At this point, shall I (and presumably the others) post now, or wait to react to our new member's introduction?
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A post is coming soon. And, the more deranged company we have, the better.
Erelvath
Verrselith
Yrkel Nucleus
While there certainly existed numerous exhaustive, scientifically accurate explanations for the uneven distribution of fertile, habitable ground on Erelvath, when admiring the luxuriant green expanses of Verrselith and recalling the desolate, wind-swept stone deserts of Iurrthellir the thought involuntarily came to one's mind that conditions supporting the growth and spread of life had been distributed on its surface by some vast, entirely arbitrary conscious design. Such was the asymmetry in the world's climate and terrain that, at first glance, it would have seemed perfectly normal to think that such an imbalance was not natural in origin, however fleeting this feeling might have been. However, fortunately for Erelvath's inhabitants' peace of mind, millennia of life on its surface had left them so accustomed to such a state of matters that they did not see anything in the slightest unusual with it; nor were they, in their majority, disposed to ponderings of the metaphysical sort, and they were thus content with leaving such thoughts to superstitious outsiders.
Although it could at first seem that the contrast between the two continents' biospheres was most apparent in the thick jungles lying near the centre of Verrselith, upon a closer scrutiny it could be observed that even its milder zones, or perhaps especially those, were as alien to what lay higher upon the surface of the globe as any other. Such a location was the stretch of coast upon which stood the walls and spires of the Yrkel Nucleus. The ground there was mildly sloping along the sides of several low, broadly placed hills, covered with a thick layer of what seemed to be some sort of grey-greenish filamentous moss. About half a mile away, the brown, purple-veined waves of the ocean swayed slowly, crashing into the exposed boulders of the shore in heavy, viscous impacts as a few sparse blotches of sunlight crawled over their mutable surface. The Yrkel citadel towered over hills and cliffs alike, its sprawling form appearing to flow like a monstrous amoeboid organism over the verdant fields. Its silvery curvilinear walls rose steeply from the soil, appearing, through cunning architectural devices and tricks of the light, to writhe as a living, pulsating membrane. The cupolas and jutting steeples, surrounded with spiralling ornaments, seemed inconstant in their positions, their contour lines growing entangled and confused in an Escherian nightmare which, despite its chaotic appearance, was crystallised in a perfect semblance of order and regularity.
Though the Covenant had begun its existence in an unremarkable headquarters building at the periphery of a minor Vraslil city some three hundred miles along the coast from there, things had drastically changed in the course of its continuing lifetime. That city had long since been entirely assimilated by what had become the Prime Nucleus, and had spread to become a veritable metropolis, larger than either of the planet's official capitals. But even that was too little, and too localised. Like sovell caps after the spore season, other, subsidiary Nuclei had sprung up all across the surface of Erelvath, crawling their way into administrative centres and strategic positions of various sorts and strengthening the Covenant's stranglehold over the Garden World. Their purposes varied depending on their location: some were the seat of liaisons and representatives to the Iurrketh and Vraslil governments, others potent industrial and laboratory complexes, others yet spaceports and military staging grounds. Yrkel, however, was none of these. Being closer to the Prime than all but two other Nuclei, it served as one of the multiple brains of the network. There, matters most often related to material resource acquisition and allocation were sent to be sifted and settled by diligent functionaries; and it was thus little wonder that it should have been chosen as the seat of his office-laboratory by the Decorated High Administrator Eullvallt himself.
Whatever questions of utmost importance might have been decided in his chambers in the past, Eullvallt presently seemed to be enjoying an interruption in his more concrete duties and studies, and dedicating himself to musings of a different sort. Resting his vaguely globular form atop his podium-seat, the High Administrator was intently observing a semi-sphere of crystalline plasma set in the white-golden rear wall of the windowless, hexagonal room. Within the apparatus, energy discharges carefully regulated by minute magnetic fields formed intricate shapes, their colours constantly shifting due to the uninterrupted flow of the pulses, but their form constant. A cluster of thickly set, thread-like lines was woven together to combine into a spherical shape, slowly rotating over a slightly tilted axis, with ripples appearing in seemingly random points of its surface and disappearing almost immediately. Near it hovered a number of characters of different sizes, recognisable as Erelvalthi Standard; the larger ones remained still, while the lesser occasionally vibrated and rewrote themselves, updating the text to match newly received information.
All of a sudden, Eullvallt twisted and spun upon himself as the approaching sound of skittering limbs stirred him from his contemplation. Soon, a Vraslil, distinguished by the slightly asymmetrical shape of the tip of his proboscis, entered the room, and, briefly swaying upon his legs in a form of greeting, to which came a similar, albeit more fluid reply, came to flank the pedestal, his gaze focusing upon the hemispherical screen as he moved. Having observed it for a few moments, he rattled one of his forelimbs against the floor, then turned to Eullvallt with a series of clicking noises strung together into a query.
“Tarin, still? I understand the replication project has not been successful.”
“None of us truly expected it to be.” Eullvallt replied, the suffused vibrations of his equivalent of a voice resounding dissonantly amid the humming of machinery in the background, “But nonetheless, we had better success than with the Avall-Seven samples. The quality of Tarin renthulium really is superior.”
He motioned with a pseudopod to an unseen sensor, and the image on the screen briefly changed, after a swirling transition, into a schematic of some rather complex web-like structure, surrounded by numerous markings and annotations. The figure hovered in place for a few seconds, then twisted back into its former planetoidal shape.
“What remained from the experiments was sufficient to uninterruptedly supply half the Nucleus with power for nearly two months, and might have lasted even longer had we been able to perfect the grid prototype sooner. Besides, you will have heard from your own colleagues of the effects of irradiated samples on the breeding vat entities. I am no specialist myself, but I was told the growth bursts were something unprecedented.”
The Vraslil waved its proboscis in acquiescence. “I will not expand on the technical details, but, to put it in simple terms, a steady supply of that would nearly triple the birthing rate of Contaminators, to say nothing of the other designs. If your own results are any indication, we could also multiply vat installations, and you know full well what that would mean. I will grant that your visionary predictions have a solid enough foundation after all.”
“I was, unknowingly, pessimistic. A hundredth part of what is on that moon, and Erelvath would finally be unified. A tenth, and the entire system would be our tributary. But those are only side effects. The actual results would be something neither we nor anyone else on the Council could imagine now. Jalaryias a living reactor, you recall?, would be nothing.”
“I am certain the Cycle-Weavers would agree. But I assume you would not be dwelling on this now unless you had made some progress of a more practical sort.”
“Correct. You see, no Iurrkhal likes being a visionary for too long. This must be why the Sanctity never took hold with us. All we could do with the samples we obtained at inflated, but acceptable cost has been done. You will not disagree if I said we need more. It follows that we must take more.”
Eullvallt motioned again, and the ripples on the spherical representation on the screen somewhat stabilised, forming two more or less steady patches on the conceptual Tarin’s surface.
“It is no secret that the Aurolians and the Concordat are meddling in the conflict for myopic goals of their own. To my knowledge, the power discrepancy is, for the moment, not very noticeable. It is likely they both are gathering support where they can. What we must do is clear.”
“We provide it. To which side?”
“Both. The Covenant did not become what it is by indulging in favouritism. We must act so that neither will know the complete truth, and be ready to offer us a plausible percentage of the resources gained once victory is achieved. A formality, I trust you understand.”
“So I had guessed. We have no interest in either outcome. But if we cripple both, we gain not only the renthulium, but weary prey, as the adage goes, as well.”
“Precisely. This is what we should stress when explaining the operation to the Combine. With our success, the Concordat will be eliminated, and they will have immediate and total access to the rogues’ implant schematics.”
“I figured the constituents would have to be informed.” The Vraslil shifted its hindmost pair of legs pensively, “We might as well draw maximal profit from it. The Cyberforce could be swayed to intervene alongside the Aurolians, do you not think?”
“Now that you mention it, I can but agree. I will not be too – visionary if I say that they can be counted on to damage the Concordat with utmost zeal. They depend on the factories, after all, and if these are emptied, their positions are compromised. As do we, actually. We would do well to remember that. On your side, could the Union be induced to deploy its forces?”
“It could be easier than we suppose. There is not a single Cycle-Bearer I know who is not impatient to test their new symbionts in the field, and the Swarms are not likely to interfere. Especially not if we guarantee that our own troops will be present.”
“And that is fully within our possibilities. The mining operations on Vollir are complete, and the catalyst shipments will arrive within the week.”
“Those?” The interrogative rapping was repeated, “All those I asked said the fracking systems are nowhere near being optimised for them. How do you expect it to be done in time?”
Eullvallt’s central spheroid sunk into the mass of his lower appendages, then rose again, stretched higher than before. “Some secrecy was necessary. After all, the constituents do not even know of these sediments, and the cargos will have to land in Combine territory. All equipment is fully ready and operational, I tell you.”
“Then I can only defer to you in this.” the Vraslil replied. Eullvallt lowered himself once again, and swept a pseudopod in an imperious gesture. All images on the screen disappeared, to be immediately replaced by a schematised view of the Jalaryias system. Where Erelvath was, a ripple originated, which grew rapidly to cover nearby moons and worlds, finally engulfing the gas giant itself and the entire system, and still continued to spread further, reaching the edges of the semi-sphere.
“We are what the Covenant needs.” the Iurrkhal spoke. “You shall see there are no limits to what we can accomplish. Erelvath will be one, then the system, then the galaxy itself, and more. The universe belongs to those who dare exploit it, and this is what the Covenant does best. We cannot fail.”
Verrselith
Yrkel Nucleus
While there certainly existed numerous exhaustive, scientifically accurate explanations for the uneven distribution of fertile, habitable ground on Erelvath, when admiring the luxuriant green expanses of Verrselith and recalling the desolate, wind-swept stone deserts of Iurrthellir the thought involuntarily came to one's mind that conditions supporting the growth and spread of life had been distributed on its surface by some vast, entirely arbitrary conscious design. Such was the asymmetry in the world's climate and terrain that, at first glance, it would have seemed perfectly normal to think that such an imbalance was not natural in origin, however fleeting this feeling might have been. However, fortunately for Erelvath's inhabitants' peace of mind, millennia of life on its surface had left them so accustomed to such a state of matters that they did not see anything in the slightest unusual with it; nor were they, in their majority, disposed to ponderings of the metaphysical sort, and they were thus content with leaving such thoughts to superstitious outsiders.
Although it could at first seem that the contrast between the two continents' biospheres was most apparent in the thick jungles lying near the centre of Verrselith, upon a closer scrutiny it could be observed that even its milder zones, or perhaps especially those, were as alien to what lay higher upon the surface of the globe as any other. Such a location was the stretch of coast upon which stood the walls and spires of the Yrkel Nucleus. The ground there was mildly sloping along the sides of several low, broadly placed hills, covered with a thick layer of what seemed to be some sort of grey-greenish filamentous moss. About half a mile away, the brown, purple-veined waves of the ocean swayed slowly, crashing into the exposed boulders of the shore in heavy, viscous impacts as a few sparse blotches of sunlight crawled over their mutable surface. The Yrkel citadel towered over hills and cliffs alike, its sprawling form appearing to flow like a monstrous amoeboid organism over the verdant fields. Its silvery curvilinear walls rose steeply from the soil, appearing, through cunning architectural devices and tricks of the light, to writhe as a living, pulsating membrane. The cupolas and jutting steeples, surrounded with spiralling ornaments, seemed inconstant in their positions, their contour lines growing entangled and confused in an Escherian nightmare which, despite its chaotic appearance, was crystallised in a perfect semblance of order and regularity.
Though the Covenant had begun its existence in an unremarkable headquarters building at the periphery of a minor Vraslil city some three hundred miles along the coast from there, things had drastically changed in the course of its continuing lifetime. That city had long since been entirely assimilated by what had become the Prime Nucleus, and had spread to become a veritable metropolis, larger than either of the planet's official capitals. But even that was too little, and too localised. Like sovell caps after the spore season, other, subsidiary Nuclei had sprung up all across the surface of Erelvath, crawling their way into administrative centres and strategic positions of various sorts and strengthening the Covenant's stranglehold over the Garden World. Their purposes varied depending on their location: some were the seat of liaisons and representatives to the Iurrketh and Vraslil governments, others potent industrial and laboratory complexes, others yet spaceports and military staging grounds. Yrkel, however, was none of these. Being closer to the Prime than all but two other Nuclei, it served as one of the multiple brains of the network. There, matters most often related to material resource acquisition and allocation were sent to be sifted and settled by diligent functionaries; and it was thus little wonder that it should have been chosen as the seat of his office-laboratory by the Decorated High Administrator Eullvallt himself.
Whatever questions of utmost importance might have been decided in his chambers in the past, Eullvallt presently seemed to be enjoying an interruption in his more concrete duties and studies, and dedicating himself to musings of a different sort. Resting his vaguely globular form atop his podium-seat, the High Administrator was intently observing a semi-sphere of crystalline plasma set in the white-golden rear wall of the windowless, hexagonal room. Within the apparatus, energy discharges carefully regulated by minute magnetic fields formed intricate shapes, their colours constantly shifting due to the uninterrupted flow of the pulses, but their form constant. A cluster of thickly set, thread-like lines was woven together to combine into a spherical shape, slowly rotating over a slightly tilted axis, with ripples appearing in seemingly random points of its surface and disappearing almost immediately. Near it hovered a number of characters of different sizes, recognisable as Erelvalthi Standard; the larger ones remained still, while the lesser occasionally vibrated and rewrote themselves, updating the text to match newly received information.
All of a sudden, Eullvallt twisted and spun upon himself as the approaching sound of skittering limbs stirred him from his contemplation. Soon, a Vraslil, distinguished by the slightly asymmetrical shape of the tip of his proboscis, entered the room, and, briefly swaying upon his legs in a form of greeting, to which came a similar, albeit more fluid reply, came to flank the pedestal, his gaze focusing upon the hemispherical screen as he moved. Having observed it for a few moments, he rattled one of his forelimbs against the floor, then turned to Eullvallt with a series of clicking noises strung together into a query.
“Tarin, still? I understand the replication project has not been successful.”
“None of us truly expected it to be.” Eullvallt replied, the suffused vibrations of his equivalent of a voice resounding dissonantly amid the humming of machinery in the background, “But nonetheless, we had better success than with the Avall-Seven samples. The quality of Tarin renthulium really is superior.”
He motioned with a pseudopod to an unseen sensor, and the image on the screen briefly changed, after a swirling transition, into a schematic of some rather complex web-like structure, surrounded by numerous markings and annotations. The figure hovered in place for a few seconds, then twisted back into its former planetoidal shape.
“What remained from the experiments was sufficient to uninterruptedly supply half the Nucleus with power for nearly two months, and might have lasted even longer had we been able to perfect the grid prototype sooner. Besides, you will have heard from your own colleagues of the effects of irradiated samples on the breeding vat entities. I am no specialist myself, but I was told the growth bursts were something unprecedented.”
The Vraslil waved its proboscis in acquiescence. “I will not expand on the technical details, but, to put it in simple terms, a steady supply of that would nearly triple the birthing rate of Contaminators, to say nothing of the other designs. If your own results are any indication, we could also multiply vat installations, and you know full well what that would mean. I will grant that your visionary predictions have a solid enough foundation after all.”
“I was, unknowingly, pessimistic. A hundredth part of what is on that moon, and Erelvath would finally be unified. A tenth, and the entire system would be our tributary. But those are only side effects. The actual results would be something neither we nor anyone else on the Council could imagine now. Jalaryias a living reactor, you recall?, would be nothing.”
“I am certain the Cycle-Weavers would agree. But I assume you would not be dwelling on this now unless you had made some progress of a more practical sort.”
“Correct. You see, no Iurrkhal likes being a visionary for too long. This must be why the Sanctity never took hold with us. All we could do with the samples we obtained at inflated, but acceptable cost has been done. You will not disagree if I said we need more. It follows that we must take more.”
Eullvallt motioned again, and the ripples on the spherical representation on the screen somewhat stabilised, forming two more or less steady patches on the conceptual Tarin’s surface.
“It is no secret that the Aurolians and the Concordat are meddling in the conflict for myopic goals of their own. To my knowledge, the power discrepancy is, for the moment, not very noticeable. It is likely they both are gathering support where they can. What we must do is clear.”
“We provide it. To which side?”
“Both. The Covenant did not become what it is by indulging in favouritism. We must act so that neither will know the complete truth, and be ready to offer us a plausible percentage of the resources gained once victory is achieved. A formality, I trust you understand.”
“So I had guessed. We have no interest in either outcome. But if we cripple both, we gain not only the renthulium, but weary prey, as the adage goes, as well.”
“Precisely. This is what we should stress when explaining the operation to the Combine. With our success, the Concordat will be eliminated, and they will have immediate and total access to the rogues’ implant schematics.”
“I figured the constituents would have to be informed.” The Vraslil shifted its hindmost pair of legs pensively, “We might as well draw maximal profit from it. The Cyberforce could be swayed to intervene alongside the Aurolians, do you not think?”
“Now that you mention it, I can but agree. I will not be too – visionary if I say that they can be counted on to damage the Concordat with utmost zeal. They depend on the factories, after all, and if these are emptied, their positions are compromised. As do we, actually. We would do well to remember that. On your side, could the Union be induced to deploy its forces?”
“It could be easier than we suppose. There is not a single Cycle-Bearer I know who is not impatient to test their new symbionts in the field, and the Swarms are not likely to interfere. Especially not if we guarantee that our own troops will be present.”
“And that is fully within our possibilities. The mining operations on Vollir are complete, and the catalyst shipments will arrive within the week.”
“Those?” The interrogative rapping was repeated, “All those I asked said the fracking systems are nowhere near being optimised for them. How do you expect it to be done in time?”
Eullvallt’s central spheroid sunk into the mass of his lower appendages, then rose again, stretched higher than before. “Some secrecy was necessary. After all, the constituents do not even know of these sediments, and the cargos will have to land in Combine territory. All equipment is fully ready and operational, I tell you.”
“Then I can only defer to you in this.” the Vraslil replied. Eullvallt lowered himself once again, and swept a pseudopod in an imperious gesture. All images on the screen disappeared, to be immediately replaced by a schematised view of the Jalaryias system. Where Erelvath was, a ripple originated, which grew rapidly to cover nearby moons and worlds, finally engulfing the gas giant itself and the entire system, and still continued to spread further, reaching the edges of the semi-sphere.
“We are what the Covenant needs.” the Iurrkhal spoke. “You shall see there are no limits to what we can accomplish. Erelvath will be one, then the system, then the galaxy itself, and more. The universe belongs to those who dare exploit it, and this is what the Covenant does best. We cannot fail.”
Here we go. I hope that the originator of the character entry format does not greatly mind my appropriating it.
Ulor Travos
...Is no longer here. In the unlikely event you should need him, you would do better to seek him elsewhere.
And here we go. Opening post coming soon.
By the bye, as concerns nicknames, I suppose that Covs would be a fairly common one for the agents of everyone's favourite pseudo-government. Or Covenanters, if one is feeling especially eloquent.
By the bye, as concerns nicknames, I suppose that Covs would be a fairly common one for the agents of everyone's favourite pseudo-government. Or Covenanters, if one is feeling especially eloquent.
Curiously, I had originally added the "apocalyptic" tag as an afterthought, believing it might have been too subtle to qualify. But the Outsider is proving far more destructive than I expected.
Surrounded by swirling, ululating vortices of frozen silence, the Un-Thing leapt and devoured, folding astronomical distances in tides of sweeping growth and extinguishing star after lightless expanse in jagged coils of translucent, strange-hued darkness, replete with disjoined intersecting parallel shapes. Crackling discharges of raw force sizzled at the edges of the crumpling infinity that was being reduced by exponentially increasing fractions as it, ever boundless, was hemmed in and mangled by the encroaching pestilential, alien nonexistence-that-was. As the churning void advanced, it seemed to take shape, its indescribable features lengthening and smoothening into forms recognisable as something resembling a product of an universe which might once have been this one; yet, at the same time, a degenerative evolution gripped and wracked its entire informity, preserving even the least of its foully unworldly traits in static transformation. There was nought that could have withstood its immobile onslaught; not the brightest stars, nor the darkest awning gaps in the fabric of matter, nor indeed the invisible yet formidable irradiations of uncountable toxic galaxies could so much as delay the haste which was a delay unto itself.
At a point in time, or space, or both, which might have been soon or never, the abnormal intrusion had consumed, in a frenzied bid to assuage the absence of its hunger, its way to reaches which, if observed from a vantage point higher than the greatest eminence in a space where dimensions were uncertain and there was, in truth, no actual concept of above or below, might have seemed vaguely familiar to someone hailing from a spot in endlessness ever so distantly related to the environs of that which we are accustomed to calling our home. No time passed, and the foremost distortions of immateriality drew ever near. Clusters of suns too vast for their numbers to be counted within the collective lifespan of entire species flickered out in the twisting maelstrom of the bloated, insatiable aberration’s relentless stillness; the emptiness grew slanted, celestial bodies rolling down its smooth inclination into the chasmal rise expecting them, or indeed crawling forth to seize them as they ascended. A few more glimmers of eternity, and that space was no more. Before the enormity’s faceless visage, or above and below it, there lay a many-dimensioned expanse; and somewhere there, almost too insignificant to be mentioned, was the very core of the cradle of the feeble, grasping consciousness we know as our own – an Earth among myriads of earths. Omniscient in its obliviousness, the Un-Thing gathered its nought over what was but a splinter of its unsought prey, looming as an invisible threat fearsome to behold, then, at the same time, came rushing forth in paradoxical decay of motion, clutching at yet-new things to absorb and unmake in a momentous, cosmos-shaking impact…
Tiriliriling-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-
Sieben Uhr.
As a brief burst of triumphal music blared through the room, followed by the enthusiastic voice of an announcer who apparently delighted in bringing to the expectant ears of the nation the daily share of mostly dismal global novelties, something vaguely recognisable as an arm draped in tangled bedsheets stirred in the nigh-formless darkened heap that was the bed. Reaching falteringly for the bedstead, the appendage groped its way over the simil-wood surface, did not, to all evidence, find what it sought, and disappointedly withdrew. Soon afterwards, an indistinct figure rose from where it had sunken, clumsily stretched its sleep-numbed limbs, and shuffled towards the centre of the room with an audible yawn, followed by a sound akin to “och”. Having remained still for a few moments as if in indecision, struggling with the last shreds of somnolence besetting its mind and body, it finally struck upon a shambling course for the window, and, grunting, drew open the blinds. The dim, grey light of a winter morning flowed into the room, banishing the previously sovereign darkness to its customary haunts in the nooks and corners, and washed over the now almost-awake figure, who stood, transfixed, before the gleaming rectangle in the wall marred by its weathered paper coverage. Thus, with pale sunlight on his drowsy features and with some pop song whose only quality was being forgettable in the background, did Johannes Schmidt greet the new day.
Having satisfied his need to gaze into the luminescent void for a few moments to bring himself a step closer to a functioning condition, Hans headed resolutely towards the bathroom. Daily ablutions completed, he threw a glance at the mirror hanging over the washbasin. If confronted with that very sight, anyone else would have observed a set of features so unremarkable as to be almost an exemplar of the modernistic era (to say nothing of the postmodern undertones) which had been inconspicuously smuggled into the world by such figures as Leopold Bloom, Giannini’s Uomo qualunque and their ashen-clad ilk and clung to it as persistently as stains to cutlery, and felt their gaze involuntarily slide off it, lacking anything well-defined enough to which to cling; all that Hans himself saw, however, was that he fortunately did not need to shave yet. Bolstered by the cleansing effect of water upon his features, he returned to the illuminated bedroom, his steps hastening as he grew increasingly conscious of the fact it was a Friday morning and he ought to be on his way to the Straßenbahn stop by half-past seven at the latest. As the radio continued to drone on, interspersing fragments of suitably generic music with the humming of news and weather forecasts, he donned with practised motions one of an indefinite series of sweaters of the hue of rat fur, along with the necessary complementary articles of similar colour, and proceeded to the kitchen.
Mechanically filling his stomach with whatever produce it was he had previously arranged in convenient positions, Hans alternated between savouring the anticipation of the week’s approaching end and distractedly intercepting snippets of radiophonic announcements. Fluctuating currency rates, neither stable enough to be reassured, nor varying wildly enough to be truly concerned; conflicts in some distant part of the world no one over here truly paid any heed to; succinct accounts of the supposed intricacies of foreign politics; in brief, the usual. He wondered why he kept using the thing at all instead of buying a proper alarm clock, but that consideration, briefly flashing through his mind as a stray comet, was rapidly drowned by calculations of clock prices, evaluations of the morning broadcast programme as an awakening influence, and a creeping certainty that it was not worth the while and he would not do it anyway. Finally, just as some sort of hip-hop monstrosity was about to begin, Hans reached over and deftly flicked a button upon the garrulous plastic box, silencing it for the week, cast an apprehensive glance at the wall clock, slid into his coat and shoes, just as unsightly as the rest of his attire, and, without so much as a deep breath, pushed the hallway-corridor door open and stepped beyond the threshold. The new day had begun.
At a point in time, or space, or both, which might have been soon or never, the abnormal intrusion had consumed, in a frenzied bid to assuage the absence of its hunger, its way to reaches which, if observed from a vantage point higher than the greatest eminence in a space where dimensions were uncertain and there was, in truth, no actual concept of above or below, might have seemed vaguely familiar to someone hailing from a spot in endlessness ever so distantly related to the environs of that which we are accustomed to calling our home. No time passed, and the foremost distortions of immateriality drew ever near. Clusters of suns too vast for their numbers to be counted within the collective lifespan of entire species flickered out in the twisting maelstrom of the bloated, insatiable aberration’s relentless stillness; the emptiness grew slanted, celestial bodies rolling down its smooth inclination into the chasmal rise expecting them, or indeed crawling forth to seize them as they ascended. A few more glimmers of eternity, and that space was no more. Before the enormity’s faceless visage, or above and below it, there lay a many-dimensioned expanse; and somewhere there, almost too insignificant to be mentioned, was the very core of the cradle of the feeble, grasping consciousness we know as our own – an Earth among myriads of earths. Omniscient in its obliviousness, the Un-Thing gathered its nought over what was but a splinter of its unsought prey, looming as an invisible threat fearsome to behold, then, at the same time, came rushing forth in paradoxical decay of motion, clutching at yet-new things to absorb and unmake in a momentous, cosmos-shaking impact…
Tiriliriling-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-
Sieben Uhr.
As a brief burst of triumphal music blared through the room, followed by the enthusiastic voice of an announcer who apparently delighted in bringing to the expectant ears of the nation the daily share of mostly dismal global novelties, something vaguely recognisable as an arm draped in tangled bedsheets stirred in the nigh-formless darkened heap that was the bed. Reaching falteringly for the bedstead, the appendage groped its way over the simil-wood surface, did not, to all evidence, find what it sought, and disappointedly withdrew. Soon afterwards, an indistinct figure rose from where it had sunken, clumsily stretched its sleep-numbed limbs, and shuffled towards the centre of the room with an audible yawn, followed by a sound akin to “och”. Having remained still for a few moments as if in indecision, struggling with the last shreds of somnolence besetting its mind and body, it finally struck upon a shambling course for the window, and, grunting, drew open the blinds. The dim, grey light of a winter morning flowed into the room, banishing the previously sovereign darkness to its customary haunts in the nooks and corners, and washed over the now almost-awake figure, who stood, transfixed, before the gleaming rectangle in the wall marred by its weathered paper coverage. Thus, with pale sunlight on his drowsy features and with some pop song whose only quality was being forgettable in the background, did Johannes Schmidt greet the new day.
Having satisfied his need to gaze into the luminescent void for a few moments to bring himself a step closer to a functioning condition, Hans headed resolutely towards the bathroom. Daily ablutions completed, he threw a glance at the mirror hanging over the washbasin. If confronted with that very sight, anyone else would have observed a set of features so unremarkable as to be almost an exemplar of the modernistic era (to say nothing of the postmodern undertones) which had been inconspicuously smuggled into the world by such figures as Leopold Bloom, Giannini’s Uomo qualunque and their ashen-clad ilk and clung to it as persistently as stains to cutlery, and felt their gaze involuntarily slide off it, lacking anything well-defined enough to which to cling; all that Hans himself saw, however, was that he fortunately did not need to shave yet. Bolstered by the cleansing effect of water upon his features, he returned to the illuminated bedroom, his steps hastening as he grew increasingly conscious of the fact it was a Friday morning and he ought to be on his way to the Straßenbahn stop by half-past seven at the latest. As the radio continued to drone on, interspersing fragments of suitably generic music with the humming of news and weather forecasts, he donned with practised motions one of an indefinite series of sweaters of the hue of rat fur, along with the necessary complementary articles of similar colour, and proceeded to the kitchen.
Mechanically filling his stomach with whatever produce it was he had previously arranged in convenient positions, Hans alternated between savouring the anticipation of the week’s approaching end and distractedly intercepting snippets of radiophonic announcements. Fluctuating currency rates, neither stable enough to be reassured, nor varying wildly enough to be truly concerned; conflicts in some distant part of the world no one over here truly paid any heed to; succinct accounts of the supposed intricacies of foreign politics; in brief, the usual. He wondered why he kept using the thing at all instead of buying a proper alarm clock, but that consideration, briefly flashing through his mind as a stray comet, was rapidly drowned by calculations of clock prices, evaluations of the morning broadcast programme as an awakening influence, and a creeping certainty that it was not worth the while and he would not do it anyway. Finally, just as some sort of hip-hop monstrosity was about to begin, Hans reached over and deftly flicked a button upon the garrulous plastic box, silencing it for the week, cast an apprehensive glance at the wall clock, slid into his coat and shoes, just as unsightly as the rest of his attire, and, without so much as a deep breath, pushed the hallway-corridor door open and stepped beyond the threshold. The new day had begun.
Now this was what he meant when he had spoken about not being able to sleep in the nether realms. First, the human with the metallic arm would not stop talking - he had now begun to mumble something about being followed by fairies, which signified he was either hallucinating (which might have implied he had eaten some of his mushrooms, which would have been very bad) or simply making things up expressly to annoy him (which would have been just as bad). Then, the brutish fellow with the anachronistic weapons rumbled on in the background, and, judging by his interest in the drunkard's cup, was about to become even more boisterous, not to mention probably destructive. The two demons rejoindered at times, as well, but those, he supposed, could be tolerated for the sake of the greater sleep, as they were the only ones, that he was aware, who knew where they were supposed to go. Finally, just when it seemed one would be hard-pressed to think of anything worse, the masked vandal came crashing through the room and directly into himself, bellowing something inane as usual.
This was truly too much to bear. Muttering something similar to "Mwrvfrvgll" due to the partly eaten fruit still in his mouth, Old N laboriously swivelled to one side, possibly knocking the already unstable Grog over in the process, and began to crawl towards where he vaguely remembered the bathroom to be (even in such a restricted space, he somehow managed to have trouble finding his way). Halfway through the door, however, he remembered he was forgetting his bag, and by extension his basket, in the main hall, and, finding scuttling backwards to be too much of an effort, tried to turn around where he lay. This proved to be a terrible decision, since, while the doorway was spacious enough to allow him through frontally, it certainly was too narrow for him to occupy sideways. Though he succeeded in recovering the bag with a motion of his still largely limp right pincer, he now found himself hopelessly stuck in a position that would effectively prevent anyone from coming into, or going out of, the hall from the back quarters. After some fruitless tugging, the crab-like demon resigned himself to his new situation, which was truly not quite so uncomfortable for someone with a carapace, and began to blissfully slumber away in it, oblivious to anyone else's possible need for egress from the room.
This was truly too much to bear. Muttering something similar to "Mwrvfrvgll" due to the partly eaten fruit still in his mouth, Old N laboriously swivelled to one side, possibly knocking the already unstable Grog over in the process, and began to crawl towards where he vaguely remembered the bathroom to be (even in such a restricted space, he somehow managed to have trouble finding his way). Halfway through the door, however, he remembered he was forgetting his bag, and by extension his basket, in the main hall, and, finding scuttling backwards to be too much of an effort, tried to turn around where he lay. This proved to be a terrible decision, since, while the doorway was spacious enough to allow him through frontally, it certainly was too narrow for him to occupy sideways. Though he succeeded in recovering the bag with a motion of his still largely limp right pincer, he now found himself hopelessly stuck in a position that would effectively prevent anyone from coming into, or going out of, the hall from the back quarters. After some fruitless tugging, the crab-like demon resigned himself to his new situation, which was truly not quite so uncomfortable for someone with a carapace, and began to blissfully slumber away in it, oblivious to anyone else's possible need for egress from the room.
I mean, the Federation may take notice and all..perhaps :P
Despite the rather sore history between the States of Aurolia and the Quxikotl, I'd imagine the Aurolians both, extending a helping hand to Quxikotl that truly want it, even have done the same for the Tak'a'dis(unfortunately though, the Quxikotl wouldn't exactly feel welcomed by a segment of the civilian population) and keeping a close watch over Covenant activities on their former homeworld, nothing too overt of course.
Ah, these damnable benevolent federations, always meddling in others' questionable practices... I suppose relations with the Federation would be somewhat tense, since the Covenant is not especially keen on the entire democracy and lifeform rights matter. While them and the
Iurrketh may have a common foe in the Concordat, the Covenant proper is actually rather interested in remaining on amicable terms with the latter. Once again, a possible improvement on their attitude towards the Federation would depend on who manages to sway the Swarms to their side.
Would any nations be interested in having trading and an uneasy friendship with Vesia?
It depends on what the Vesians have to offer in terms of exports and produce. While an actual friendship, uneasy or not, would probably be seen as of little consequence, the Covenant is open to trading with whomever will have them (and not ask too many questions). Rare marine creatures, for instance, might be an article they would be willing to pay a reasonable price for.
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