she involuntarily used her powers. Any ounce of empathy and sorrow normally shown in a situation rocketed off the other end of the balance scale when weighted against her intrinsic nature as a vampire.
In awe of all the blood in front of her, quickly the young vampire’s thoughts veered towards “If only Mother were human.” She'd wring the bedsheets of their last drop were it the case. Luthienne was hungry, bed-headed, and vampire blood was about as appetizing as a Bordeaux glass of cod liver oil. Regardless, her sleepwalking, deemed prophetic by her father, brought her here before anyone else. As much as she wanted to return to her canopy coffin and close the curtains, her subconscious brought her here for a reason. Her hunger did not blind her to that aspect.
Instinctually grabbing the teal satin sheets with no reserve like any sleepwalker would a fridge handle, Luthienne had no hesitation as the first witness to the crime scene. The smart thing, the normal thing, would be to avoid tampering with evidence as it could only draw suspicion. However, the Veylthorne family operated by a peculiar set of rules and customs rebuking familial norms. In this family, the narrative is always up for grabs. Whoever can dictate and insert their self-serving will via schemes takes all. It is instilled in them at a young age that their meritocracy of family dysfunction made each generation stronger as iron sharpens iron. Programmed by that instinct, the brazen teen went to work, uncovering the recently crowned late matriarch. Conducting a half-assed autopsy with just her sleep-deprived eyes. It didn't take a coroner to realize Vaelith had been dead for less than an hour.
Further inspection made Luthienne's eyes narrow. The murder weapon of choice was… bizarre. Dull, unpolished, sinuously twisting into a helix, and engraved with a twin snake-themed insignia. The dagger resembled a prop more than a practical assault instrument. Something so unique should have instantly attached itself to a memory in the vampiress' thoughts, but its craftsman origins sat on the tip of the girl's tongue. That information tittered much closer to her fangs than the assailant probably was comfortable with.
Though she’d pretend otherwise, the girl was more than busybodied. She was offensively intrusive in things that interested her. Clearly, her mother’s death met that criterion. Or did it? Her body language certainly didn’t say so. Probably to the glee of the perpetrator, if they somehow watched, the young vampire's head nodded a bit. Despite the circumstances, mystifyingly, Luthienne fell asleep standing at her mother’s bedside.
She stood there for more than a minute, giving ample time for someone to approach, and for a second, a shadowy figure almost had. This was not some act of politeness. Luthienne, like most of the Veylthornes, had a moniker—The Nightmare Eyes. She saw reality through an extended scope of clarity when sleeping. The room dissolved into her unconsciousness, a melding kaleidoscope until it took on an inverted palette. Not only was there a visible residual aura on the weapon, but it did not manifest in her dream as a dagger. It was some strange, gold, gem-embedded artifact in the shape of a closing hand resting quite calmly on Vaelith’s chest. The aureate glow of the artifact appeared to rebuke her control over the space. Every time Luthienne’s hand crept near, it began to phase away. It was a deliberate foil to her psychometry.
Stubborn, she attempted to force it, but like a bolt of lightning, a surge of energy shot through the vampiress, jolting Luthienne wide awake, severing her from the oneiric landscape she had been maintaining.
“Hmph! I’ll find another way.”
Pouty, the vampiress failed to realize her hunger had been mysteriously satiated. About-facing, the young vampire departed, mood much fouler than when she had arrived, though her problem was solved. She returned to her corner of the Veylthorne quarters—part of a massive, vast, labyrinthine castle confined by dimensional magic within the Château du Sang, the final pride of the Katur. As the only intact testament to the might of their former space empire, the Veylthornes and the fractionated populace of surviving Katurans had no choice but to call it home.
Few found any joy in it, least of all Lazarel, eldest son of House Veylthorne. The noctivagant noble moved through the castle’s corridors in silence, cowl serving as another layer covering his stoic face, masking his thoughts. Inside, the vampire’s heart played his rib cage like a drum. He felt anxious. For someone not only known as, but quite literally cold-blooded, his mind needed convincing.
Barely a day had passed since landfall, and already the heir made a decision shaping the fate of the surviving empire in this unfamiliar land. Other than his mother, who vehemently opposed it so much the prince could no longer face her, no one knew Lazarel had placed his father in The Sanguine Rest, a cursed artifact his family had been designated to guard for generations. He did so without the approval of the rest of the Curceată. While he attended to familial matters, much of their time was devoted to investigating the means by which Chiro, one of their disgraced own, escaped. Lazarel didn’t take her as one to sell out her people like they feared, but law is law.
Frankly, the prince was thankful for the distraction she provided as it delayed the Curceată’s oversight. However, they would find out soon enough, as the hematite-black coffin with its agleam carmine crown was more than some magical artifact. It was living, possessing a sick sense of humor in the ways it rewarded usage. From the beyond, Lazarel could feel his father’s spirit condemning him. The way of the Veylthorne would be for the eldest son to take over and seize as much power as he could amongst the confusion, yet he chose to dishonor the king and his sacrifice.
A thousand voices echo in the dark, yearning for the gift of another breath— but at what cost? What will the entity within the Sanguine Rest offer the Veylthornes this time in return? The first time it was used, centuries ago, is the reason their family was cursed as vampires. The last time, it gave rise to the Dream Wraith, a spirit born from Luthienne’s nightmares that possesses her to this day. The time before that, it snatched thousands of Katuran souls to forge the Scarlet Shell armor, a great asset at a pricey cost. And the time before that, the most consequential, opened a portal to the Shattered Lament, a dimension of nearly infinite resources. Initially seen as a blessing, it microwaved a renaissance in technology and sorcery but ultimately led to the invasion and demise of Katur. There was no telling what curse Lazarel just inflicted on his family, or even the new planet they settled on, but it would reveal itself soon enough. The least he figured he could do was check on the present family members he cared about.
First, the prince checked on Miuccia. He scanned her room, walls draped in deep, velvety purple and midnight blue curtains adorned with silver thread. His little sister wasn’t asleep. In the corner, she knelt, long, jet-black hair nearly touching the floor as she played with her dollhouse. Soft plush toys were scattered about the floor, next to her open black-wood coffin. Many of the toys stared at Lazarel with deep, human eyes full of sadness, one painfully mouthing, 'He...lp...us...' Miuccia turned to her brother with her big brown eyes capable of capturing anyone's soul with sheer cuteness. With genuine concern, she said “Big brother, I think Lulu is sleepwalking again. She passed my room earlier.”
That didn’t sound any alarms, but out of precaution, he checked Luthienne’s room. She, too, was wide awake, pillow behind her back, reading a yellow grimoire.
“Luthienne, Miuccia said you were sleepwalking. Did you encounter anything odd in your visions?”
With the most pathetic poker face in the world, his sister simply replied “Nope” before returning to her book. He left, and a brief laugh escaped her lips, thinking she had fooled him. He’d figure out what she was up to soon enough. Things often worked that way.
Shaking his head, Lazarel moved on, not even bothering to check for Bastien. Considering his younger brother has been gone wandering about the Château since its landing, he could say without the faintest whisper of uncertainty, Bastien was using the hierarchical chaos surrounding their father’s death to womanize his way into unauthorized feeding sessions. Lazarel had other matters to worry about than searching for someone who attempted to take his life more times than he had fingers. If something happened to his brother, it was safe to say this prince’s heart remained unmoved. Similar could be said about the eldest sister, Elara, an individual only capable of viewing him as an obstacle to the throne.
Just when Lazarel exhaled at the realization of not having to deal with that insufferable side of the family tree, the pendant hugging Lazarel’s chest, a deep crimson stone set in a silver, barbed filigree halo mount, pulsed intensely in tune with Elara’s heartbeat.
“My eternal junior, you’ve been quite busy, haven’t you?”
His sister’s incessantly patronizing tone rang through every vowel like a cacophony, far from music to the prince’s ears.
“What.”
Lazarel’s retort was blunt, sharp, and devoid of patience.
“Not in the mood for banter today, are we? Shame. Shame… I’ll keep it short. While you’ve been playing the internal cleaning service, I’ve been attending to more important matters. Like, for one, surveying our surroundings. You know, you’ve always lacked that innate Veylthorne intuition. Come to my palace, brother. We have much to discuss. So much, I’m afraid I can’t leave even you in the dark.”
| Classification :: Faction Headquarters :: Château du Sang - New Katur Reach :: Surface // Global / Interstellar Territories: New Katur, Elara's Castle Characters: Lazarel, Chiro NPCS: Vaelith, Luthienne, Miuccia, Bastien, Elara The Curceată shape and control the Katuran world from the shadows. Formed long before the empire’s collapse, the Curceată emerged as a necessity—an unspoken accord between the oldest and most cunning among the Katuran blood aristocracy. Officially, Katur’s survival is credited to the ruling family, the Veylthornes, but in truth, this cabal, including family members, pulled all the strings. Bound by ancient blood pacts not written in ink, but in blood, the Curceată hold heavily sought-after secrets, making them targets, but not without the blessing of great power. One perk is access to The Marrow, magical archives whose knowledge extends to an immeasurable depth. In a dimension of its own, its walls are not made of stone, but of black-veined Memorite, a semi-organic crystal of near impervious strength. And for a good reason, as it guards the fallen empires' records built from their conquest of space. The Veylthornes The Veylthorne Family is the ruling lineage of the surviving Katuran people, bound by an ancient curse and locked in a cycle of power struggles, betrayals, and arcane manipulation. Originating from the fallen Katuran space empire, they now reside within the Château du Sang, a sprawling, dimensionally warped fortress. The Veylthornes follow a ruthless meritocracy where familial loyalty is secondary to ambition, and survival depends on cunning, strength, and one’s ability to dictate the narrative of events. Their history is interwoven with the use of The Sanguine Rest, a cursed artifact capable of restoring life at an unfathomable cost. Past interactions with the relic have shaped their family’s fate, transforming them into vampires, birthing eldritch horrors, and ultimately contributing to the empire’s downfall. |
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New Katur
| Currently docked along a central, southwestward chain of isles spanning less than a hundred miles along the Inland Sea, this unclaimed land, by default, became their new home. Furl-locked tangles of half-dead black spruces bombarded the barren tundra’s crown in scattered clusters, like patchy scalps of alopecia. The flora in the region adapted by peculiar means, having evolved spined roots burrowing deep into Orst’s crust. They spiraled through stone and soil for miles until tapping into the long-congealed remains of ancient, extinct megafauna, leeching their fossilized organic mana reserves. Dwarfing everything was a mountain range, mounds of alabaster, some parts translucent, glowing, amplified with each jolt of white lightning, preceding the crashing thunder from the perpetually dark skies. These unique mountains were sprinkled over many islands and the southwestward land mass near New Katur, with the majority unexplored for the time being. In the hours since landing, Katurans have only encountered birds, particularly white owl-like creatures hanging upside-down like bats, leering from a distance with their twisted heads, but there were sure to be odder forms of life about. |
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Château du Sang (Ship Unit)
| The final pride of the Katur, the Château du Sang, is the only intact testament to the might of their former space empire. Through a combination of abstract science and ancient vampiric sorcery, several castles and much of the environment itself polymerized to create a 7.69km long, 1033m wide, 1.054km high, 1207 million metric ton throne-world to support the fleeing population. Beneath, its spiky blood-red crystals pulsed with a sinister glow, spearing the ground easily, lodging itself firmly in an Orst mire. Above, where it wasn't chipped, its crystalline spires scraped the sky, releasing a shadow curse bleeding from the heavens, turning the clouds to red—dark as aged blood in a chalice, perpetuating a nautical dusk. Around, shattered crystals littered the land and the now wine-colored coast of the island, forming unofficial sea stacks as far as the eye can see. With nowhere else to go, for now, this was their home. Stepping inside, you were greeted with a skyline of gothic silhouettes under a starless sky with the Veylthorne estate at the apex of its tallest hill. Wrought-iron lampposts styled in baroque flourish flickered with their dim glow above cobblestone-appearing pathways. Each street, bridge, and section was a puzzle piece within this mega structure built from arcane knowledge powered by the slow, controlled combustion of liquefied crystal essence. The streets, though forged to look like stone, were made of a unique Inconel-like superalloy native to Katur. When ran on, a subtle, but deep melodic chime reverberates into the air, vibrating at a frequency subconsciously unnerving most sharp-hearing beings. The natural sound of Katurans living their shipbound lives unknowingly became a decent deterrent for many of the unforeseen lower threats surrounding them. Abilities |
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The Sanguine Rest (Magical Artifact)
| The Sanguine Rest is a hematite-black coffin adorned with an agleam carmine crown, an ancient and cursed artifact bound to the Veylthorne lineage for generations. It is not merely an object but a living entity, possessed of a cruel intelligence that grants rewards at a terrible price. Each use has shaped the fate of the Veylthorne family, first cursing them into vampirism, birthing malicious entities that possess family members, and a slew of other nightmarish results. An insidious and unforeseen consequence counterbalances every gift it bestows. Abilities |
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Veins of the Veylthorne
There was a bloody murder! Vaelith's pupilless eyes were on full display—cold, flawless, like two perfect diamonds. Silver staked through the heart, her delicate right arm dangled off the bedside, a jangling constellation of bracelets adorning her wrist, while her slender left backhand rested against her pale forehead.
It was a tragic scene.
The oversized dagger sheathed into the Katuran ruler’s heart impaled even the bed frame. It was peculiar for a vampire of her maturity to forgo resting in a coffin, but no lid would have spared her from an untimely assassination. Approaching the cherry-blotted mattress soaking up a vampire’s buffet worth of blood was Luthienne, one of several daughters of the Veylthorne estate. Borderline unmoored from reality, the young vampiress’ sleepwalking habit brought her before the felled queen. Standing at the foot of her mother's literal deathbed in a white Edwardian ruffle nightgown, behind Luthienne's moppy draping hair, her sleep-deprived hazel eyes barely widened. It wasn't because she was heartless. The blood supply shortage due to the war affected the surviving Vampires aboard the Château du Sang in varying ways. Luthienne, classified as a feaster, required consuming copious amounts of blood to offset the frequency with which she involuntarily used her powers. Any ounce of empathy and sorrow normally shown in a situation rocketed off the other end of the balance scale when weighted against her intrinsic nature as a vampire.
In awe of all the blood in front of her, quickly the young vampire’s thoughts veered towards “If only Mother was human.” She'd wring the bedsheets of their last drop were it the case. Luthienne was hungry, bed-headed, and vampire blood was about as appetizing as a Bordeaux glass of cod liver oil. Regardless, her sleepwalking, deemed prophetic by her father, brought her here before anyone else. As much as she wanted to return to her canopy coffin and close the curtains, her subconscious brought her here for a reason. Her hunger did not blind her to that aspect.
Instinctually grabbing the teal satin sheets with no reserve like any sleepwalker would a fridge handle, Luthienne had no hesitation as the first witness to the crime scene. The smart thing, the normal thing, would be to avoid tampering with evidence as it could only draw suspicion. However, the Veylthorne family operated by a peculiar set of rules and customs rebuking familial norms. In this family, the narrative is always up for grabs. Whoever can dictate and insert their self-serving will via schemes takes all. It is instilled in them at a young age that their meritocracy of family dysfunction made each generation stronger as iron sharpens iron. Programmed by that instinct, the brazen teen went to work, uncovering the recently crowned late matriarch. Conducting a half-assed autopsy with just her sleep-deprived eyes. It didn't take a coroner to realize Vaelith had been dead for less than an hour.
Further inspection made Luthienne's eyes narrow. The murder weapon of choice was… bizarre. Dull, unpolished, sinuously twisting into a helix, and engraved with a twin snake-themed insignia. The dagger resembled a prop more than a practical assault instrument. Something so unique should have instantly attached itself to a memory in the vampiress thoughts but its craftsman origins sat on the tip of the girl's tongue. That information titered much closer to her fangs than the assailant probably was comfortable with.
Though she’d pretend otherwise, the girl was more than busybodied. She was offensively intrusive in things that interested her. Clearly, her mother’s death met that criteria. Or did She? Her body language certainly didn’t say so. Probably to the glee of the perpetrator, if they somehow watched, the young vampire's head nodded a bit. Despite the circumstances, mystifyingly, Luthienne fell asleep standing at her mother’s bedside.
She stood there for more than a minute, giving ample time for someone to approach, and for a second, a shadowy figure almost had. This was not some act of politeness. Luthienne, like most of the Veylthornes, had a moniker—The Nightmare Eyes. She saw reality through an extended scope of clarity when sleeping. The room dissolved into her unconsciousness, a melding kaleidoscope until it took on an inverted palette. Not only was there a visible residual aura on the weapon but it did not manifest in her dream as a dagger. It was some strange, gold, gem-embedded artifact in the shape of a closing hand resting quite calmly on Vaelith’s chest. The aureate glow of the artifact appeared to rebuke her control over the space. Every time Luthienne’s hand crept near it began to phase away. It was a deliberate foil to her psychometry.
Stubborn, she attempted to force it, but like a bolt of lightning, a surge of energy shot through the vampiress, jolting Luthienne wide awake, severing her from the oneiric landscape she had been maintaining. “Hmph! I’ll find another way.” Pouty, the vampiress failed to realize her hunger had been mysteriously satiated. About-facing, the young vampire departed, mood much fouler than when she had arrived though her problem was solved. She returned to her corner of the Veylthorne quarters—a massive, vast, labyrinthine castle confined by dimensional magic within the Château du Sang, the final pride of the Katur. As the only intact testament to the might of their former space empire, the Veylthornes and the fractionated populace of surviving Katurans had no choice but to call it home.
Many weren’t enjoying it, including Lazarel, eldest son of the Veylthorne estate. The noctivagant noble moved through the castle’s corridors in silence, his cowl covering most of his stoic expression. Inside, his heart played his rib cage like a drum. Other than his mother who vehemently opposed it so much the prince could no longer face her, no one knew he placed his father in The Sanguine Rest, a cursed artifact his family had been designated to guard for generations. The hematite-black coffin with its agleam carmine crown was more than some magical artifact. It was living, possessing a sick sense of humor in the ways it rewarded usage. From the beyond, Lazarel could feel his father’s spirit condemning him. The way of the Veylthorne would be for the eldest son to take over and seize as much power as he could amongst the confusion, yet, he chose to dishonor the king who died protecting the last of the Katuran fleet by revitalizing him.
A thousand voices echo in the dark, yearning for the gift of another breath— but at what cost? What will the entity within the Sanguine Rest offer the Veylthornes this time in return? The first time it was used, centuries ago, is the reason their family was cursed as vampires. The last time, it gave rise to the Dream Wraith, a spirit born from Luthienne’s nightmares that continues to possess her to this day. The time before that, it snatched thousands of Katuran souls to forge the Scarlet Shell armor, a great asset at a pricey cost. And the time before that, the most consequential, opened a portal to the Shattered Lament, a dimension of nearly infinite resources. Initially seen as a blessing, it microwaved in a renaissance in technology and sorcery but ultimately led to the invasion and demise of Katur. There was no telling what curse Lazarel just inflicted on his family but it would reveal itself soon enough. The least he figured he could do was check on the present family members he cared about.
First, the prince checked on Miuccia. He scanned her room, walls draped in deep, velvety purple and midnight blue curtains adorned with silver thread. His little sister wasn’t asleep. In the corner, she knelt, long, jet-black hair nearly touching the floor as she played with her dollhouse. Soft plush toys were scattered about the floor, next to her open black-wood coffin. Many of the toys stared at Lazarel with deep, human eyes full of sadness, one painfully mouthing, 'He...lp...us...' Miuccia turned to her brother with her big brown eyes capable of capturing anyone's soul with sheer cuteness. With genuine concern, she said “Big brother, I think Lulu is sleepwalking again. She passed my room earlier.” That didn’t sound any alarms, but out of precaution, he checked Luthienne’s room. She too was up, pillow behind her back reading a yellow grimoire. “Luthienne, Miuccia said you were sleepwalking. Did you encounter anything odd in your visions?” With the most pathetic poker face in the world, his sister simply replied “Nope” before returning to her book. He left, and a brief laugh escaped her lips, thinking she had fooled him.
Shaking his head, Lazarel moved on, not even bothering to check Bastien’s room considering his younger brother has been gone wandering about the Château for days now. Without the faintest whisper of uncertainty, Bastien was using the hierarchical chaos surrounding their father’s death and colony settling on this new planet to womanize his way into unauthorized feeding sessions. Lazarel had other matters to worry about than searching for someone who attempted to take his life more times than he had fingers. If something happened to his brother it was safe to say his heart remained unmoved. Similar could be said about the eldest sister, Elara, an individual only capable of viewing him as an obstacle to the throne. She and the majority of his insufferable siblings lurking in her domain had a reckoning on the horizon—Lazarel was on his way, welcomed or not.
I will no longer interact with you Alucroas, please respect that and do not pursue my character.
That request will be respected.
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