Grijs
Breezi
Fetzen
Hos
Little Bill
Master EffeX
LauderThe Ring of Muahad
-Twelve Years After Arrival-
A great wall of ashen sand rose a hundred kilometers into Pandjoras’ northern hemisphere, dusken sky blotted by a tide of black grains. Darkness coated the regions surrounding the Dune Sea of the Lost, perpetually afflicted by raging storms and brutal waves of ash blizzards. New knolls of sublimated, umbral grist built up with each gust that blasted through the region. Little survived the bleak reality aside from the slithering forms of void serpents, fist-sized obsidian scarabs, and orange-eyed marsupials with needle-thin pelts. Fragments of broken palaces dating from before the cataclysm sporadically dotted the wastes, accompanied by tiny pools of silvery graviton particles. Devoid of the southern hemisphere’s penumbral stalks, small groups of azure roses bloomed in isolation around these miniature pools. Dusken-skinned humans in extremely low numbers carefully harvested the aforementioned flora, tending to one of their only food sources before disappearing into ancient ruins.
The brutal serenity of the wasteland was interrupted by the heavy thrumming of graviton engines speeding across the umbral sands. In their journey, a gang of harvester dropships blasted through swarms of void serpents and looming sandstorms alike. Each was a fat-bellied, austere craft with quadruple gravity shunts paired on the prow and stern respectively. Grizzly tethers with huge, monomolecular hooks freely hung from beneath the vessel, while variable firing ports passively held elongated gravrifles locked in place. The cockpit on the prow of the vehicle quickly burst through each wave of the ashen blizzards with reinforced umbral glass curved for superior aerodynamics. It continued to barrel through an aeronautical sea of sand, jostling those members within the hull.
A vast deck of vertical seats and gurgling cogitators spread across a boxy interior separated by a cockpit and a lower area. Twenty-four synthetic silk beds hung from skyward railing magnetically locked in position for comfortable, space, and ease of access. Twelve variable vanes acting as firing slits remained closed mid-transit with several Pandjoran-sigil runes lingering nearby for activation. Crackling screens sufficing for external viewports lined the cabin furthest from the bay floor. A short staircase led down to another level full of macabre tools for dissection. Bay doors, shut tight by graviton-powered hydraulics, formed the center of the chamber, while quadruple gravity tethers hung freely from enormous reels at all four corners. Weapon racks lined the walls from the lower and upper decks with a plethora of blades and guns varying in quality. All of these were closely inspected by a dusken deity of staggering proportion.
A team of ten Pandjorans of one House would normally embark on one of the dropships to hunt an elder serpent. Instead, the Malik of Pandjoras, Ramses ibn Varranis, and a mixed group of Bahamutians, Nathazians, and Urahalians resided within the craft. Each one was as solemn as the next, focused on any manner of duty that filled their minds. Pandjoran-powered armor, of a unified design akin to the Varranian-pattern, adorned their patient forms. Sleek rebreathers fit snug to their faces, overshadowed only by midnight-hued cowls of serpent silk. Each individual wore House Varranis’ sigil, the blade and dusken sun, boldly on their armor, while personal sigils from other Houses were emboldened on a single shoulder. Only the dusken deity, Zaphariel, wore vastly different attire than the rest of his retinue. Sleek, modified powered armor of a custom design befitting his station fit his enormous form, and yet the Malik was devoid of a rebreather. A coy smile, typical of his demeanor, was proudly displayed across his lips as he watched Ramses deal with movement illness.
“... Even within a year, you’ve already changed the dropships this much! I’m not certain that I could handle any further advancements.” Ramses stated, kneeling against the bulkhead leading into the cockpit. Sweat perspired on the mature hassan’s forehead as he held open a sack. Flecks of bile dripped from his lips while his rebreather hung around his neck. Gall sloshes inside of the fabric, threatening to spill over with every jostle of their craft.
“I warned you about the transit, uncle. If you cannot fathom such changes on Pandjoras, then I cannot fathom how you remain so obtuse to my warnings.” Zaphariel chided the hassan, shaking his head in feigned disappointment while offering a hand to Ramses. His adoptive uncle refused with a shake of his head, allowing the bile to resettle within his stomach.
“I couldn’t let the Malik of Pandjoras travel without his closest advisor or any hassan. The old man of the mountain would cleave me in two with Azrael. No, I believe it’d be best to-” The dusken-skinned man began to speak before catching his words to spew bile into the cloth. His adoptive nephew patted Ramses’ shoulder in a comforting, pitiful manner. Exhaust, orange eyes turned to regard the promised dreamer with a mixture of gratitude and contempt. He continued to speak after wiping his mouth clean of filth. “-accompany you no matter the distance. No matter what happens to me. Even if I continue to spew gall for thirteen days and thirteen nights, then I’ll simply do so quietly and without you noticing.”
Ramses’ words earned him a toothy grin from the Malik of Pandjoras, who lifted the mature hassan from his slumped position. The bay around them shook under pressure from the oncoming ashen storm, forcing those within to harshly jostle. Zaphariel handily stood his ground, keeping a firm grip on the mature hassan lest he fall into a pile of his filth. His adoptive uncle gave an appreciative nod as he regained his footing against the metallic floor. A single, lightning-quick step was all that was required for the dusken deity to help the Varranian noble into a vertical seat. One of his talon-tipped digits activated a Pandjoran-sigil rune, locking the straps for his mentor.
“If you wanted to help me, Ramses, then you would’ve stayed behind to handle all thirteen of my wives. I can only handle a thousand and one different tales of the same serpent song before I feel the need to wander for thirteen days and thirteen nights. You handle women much better than I, after all.” Zaphariel stated with a playful smile, ruffling the freshly grown beard beginning to compliment his face. The hassan gave his adoptive nephew a worried look before tiredness overtook him, closing both of his orange orbs to savor a single moment of oneness. A glance from the dusken deity to the Pandjoran seated next to Ramses, an Urahalian seer, was all that was required for them to overlook his defeated uncle.
The portal into their dropships cockpit slid open with a press of a rune, the Malik sliding through even before the opening sequence had finished. His golden, serpentine eyes gazed around the austere interior of the craft. A pair of rooms flanked him on either side, one leading to several furnished bunks and another to a faculty. In front of him, five chairs arrayed in a pentagonal shape. Large blocks of terminals surrounded each one, save for the most forward seat. A miniature throne with a worming nest of metallic cables peered out into the ashen blizzard their craft flew through. The Pandjoran pilot at the helm, a Bahamutian experienced with atmospheric flight, was slaved to the harvester’s neural feedback umbilicals. Slithering, chromatic tendrils hooked into several ports augmenting the back of their skull, irritated skin bubbling up around the fleshy plugs. Unlike other Pandjorans, the salvagers of Bahamut had ashen skin dyed by the relentless graviton tempests that raged down endless flakes upon their unprotected forms.
“We will be arriving momentarily at Neu Babylos, my Malik.” A deep, reverberating voice hailed from several voxcasters arrayed in the cockpit, yet it failed to shout from the lips of the Pandjoran before Zaphariel. One of the few upgrades he had managed to ply from the fallen palaces was a seat-mounted neural network - or a command throne, as he liked to think of it. A mechanism hissed on the back of the throne, pumping fresh narcotics and other stimulants into the Bahamutian pilot. Tubes full of silvery, black liquid continuously fed into a port around the Pandjoran’s wrists, while smaller drains full of filth emptied below them into the faculty behind them.
“I see Saahir has managed to develop even more ways to synthesize void serpent venom. His industrious attitude never ceases to surprise. Have the ashen platforms already been hailed?” The Malik of Pandjoras said with carefully veiled disgust, actively intrigued by the Malik of Bahamut’s infinite creativity and repulsed in the same thought. His hidden abhorrence wasn’t detected by the pilot, who continued to monitor an unseen field of view. A soundless sigh escaped Zaphariel’s lips, disappointed in the lack of communication with the Bahamutian. Crackling voxcasters burst to life once more as the Pandjoran spoke through neurological connections.
“A platform has been designated for your imperial presence, Malik Varranis. The House of Bahamut advises you to change into heavier armor upon arrival.” The pilot stated through the blaring voxcasters, an advisory tone entered into their otherwise monotone voice. Confused, the Malik of Pandjoras eyed the seated form of the Bahamutian with peaked interest. A sly smile began to creep across his lips as he pondered the Pandjoran’s words.
“Is that so? Why is that? Does Saahir think that I’ll blow away with a thousand and one grains of black sand?” The dusken deity asked with his eyes beginning to narrow on the command throne, Zaphariel’s enormous body looming darkly over the Bahamutian. A shiver passed through the seated pilot even while their nerves were synced with the harvester dropship. Sweat began to build up on their ashen forehead, threatening to drip down over their exposed skin.
“It is so that we can hear you arrive, Lord Zaphariel, your steps are as soundless as a serpent.” They blurted out around the cockpit in a mixture of fear and anxiety. Zaphariel’s eyes widened in surprise, his serpentine pupils dilating as if affixed on a new type of prey. Thin lips spread wide as laughter burst forth from the dusken deity’s lungs.
“Pfuha! Pfuhahaha! A joke? From one that has wandered the umbral sands without dusken shroud for thirteen days and thirteen nights!?” The dusken deity boomed, his laughter filled with enthusiasm and majesty. He laughed heartily from deep within his body, threatening to drown out the sound of graviton engines with his guffawing. Although the pilot couldn’t shift in their throne, Zaphariel was certain that they watched him with fearful eyes. “I demand your name! It shall be enshrined within my mind for eons to come!”
While Zaphariel’s laughter slowly died down, the pilot of the harvester dropship silently mused on the correct words to speak. After the last of the dusken deity’s guffaws, their voice came through the voxcasters in a hushed tone. “Zahia al-Bahamut of the Ta’allan.” They said, announcing their name and their tribal suffix. The Malik of Pandjoras committed it to memory, a toothy grin remaining on his lips after a hearty laugh. Before he was able to respond, warning klaxons rang throughout the interior of the craft. They had finally arrived at their destination.
The Dune Sea of the Lost stretched out endlessly around them in a tidal ocean of ashen dunes. Perpetual graviton tempests blasted the dusken sands with silvery flakes, flattening and cascading new formations across this stretch of Pandjoras. Towering mesas of grey rock crackled with fresh energy, frequently stricken with lilac lightning by each passing storm. Incredible ruins of fallen palaces dotted the landscape in vast quantities, each picked cleanly through by the nomadic tribes of the ashen wasters. Only one object held their particular interest in this corner of the penumbral planet: The Ruins of Old Pandjoras.
A great and terrifying gravity engine the size of Pandjoras’ grandest massif stuck out of an umbral mountain range. Enormous chunks of rusted metal and bulbous domes scattered around the fallen engine in vast quantities. Colossal weapons of unknown caliber or design lay dormant as they stretched from one end of the range to the next. Sheer kilometers of metallic fragments, carbon fiber clumps, and technological clumps filled the gaps between mountain, mesa, and desert. Lonely as it appeared, Pandjorans stalked the haunting corpse of the cataclysm in substantial swathes. Serpent silk tents, carbon fiber yurts, and swarms of broken dropships acted as impromptu settlements for those that ventured into the abyssal depths. Brilliant glow globes dotted locations where the populace was most dense, while tremendous banners of House Bahamut and House Varranis indicated structures with high importance. Each structure, impromptu domicile, and salvaged compound paled in comparison to the hovering citadel tethered nearby.
Eight immense tethers with monomolecular hooks dug into eight towering mesas reinforced with metallic scaffolding and topped with frequently used landing platforms. Each tether rose to an enormous reel attached to one of the many hovering palaces of Pandjoras. Thirteen gravity shunts of preposterous size lifted a series of towering structures atop a circular platform encircled by a rustic wall of metal. Electrifying coils and tarnished cogs heavily decorated the gravitic seraglio, paled only by the billowing smog spilling from leviathan smokestacks. Carbon fiber awnings sheltered gangplanks and causeways between closely dispersed buildings, yet tempest flakes still managed to savagely warp parts of the palace.
“Neu Babylos never ceases to amaze me, the foremost location of the greatest inventors in all of Pandjoras all located in the same place. A labor of love, a dusken desire, and part of the great plan. Wouldn’t you agree, Zahia?” The dusken deity spoke through the klaxons, marveling at the palace that had taken beyond thirteen days and thirteen nights to construct. He fondly remembered combing the Dune Sea of the Lost with Saahir and his ashen tribe, recruiting each nomadic clan they passed, and finishing their home with bits from Old Pandjoras. His conversing partner failed to respond, focused on using their neurally linked network to land the harvester dropship.
The cockpit door slid open behind them, Ramses ibn Varranis stepped through with vastly improved confidence compared to the start of their journey. Flecks of bile that had once decorated his facial hair had disappeared along with his beard, stubble decorating his scarred visage from chin to jaw to lip. Exhaustion still lingered within his orange eyes and fatigue afflicted parts of his movement. The mature hassan still managed to confidently stumble through the dropship to stand beside the dusken deity. He flashed the Malik of Pandjoras a small smile, offering a bow of his head in apology.
“Apologies for the wait, Zaphariel, I hadn’t expected to be so prone to illness. Muahad would be ashamed of me if he were to see me in that state.” The hassan said with humility on his lips, turning his attention away from the dusken deity to the glorious form of Neu Babylon. He whistled in appreciation of the architecture while resting his body against the command throne. Ramses' closeness earned him a slight, angry twitch from Zahia, who guided their craft ever closer to one of the many platform-topped mesas.
“You should be more worried about my approval, Ramses. You looked dramatically better with a full set of facial hair. Not that your wife, Yaminah, will complain though.” Zaphariel said in a playful tone, eyeing every specific detail on the hassan’s matured face. Ramses raised a hand to fend off a wave of fluster at the mention of his spouse and in a vain attempt to hide from the dusken deity’s scanning. A pair of talon-tipped gauntlets slowly rose from the Malik of Pandjoras as if prepared to attack his adoptive uncle. Their momentary event was interrupted by the voxcasters blaring to life once more with Zahia’s voice.
“Cease your play-fighting, my lord. To all other crew, prepare for the final approach. Reel the gravity tethers, roll the weapon cages, and close all variable portals. We have arrived at Neu Babylos.” Zahia stated in a monotone voice. A great cacophony of noise blasted behind the trio of Zaphariel, Ramses, and the Bahamutian pilot. Pandjorans that had once been buckled to their vertical seats were now unleashed to perform their aeronautical duties. Partially open vanes were closed after the heavy gravguns were rolled in. Gravity tethers were reeled in via automated graviton-fed miniature engines. Weapon racks, filled with jostling weapons, were magnetically locked for descending procedures. All twenty-four of the vertical seats were actuated, allowing them to fold skyward to open the deck for superior movement. Four Bahamutians urgently barged into the cockpit, deftly avoiding both of the hassans to occupy co-pilot seats and terminals alike.
The oncoming dropship quickly approached one of the many enormous, reinforced mesas that encircled Neu Babylos. Specifically, their craft descended upon one illuminated by four harshly blinking glow globes with crimson-hued bulbs. A small group of Bahamutians awaited a distance away from the landing platform, one of their number more highly ornate than the rest. Four landing gears unfurled from the vessel, flat-footed mechanisms aiming to squarely complete the arrival sequence. Once the harvester was fully landed, all three reinforced doors on the left, right, and back opened up to roll out boarding ramps. Many of the Pandjoras trickled out from any of the exits except the pilot, Zahia, who remained synced to their command throne. As the dusken deity turned to disembark, one of the Bahamutian’s hands grabbed hold of his arms. Turning around in surprise, the androgynous pilot rewarded him with a small, thankful smile beneath their trio of crimson lenses.
The last of Zaphariel’s retinue left the harvester dropship, turning to watch as it rose into the ashen sky once more. Night had begun to fall on an already dusken world, further casting great shadows over all of Neu Babylos. Glow globes grew brighter as darkness loomed over the Bahamutian edge of the planet. Hundreds of red lenses glinted in the brief bit of artificial light, revealing large pockets of House Bahamut Pandjorans skittering about Old Pandjoras like mechanical insects. It all paled in comparison to the crimson hive that swarmed before their procession. Five individuals wearing the ashen cloaks of the wastes surrounded a greater being of staggering proportions. A dusken shroud of exquisitely woven serpent silk cowled over its features, allowing only thirteen crimson lenses and a heavy rebreather to remain visible on their person. The thrumming of a graviton-fed engine could be heard within their apparel, though they weren’t bulky enough to hide such an unfathomably large component. Hissing mechanics revealed a cluster of metallic arms from beneath their robes, each gripping some form of intricate cane to steady themselves.
+’Welcome once again to Neu Babylos, great one.’+ The thing said in a voice that reverberated several times over. The tone would’ve been pleasant were it not for the abyssal masking over their lips. It earned a small smile from the Malik of Pandjoras, yet he couldn’t help but feel dejected at the thought of what the former ruler had become.
“I see you’ve continued to augment yourself once more, Saahir. I expected that type of fervent attitude from the Urahalians, yet it doesn’t surprise me that you went against my advice. Was it the elder venom or the tempest flakes that forced you this time?” Zaphariel asked as he closed the distance between himself and the Malik of Bahamut. Saahir reached out with his only remaining, fleshy limb to grip forearms with the dusken deity. The rest of the umbral king’s cohort remained several meters back, suspicious of the thing that called itself Saahir. In a sense, he also shared their unnerving reaction to the ashen waster’s absurd growth, yet it was his intervention in the Dune Sea of the Lost that had propelled this outcome.
+’The tempest flakes had churned my body during our magnetic shielding experiments, but the latter half of my body was augmented due to the venom. Save your worry for our future, Lord Zaphariel, I gladly forsake my humanity for your vision of Pandjoras.’+ Saahir responded in a solemn tone, his voice filled with humility and gratitude. Zaphariel felt a part of his masquerade chip away, yet he resolved to utilize whatever was left of the great ashen waster’s vitality for their dusken world. He simply smiled, lowering his golden, serpentine eyes to gaze into each crimson lens.
“It will not come to that, my friend. You will see the great plan come to fruition upon a thousand and one grains of black sand spread across thirteen hundred worlds.” As Zaphariel spoke, he could sense Saahir shift where none other could. It was as if he was trying to prostrate with limbs that he no longer had. An air of fervent exaltation swam around the being that rose just shy of the dusken deity, propelled by any manner of hidden mechanism.
+’You honor me, yet it is not for myself that you have come to Neu Babylos today. It is to claim dominion over Pandjoras once and for all, is it not? Come and see what I have mused upon for thirteen days and thirteen nights.’+ The mechanical monstrosity that was Saahir shifted upon unknowable components, gliding away towards a heavily shrouded mesa to their immediate right. All five Bahamutians around the Malik of Bahamut followed him, carefully lifting parts of his dusken robe lest it dust against the masonic stone. Ramses shared a look with Zaphariel as they watched the great being move across the magnetic railing connecting each platform. The dusken deity merely shook his head, moving forward to follow after their terrifying host.
Magnetically driven platforms on metallic rails delivered the combined cohorts of Zaphariel and Saahir to the experimental mesa. Awning stretched from far above the reinforced column, draped by a hovering machine on miniature gravity shunts. Several Bahamutians in ashen robes patrolled the edges of the veiled structure, gravrifles and Varranian-powered donning their aggressive forms. As the biomechanical monstrosity that was Saahir grew closer, a pair of the Pandjorans spread open a dusken curtain to allow their entry. As the dusken deity passed, he witnessed the sheer size of the Bahamutian sentinels. No doubt, he thought, Saahir had augmented them with a thousand and one different reinforcements.
Inside the veiled mesa was an extraordinary amount of projects tended to by ashen wasters of all different sizes and scales. Multi-limbed engineers tended to minute, precise components, while hulking warriors with plentiful, venom-filled tubes hefted large chunks of metal to be crafted together. Miniature machines with gravitic shunts wandered back and forth, delivering smaller items constructed within the depths of Neu Babylos. Urahalians dotted their number with dusken shrouds covering their bald heads, wyrd weaving from their hands to afflict reality with fresh sores. Nathazian dropship masters fiercely spoke with Bahamutian pilots on the details of certain specifications. It was an accumulated series of projects that brought their world together, one way or another.
Each experimental machine was a wonder to Zaphariel’s eyes. Bipedal, humanoid machines of gargantuan proportion rose above his head with menacing claws and shoulder-mounted gravcannons. Vastly smaller, sleeker vehicles fit for a single operator idled nearby with singular gravitic engines. Behemoth war machines on a variety of gravity shunts attempted the first activation, while gravweapons the size of an elder serpent were lowered onto a swivel-mount. Back-mounted, personal-use gravity engines were tested with some success nearby, influenced only by the weight of two-handed armaments. It amazed him to no end what the Pandjorans were capable of, nearly bringing a tear to his eye with a sense of achievement. All of these inventions paled in comparison to the hulking vehicle at the center of the mesa.
A vessel that he could’ve only imagined in his dreams lay before the umbral king’s eyes. What had once been a harvester dropship was unlike anything that it had once been. A pair of gravitic engines triple the size, a body double the size, and a length as long as the great wyrm of the void stood on the platform. Heaving graviton tanks were mated to areas where turrets, gravity hooks, and the lower deck would normally reside. The term ‘dropship’ was no longer an accurate title for what awaited them on the platform. It instead stood as a penumbral corvette of improbable power, though lacked any offensive demeanor.
+’The Bahamut-class Corvette, a craft with no military purpose and built for the sake of breaching Pandjoras’ unusual atmosphere. A great being that would’ve taken me a thousand and one years to assemble without the assistance of House Nathaz, House Urahal, and House Varranis. It had begun as a converted harvester dropship, but it quickly become apparent that the original design was not intended for spaceflight. Everything needed to be rebuilt up from umbral sand. Heavier plating, denser engines, graviton pods, Urahalian meditation chambers, experimental magnetic shielding, hyper synthesized venom-fueled generators. We used every note from our ancestors to achieve a creature somewhat resembling our ancient starcrafts.’+ The Malik of Bahamut said, beginning to explain every small detail that led up to the creation of the corvette. He spread all of his arms wide in an excited gesture. The great plan had been conceived, gestated, and was ready to be born anew into Pandjoras. Scarlet lenses turned to regard the dusken deity, who eyed the corvette with wonder in his golden eyes.
“Impossible, within three years you’ve managed to create something like this? This wasn’t the only project, either. You’ve managed to invent machines of all purposes from war machines to commercial novelties. I am… beyond pleased with your progress. The great plan is ready to be born, my friend,” Zaphariel stated with a hearty chuckle, planting obsidian talons on what could only possibly be Saahir’s shoulder. The Malik of Pandjoras was responded to with harsh and awkward coughing, construed only as the ashen waster’s sheepish chortling. The dusken deity opened his mouth once more to speak, a toothy grin spreading across his lips. “But is it prepared for immediate launch? You wouldn’t have invited me to Neu Babylos for anything less than a finished product.”
A short, pregnant silence overtook the Bahamutians that lead them to the corvette. The thirteen crimson lenses of Saahir seemed to whirl as if to muse upon the inquiry. Each of the great ashen waster’s attendants turned their augmented visors toward their House ruler in anticipation of his answer. The enormous mechanical being began to address the dusken deity, a solemn air overtaking the scholarly attitude he had performed earlier. The heavy rebreather unleashed a coughing fit that echoed across the experimental mesa, turning the attention of every worker towards himself. One of his fleshy digits was raised to point upwards toward the darkened sky.
+'It is with utmost certainty that it is prepared for atmospheric flight. The great plan is within your hands, Lord Zaphariel,’+ Malik Saahir announced, earning a beaming smile from the dusken deity. The rest of the cohort exploded into a cacophony of cheers. Praises of glory were shared between the Pandjroans as the long-awaited dream rapidly approached. If one could discern the Bahamutian ruler’s facial features, they surely would’ve discovered the smile on his long-forgotten lips. He cleared his throat once more to refocus the attention of Zaphariel’s cohort. +’Will you travel beyond a thousand and one grains of black sand, my Malik?’+
Perhaps it was the way that it was said by Saahir that forced his next action, or maybe it was the excitement that had already built up in his body. Zaphariel exploded into a fit of howling laughter, confidence woven into each guffaw. Sharp teeth, capable of puncturing serpent scale and meat alike, flashed with each howl. Even with his plentiful augmentations, the great ashen waster felt fear and awe filter through his mechanical body. It only further propelled his inherent loyalty to the Malik of Pandjoras, desperately compelling his altered form to prostrate where it no longer could. The Malik of Bahamut settled for bowing his head as deeply as he could.
“I will do more than that, Saahir! The void will be claimed by no less than the duskenborn of Pandjoras! Come, my friends, witness our glory!” Zaphariel said with a voice that thundered for miles, reverberating a thousand and one times over. Wyrd coagulated in each syllable, further enforcing the excitement and confidence he felt in those around him. A great chorus of cheers erupted from all of the Pandjorans, ranging from those of the dusken deity’s cohort and the augmented ashen wasters of Bahamut. The colossal form of the promised dreamer stepped forward toward the corvette, leading his cohort who loudly bellowed the glory of their Malik into the night. Saahir watched from afar as many of their number congregated around his liege.
As Saahir was left to himself with his retainers, he felt a long-forgotten emotion well up from his being as each crimson lens watched Zaphariel leave. Each of his hands were brought together in a steeple, his head inclined towards the dusken deity, and his rebreather muttered words in a spirited chant unheard by those around him.
+’O’ dusken deity, may the stars and sands align to ward over His journey, and may He claim His rightful dominion over the universe. Umbral sands of Pandjoras, guide His hand over the Star Serpent for eternity.’+
The inside of the corvette was similar to the harvester dropship, yet staggeringly different in several areas. A singular, long corridor made up the vast majority of the vessel, sectioned off by bulkhead and quarters alike. Devoid of a lower deck for hauling fresh meat and resources, a singular chamber for an Urahalian sand seer was placed where an ascender normally would remain. Weapon racks, gravrifle turrets, and terminals were all replaced to save space for storage, weight, and larger seatbeds. Several Bahamutian entourages awaited in this area, strapping themselves to the vertical placements. Atmospheric suits complimented their forms, bulky powered armored retrofitted for the possibility of void expeditions. Rebreathers stretched up into full helmets of reinforced obsidian glass, doming over facial features and skulls alike. Only Zaphariel, Ramses, a veteran pilot, and a Nathazian shipwright sat in the cockpit.
An entirely reconstructed cockpit surrounded the umbral king. Where obsidian glass would normally allow those within to view Pandjoras were thick layers of blast-shielding. Several monitors tied directly to different functions of the corvette actively read old, new, and present data in near-instantaneous statistics. A command throne sat at the center of this chamber, larger than any of the recently retrofitted harvester dropships had. Prolific cables spread out in a web across the room, stretching beyond to unknown areas of the ship. Their pilot sat on this throne, slaved to the system that would’ve overwhelmed normal Pandjorans. Plentiful augmentations bolstered their dusken form, yet none-so-much as the mess of mechanical serpents that snaked out of their skull. To Zaphariel’s dismay, the ashen waster’s nerves had been stapled some time ago through intensive surgery, leaving a remarkably humorless Pandjoran to discuss with.
The dusken deity sat on a slightly raised platform behind the command throne, his seat angled to watch a monitor connected to an externally mounted pict-recorder. Opposite the umbral king sat his adoptive uncle, who was silently chanting the teachings of Muahad to himself. All of the excitement that initially paraded the Malik of Pandjoras onboard had diminished to a significant extent, yet he was still enthralled by the wonder of Saahir’s progress. He knew that in a manner of moments their craft would be spearing through the atmosphere of the dusken world. The mere thought of it was enough to keep a toothy grin plastered across his thin lips.
“All souls have been counted aboard the corvette, Lord Zaphariel. Safety restraints - satisfactory. Trajectory - satisfactory. Graviton storage - satisfactory. Approval for launch - satisfactory. We are prepared for an experimental launch. Requesting clearance for atmospheric flight...” The voice whispered across each voxcast, their voice trailing off as if focusing on another matter leagues away from their current affair. Zaphariel knew of the Bahamutian sigilic language, one of precision, logic, and faith that belied the suave tone of the Pandjoric dialect. Perhaps unconsciously, their pilot reflexively twisted their fingers in a practiced code that reflected the secret tongue of the ashen wastes. An invisible conversation was held between the waster and their leader, ending as quickly as it had begun. “...approved. We will now begin the first flight beyond Pandjoras. Glory unto the black sands of the umbral world.”
“Let it be done! Glory awaits us in the void!” Zaphariel echoed the final phrase of the pilot, a myriad of cheers and cries from within and outside of the corvette. Ramses flashed a smile to his adoptive nephew, turning away to enter oneness in avoidance of his rapidly changing environment. The Malik’s eyes were perpetually glued to the monitor, eager to see the fruits of their labor in real-time. Many of the Pandjorans on the experimental mesa had since cleared out, a barrier erected around the corvette to avoid damaging any prototypes. Only Saahir and a handful of his personal cohort watched from the edge of the platform. The awning that veiled the dock had been untethered, allowing free ascent into the dusken sky above. Everything had been prepared specifically for this single moment, and hundreds of Bahamutians watching with bated breath.
Enormous gravity engines thrummed to life with an impossibly ear-shattering sound that defied any cry heard on Pandjoras. Heavily sublimated graviton particles propelled the elongated shuttle upwards in a shaky ascent. Convergent nozzles began to narrow, shaping the stream of jettisoned particles into a roaring torrent of aetheric liquid that ushered an urgent climb. The hulking drop ship roared upwards with an intensity that belied the chassis it was originally based on. Several magnetically fused panels began to chip in pieces from raining tempest flakes and graviton rock alike. A great pulsation of energy spread out from the center of their craft, lilac bubbles coalescing into a wide shield that propelled debris and environment away from the vessel. Unhindered by Pandjoras’ raining refuse, the corvette burst forward through the atmosphere with the speed of a serpent swarm. A second shield activated as darkness greeted their view, magnetic barriers further reinforcing the Urahalian wyrd. Clouds of metallic detritus slammed against both aegises in their sprint through Pandjoras’ celestial ring. Intense vibrations threatened to knock the starship off-course, rocking those within to an extremely uncomfortable degree. This persisted for several long, anguishing minutes before the craft was finally free of impending doom. The lilac barrier faded away as their voyage came to a thankful halt.
“Launch - successful. Glory unto Pandjoras. Affirming crew survival status...” The voice of the pilot broke through the tension in the cabin. Pandjorans began to stir in the chamber behind them, several unbuckling from their seat and floating into non-existent gravity. A pair of ashen wasters hovered close to assist the Urahalian seer, who seemed nearly on the verge of death from wyrd strain. Others began to slowly grab analyzing tools, slave to terminals, or repair minor damage across the bay. “...affirmed - satisfactory. Beginning scanning procedures, Lord Zaphariel, await confirmation of celestial presences.”
Ramses felt ill, more so than he did originally on their journey to Neu Babylos. Luckily, this time, he hadn’t vomited inside his helmet. The hassan turned his eyes to witness Zaphariel clamber out of his seat, freely floating within zero gravity. Although he couldn’t tell how his facial features were arranged, Ramses could tell that his adoptive nephew held an impossibly wide smile on his lips. Their attention was drawn to the monitors as exterior lights on the corvette began to awaken in a desperate search of the surrounding area. Beams of highly concentrated light searched the celestial ring that orbited their dusken world, eager to discover whatever was possible to gleam about their home.
“Wait,” Zaphariel stated as he narrowed both his golden, serpentine eyes on a piece of floating formation passing by their craft. His floating form rapidly approached the monitor, scanning over every shadowy detail unhindered by concentrated beams of light. A taloned digit rose to hover just above the screen. “... Something lingers here, adjust the vessel and aim all light sources on this piece of rock.”
Adjusting to the commands of the Malik, the pilot guided the corvette through their interlinked nervous system. The vessel groaned as it shifted several degrees, aiming a myriad of high-intensity lights where turrets would normally be. As the craft grew closer to the object of Zaphariel’s desires, the truth of the elongated piece came to be known to them. It was not, in fact, chunks of celestial rock that had impeded their ascent into the void. They were remnants of ancient, forgotten void craft from before the cataclysm. Husks of Old Pandjoras listed in a death spiral, unmanned and unoperated for countless millennia. All around the singular vessel were several other void wrecks weaving through cosmic dust and shattered moon fragments alike.
The umbral king could feel the attitude of the Pandjorans in the craft shift. Fear, anxiety, grief, and hopelessness wafted through like a repugnant oder. Zaphariel refused to bow before such defeat, floating away from the monitor to hover beside the command throne. The Bahamutian pilot turned his crimson lenses to the dusken deity, curiously watching the leader of their world act unperturbed by the revelation. One of the snaking appendages unlinked from a nervous connector, allowing the Malik of Pandjoras to connect it to his powered armor. Reign of the voxcasters, external and internal, were surrendered to the promised dreamer.
“I am Zaphariel ibn Varranis, Malik of Pandjoras, Umbral King of the Dusken Sands, Caliph of Neu Alamut, Hassan of House Varranis, and Emissary of Falak. If you can hear this transmission, then know that you are no longer alone in the darkness of the void. We have claimed destiny! Rise from your tombs, respond to my voice, and join us in glory!” The Malik of Pandjoras was no fool, he already knew that not a single soul was alive aboard the plethora of spiraling wrecks around their dusken world. His voice reverberated several times over, flowing with the unseen energies of his destiny. Every word of his outward cry was heard from those within, Pandjorans hanging off every syllable that he spoke. The effect was immediately felt throughout the vessel. Hope bloomed as an azure flower from a graviton pond. The aura of defeat dispersed, replaced by enthusiasm and ambition. The dusken deity turned his head to regard the pilot, disconnecting the metallic tendril and moving away from the throne.
Wordlessly, the corvette began to move further along Pandjoras’ ring as Zaphariel traveled further back into the residential deck. Starships, orbital stations, freighters, warships, observation decks, and more floated in destroyed masses along the celestial ring of Pandjoras. Fragments of broken moons, likely destroyed by the cataclysm, cast wide shadows over the dusken world. Ramses marveled at the sheer amount of debris, rocks, and ruins clustering around their homeworld. He thought to himself a moment longer when it finally struck him with an epiphany.
“It cannot be… the shattered rocks, the wrecks, and everything that makes up the ring around Pandjoras is the reason our world is eternally dusken?” Ramses whispered to himself as the dusken deity passed through the portal into the next chamber. Stirred by the departure of his monarch, the hassan unbuckled himself and accompanied Zaphariel with urgency in his floating figure. He arrived just as the Malik of Pandjoras was beginning to gather each of the crew members in a partial circle around himself. A singular monitor displayed the entirety of Pandjoras’ dark surface with its celestial ring in constant orbit.
Zaphariel pointed to their homeworld with a single talon-tipped digit, drawing the attention of each Pandjoran with his strange movement. Ramses watched intently, even as he felt their corvette lurch to a full stop with Pandjoras on full display. Unconsciously, the hassan pulled out his dataslate to record anything and everything that his adoptive nephew was about to say. Damn near everything he spoke was worthy of recording after he became their world’s monarch. His fingers moved as the Malik of Pandjoras opened his mouth, breathing words he hadn’t expected into reality.
“Do you see what has become of our umbral ancestors? Forgotten, dead, and decaying in a death spiral around Pandjoras. I cannot fault them for how they passed during the cataclysm, nor will I shame them for their demise. We will grow stronger from their sacrifice, we will rebuild what our ancestors had left for us, and we will go beyond what they had achieved in their lifetimes. Their spirits will be avenged when we claim dominion over the Star Serpent,” His voice was somber and solemn, each word emphasized to draw the most emotional response from the gathered Pandjorans. Ramses watched as each of them drew closer, hinging on every word spoken by their umbral liege. They danced on the palm of his hands, yet his nephew seemed consumed by his own desire to claim destiny. “And so I promise every Pandjoran on our world here and now! We will fill the stars of Pandjoras a thousandfold as our ancestors once did! Every wreck that orbits our world will breathe life once more as an umbral armada for the Star Sultanate!”
Their cries of adulation flung from trembling lips, every Pandjoran prostrating as much as they could in zero gravity. None held the attention of the dusken deity. Only the swirling world of Pandjoras held sway over his golden, serpentine eyes. Hesitantly, Zaphariel turned away from his beloved homeworld to glance at Ramses’ recording figure. The Malik of Pandjoras was no stranger to his adoptive uncle’s habit of encapturing every one of his speeches. He had even grown used to the idea of dedicating someone to chronicling his reign, yet it all paled in comparison to the far-flung dream of a united Star Serpent. He desired more for his people, no matter what it may cost him. The promise dreamer gestured for their return to the cabin, further echoing the movement to the Nathazian shipwright accompanying them. Both followed him shortly after he floated back to the cockpit.
“Let it be known here and now to both of the highest present representatives of your Houses,” Zaphariel began to speak to the pilot of their craft and the shipwright from House Nathaz. Unable to turn their head, the Bahamutian simply nodded their head while slaved to the command throne. The Nathazian woman dipped her head in respect, awaiting the next words the dusken deity would speak. “House Bahamut will oversee the restoration of everything in the celestial ring around Pandjoras, including every starship that can be repaired. House Nathaz will refit every vessel in the creation of an Umbral Armada, our future starfaring fleet for the Star Sultanate. Know these tasks well and report back to your House leaders with these. I’m certain Saahir and Jericho will be quite pleased. Let the Umbral Mountains become the first grounds for a starport as was depicted by our forlorn ancestors.”
Each nodded their head in agreement, perhaps happy to simply be the focus of the dusken deity or exhilarated to personally assist Pandjoras’ technological advancement. Both began to return to their duties when Ramses cleared his throat to draw their attention to him. Zaphariel cocked his head in confusion for the hassan never made a severe comment about his plans. He listened intently to the mature hassan as he broached a new subject for their ears.
“All is good and well, Zaphariel, but there is a severe lack of knowledge in one regard for Pandjoras,” Ramses stated, pointedly referring to the celestial ring that surrounded their homeworld in a perpetual spin, “our ancestors never had a ring around their world, nor had they ever anticipated the shattering of their moons. It is your discovery, nephew, but I would advise that you name it on this occasion. Lest someone take it upon themselves to bestow an unfitting name upon it.”
The dusken deity broadly smiled beneath the helmet. It had slipped his mind to even consider using this occasion to name the celestial formation that he had watched for two decades. He floated close to Ramses, ushering him closer to the monitor that watched over Pandjoras. The mature hassan felt an unexplainable emotion build within himself as if fate listened in on their conversation. When Zaphariel opened his mouth next, his voice was a serpent’s song of reverberating beauty. It felt as if reality shifted to perfectly orchestrate that very moment.
“The Ring of Muahad.”
