Member
CabbageAngel
Antlers
Eddie Brock
AuthorialTheory
AmongHeroes
Kefka Palazzo
Exit
Mjolnir
Lunamaria Hawke
Altered Tundra
The visions began as muted shades, no more than fragmented and hazed prophecies of times and places, decorated in coiling tendrils of mauve and subdued radiance that gave way to monochromatic remnants of faces and names she could never remember. Voices of melodic despair wailed and bowed deep, once a beloved song now worn and jagged, pleading against timeless boundaries that defied all barriers of reason and preservation. The visions compiled into every cleft of life and reality, perverting the natural order of here and there, within and without, back and forth, and never to return, and muddying the delicate balance of reasoning and self-worth. Adorned in swatches of violet and sapphires, a millennium, a century, times, and endless years of apparitions that sought to be known, a well of sorrows it was thus known to be, finding purchase through leagues of youth and power lost under the subjugation of faith and reverence. A destiny that could not be thwarted and a path that could not be forsaken, knowing where and when it ended, a blessing and a curse worn simultaneously through her eyes that beheld the fate of prophecy in their depths, greyed and christened with stars that fell and sparked and withered.
And through all witnessed and endured, a constant remained, of a black spire stalwart and piercing, defying all that were bedeviled by its eclipsing shadow and the crown of thorns worn over a familiar brow, bequeathed from one monarch and befallen onto another. Obsidian wraiths as burdens of legacy, mantled and worn as refinement, the Eastern void that threatened to swallow the West and the entirety of the world, suspended on baited breath as they carved and stole and reaped the soils for all their worth.
And his face emblazoned there, eyes of emeralds glaring through shadow eternal, lost in the tides of war.
And through all witnessed and endured, a constant remained, of a black spire stalwart and piercing, defying all that were bedeviled by its eclipsing shadow and the crown of thorns worn over a familiar brow, bequeathed from one monarch and befallen onto another. Obsidian wraiths as burdens of legacy, mantled and worn as refinement, the Eastern void that threatened to swallow the West and the entirety of the world, suspended on baited breath as they carved and stole and reaped the soils for all their worth.
And his face emblazoned there, eyes of emeralds glaring through shadow eternal, lost in the tides of war.
> ββ¨ init.transfer (protocol//mirrorline.secure)  ...establishing stream... ...sync:complete. > current_position: 65Β°29β²8.09β³N 78Β°78β²12.5β³S enuan::shodea::slina::07:00 > recording_location β worldnet.node23.alpha & command.relay_app/e. __________________________________________________________________________ |  ____________________________________________________________________________ |
β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β | . Across the lands of Shodea, offerings were being dutifully prepared, set beside requests of aid and blessings, each adorned in polished jewels or refined silks, all manner of market and trinket taken and exchanged, lifted high by whispers of a foretold royal tour, made by the Oracle herself. Sent from the gilded doors of Slina, crowned and beloved and introduced as the Crown Princess, veiled in white and given as the maiden, the High Seer, the prophesied heir to the pearlescent and ivory-worn throne. Their Radiant Majesties had adorned her prettily in mystery over the years, hidden away into shadow from palace to temple, the Fayth having raised her previously. Now she stood to travel across the continent. The preparations were elaborate and spared no expense, her retinue vast to visit village and crowned city alike, her blessed voice in accompaniment to her title of Princess and Oracle, meant to soothe their allies. And if such could be uttered as a display of power, with the moniker of Pilot worn under her majesty, then they allowed it to be so, as told by the monarchs who chose her. In place of a proper coronation, she instead would promote herself as the blessed star, savior against the rivaling empire that scourged the world. The pocket of devastation that belched smog and ash into the air, poison that plumed, and towers of malcontent and power derived from precious metal and stone. Whilst the East loomed as a potential threat, the breadth of their influence felt along every border, the eyes of Slina peered yonder their desolate and cold land, a chamber of woven ebony strands beset with golds and bronze paneled screens and palmed, glistening white interfaces. Every city and town beneath its banner was encoded into a singular, live-honed image housed in a metal-plated conduit, and by design, it transmitted everything into an outward projection, holographic and transparent, taken with considerable detail by employed drones that hovered and scanned the lands intermittently. A global interface rotated at the center of the latticed chamber, with pinpointed lights decorating every ridge of cliff and valley. A shimmering topography of either continent was given life, each capital curiously adorned with its crest, while neighboring royalty were similarly notated. The spherical masterpiece was an elaborate work of Azonite and metals, housed beneath massive cogs and gears that rotated on high, a majestic clock piece ticking away above, archaic and antique by typical grace of technology, but still harnessed with the module below, data collected on a constant rotation as the world moved outside. The lines shimmered and moved, some dulled and others blinding, while a few bore varying hues that ranged from red to orange and then to green, similar to the colors of their verdant lands. It was here most things began and ended, down in the deep, the underbelly of the resplendent kingdom that announced itself as an ally of the Fayth, its grand temple erected as a steadying, beating heart with a myriad of hidden tunnels worn beneath a glimmering surface. These were natural caves carved betwixt shields of pale rock that encapsulated cerulean pools and streams that fed into the generators that supplied power to the grandeur estates of Slina; smoothed edifices pocketed with bioengineered lighting that scattered phosphorescent blue orbs within a suspended glow. And through these natural passageways, His Radiant Majesty, Vaerion, marched, donned in golds as his resplendent want allowed, brow stern and lowered with severe lines etched around a clenched jaw. In a gauntleted fist of bronze, he held a transmission with its glassy, fizzling screen illustrating his worst fears. A town decimated entirely, the once neutral territory was razed to nothing but blackened remains as a scourge of death upon the world, lost to a reaper that had sown discord upon the rising sun. There was only one such harbinger of ruin that was capable of an unlawful act, the very peaks of obsidian spires that speared the holy sun and were seen from their borders. Aventhel had struck, the blow lain, the gauntlet now thrown, and the rippling effects of war spiraling outward as seeded attempts to inspire doubt and fear after years of fragile peace. Vaerion thrust through elaborately adorned chamber doors, bronze whorls and intricate gold spirals ringing with his announcement as a council began to gather beneath the globe that bore the blemish of the village, like an ink splotch would spoil parchment. Ranking Dukes and Marquesses clamored around a large, carved table, rounded with wood and stone, bisected with ebony connections that filled the chamber whole, wires snaking from wall, floor, and ceiling, and bracketed with brass. Advisers and intelligence gatherers scattered, procuring tablets of similar size and shape, all bearing the same message that roused The Emperor from his morning meals taken with his Empress, now gone sour in his belly. He slammed one gauntleted fist down, steel-plated knuckles grinding into the table, and summoned nothing but weighted silence and tension that grew taut, prepared to snap. βWhat happened. How did they cross? How did the slaughter of one of our own go unnoticed with no warning, no signal? Nothing.β βThey waited until most of us were present for the princesses' tour. A distraction. Weβve pulled in some of the guards to increase the security on Slina.β Spoke Duke Teren, an older man of peppered hair and grey eyes. βAn excuse.β The Emperor challenged, violet eyes ablaze at the mention of the woman taken under his crown. βIf such is the case, then how did they find out? We have not yet released an official date for the royal tour.β βTheir network encompasses some of the continent, despite all measures to disrupt their signals; Avenβs constantly advancing technology prevents us from entirely gridlocking them out from our space.β Clarified an Artificer, one appointed under their Raident Majesties and just one of the operators of the global interface, now warped and muddled by smudges of black; a town worn to nothing but ruin. βEven so, the Varenth Concord in place prevents them from breaching audio barriers; ever since the refraction shields have been installed, most transmissions scramble before they can properly translate them.β βNot to mention the waves of Eaeth-Song that corrupt particular signals when in full manifestation.β At the mention of the phenomena that enveloped the entirety of their sacred land, Duke Teren, with the bulk of the council muttering validations and theories under their collective breath, supplied voice to a tumbling thought that vexed him from the first mention of her royal ascension. As one of the few who publicly protested her adoption into the House of Caelvannen, it was no jarring impact when he said: βWhat of The Oracle, did she not foresee this doom? Was it not her prophetic visions in which she arose to such favor in your Majestiesβ graces?β βWatch your tongue, Teren, lest we delve further into your conquest following the ailment of your much older, much wiser brother.β The threat hung as it did, bannered and embossed, The Emperor, in all his magnificence of power and reign, was not above such remarks, especially at the mercy of his council and the houses worn under his crown. It was an uttered conspiracy that the former Duke of Teren, adored and beloved, met with the fate of an unknown pestilence, his body contorted as a knobbed tree and rigid as stones. Some spoke of a genetic plague, whilst others whispered of a curse uttered by the tongue of his brother that similarly waggled and spat, shaming the name of the most holy and revered. Perhaps she had seen the destruction, perhaps not. Either way, Vaerion would not stand for the besmirchment, not when she stood on the precipice of her coronation, preparing to be received by the entirety of the empire as both Oracle and Princess. A much larger, more ominous presence lurked therein, silent and unwelcome, and it slithered through the chamber as a scaled wraith, hissing malicious whispers at the unknown vacancy of a once-simple town. βWe need to prepare for the possibility of an invasion. Today it is one village, tomorrow it is cities raided with the East knocking on our door in a fortnight." βThen we need a show of force, show that we do not take this threat idly, send a phalanx of soldiers marching along the coast and through the Virelock Steps, and a secondary unit behind to scout better Talour, perhaps some citizens remain and require aid.β βWe cannot spare the resources to split our forces up if this is indeed a War.β βThen send the Oracle to Talour. If there are survivors, her arrival will be seen as a blessing, an example of the royal army and the Fayth, come as one to comfort the lost.β They volleyed words back and forth, weighing out the influential causes and the possible retaliation by enlisting such a contingent close to the borders. If Talourβs ruin was not done by the hands of their eternal rivals, then who was responsible for the destruction of an entire town, done under the cover of night? Vaerion permitted them to debate while his mind quieted and stilled, his final decision not an easy one, but easily made despite the worry that vexed him. βSend the frame, allow for field experience. The NF zero-two is ready. Itβs time we break it free from the molded ornament it has become.β βIt will be perceived as an act in itself, one Aven will not take lightly.β βThen allow it to be so, too long have they lauded over us that abysmal machine of death over our heads with their so-called Prince at the helm.β Laughter and then silence were assumed as Vaerion shielded his eyes and breath from the scrutiny, lest they witness the emotion behind his critical gaze. He knew he could not reason against the words spoken, for though his word was final and law, splitting their armies would weaken their stronghold throughout Shodea should Aven act upon the temptations of war that had taunted their crowns for years. He did not anticipate that Malik would permit his children to act so rashly in his name, for it was no secret that the Emperor of Aventhal had hidden himself away as his youngest ruled since her announcement as Regent in his absence. But how long could she hold sway over her brother, whom they knew even less about? All paths suddenly converged before him, with only one fated answer to their journey. βWeβll send the Oracle, let her royal tour be the answer to Aven.β | _ _ _ _ _ _ _ |
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> ββ¨ init.transfer (protocol//mirrorline.secure) ...establishing stream... ...sync:complete. > target.locked= entity_id:NF02-Ev/e:pilot_lΓ³menel_lysara > current_position: 65Β°29β²8.09β³N 78Β°78β²12.5β³S enuan::shodea::slina::15:15 > recording_location β worldnet.node23.alpha & command.relay_app/e. __________________________________________________________________________ |  ____________________________________________________________________________ |
β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β | . She remembers the first of many times she had stepped out from the cockpit, sweating and heaving and screaming, the pain immeasurable, the song in her head all-consuming and bathed in scarlet hate of visions she could not abate. Some instances were lesser while others more intense, each time different and yet the same, and much like before, during her many simulated ventures, she stood before the nephilhim, bound to its glory and make. With her hands clasped at her front and chin notched up in scrutiny, Lysara regarded the weapon she was fated to wield, its grace of machine and power worn into every manipulated and coded alloy, the wings lax, head bowed, horns gleaming, and halos dimmed, it stood as a sentinel, silent and threatening, yet poised to launch. The news had come swiftly by royal courier, the seal of Their Radient Majesties embossed in wax, her orders carried in a tone that she knew she could not defy. The Royal tour would commence within the week, under the darkness of Duskreach, where the next light of Firstlight would announce her departure with a decoy in place, a veiled maiden of the Fayth would stand in her stead to receive the voice of her newly appointed people, to deter any unfavored action. The looming prospect of potential assassinations had never followed her before; still, Lysara knew it was a necessary action, even at the cost of anotherβs life, despite her initial protests to serve another as a sacrificial lamb. She bowed her head into her rising palm as an ache spread from her brow to her nape, where restlessness had settled into her body as a buzzing cacophony; the disordance even sounded through her sleep, where her dreams turned prophetic. Her visions were woven into her reality and followed into what was meant to bring her peace, and as a reaper haunted after its quarry, so too did those emerald eyes that peered ruthlessly through the dark, pinning her into place every time. No manner of sleeping drought could stall or prevent their manifestation, and as the sky bloomed with the violet-hued waves of Eaeth-Song, so too did her visions erupt, crowding through her mind as a myriad of lilting notes and vibrating drones, each a compounded message of something she could not quite understand. She had been told of Talourβs fate, and though unspoken, she knew they questioned how she had not seen it; she had witnessed such in the courierβs eyes as they gazed upon her before and after, but never quite meeting her eyes. Lysara was perceptive, silent, and melancholic as Saelira sighed and lamented over, but no less studious and observant in her most quiet moments. Such as she studied the NF02 as both a pilot and a princess. There was no direct confirmation that the predecessor had been sent forth, but Lysara could not ignore that telltale swell of some unknown emotion that arose within her breast, a sense of longing never known, of a voided chasm that split apart at the rungs of her ribs and cracked, her heart a deadened weight that suddenly galloped at the prospect of meeting another on the field. Somewhere at her back came a voice, and she turned to face it, standing as pilot, shaded in the stern visage of a soldier prepared ultimately for combat, but there was still grace and divinity in her poise, the label of Oracle woven into the very fabric of the ivory dress she wore with a silver-gold plate molded as armor against her torso. βPrepare both of the arma. I have a feeling someone will be waiting for me." | _ _ _ _ _ _ _ |
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