The air in the medical bay of the Crimson Cloud was thick with the smell of ozone and sterile salves, a strange mix that did little to cut through the oppressive stillness. Here, beneath the gentle, rhythmic hum of the B'halian airship's engines, lay Commander Kilik. Encapsulated not by physical restraints, but by formless shadows that seemed to writhe just beyond perception, her blank mind stretched out, a terrifying void that hinted at infinite depth yet offered no connection. Though the frantic monitoring systems had stabilized her vitals hours ago, pulling her back from the brink of oblivion, she remained locked in this unnatural slumber.
Tendrils, glistening and dark like wet roots, snaked across her skin, pulsed with a faint, internal light, and traced the intricate pathways of her nervous and respiratory systems. They were alien, terrifying, yet vital – remnants or perhaps tools of the transformation she had undergone.
At her bedside, Hethra remained a solitary vigil. The Sylvan healer, her usually serene features etched with a mixture of exhaustion and profound unease, had taken on the grim task of tethering her commander to the realm of the living. It had been touch and go multiple times. The sudden, violent metamorphosis into, whatever in the gods' names the beast she had become, had ransacked her body in ways the medical team were still desperately trying to figure out. Organs strained, systems failed, and they braced for lasting damage, for the permanent scars of such a radical, instantaneous shift. Yet, where they expected brokenness, they saw… improvements.
Her draconic transformation, or whatever label they eventually settled upon, hadn't just been destructive; it had fundamentally re-made her, making her stronger, faster, more resilient in ways they couldn't scientifically quantify. Even from this distance, Hethra found Kilik's presence palpable, a heavy weight in the room, like she was staring up at something mythic, something impossibly ancient and godly that merely existed.
Yet, even this overwhelming aura of power could not shirk the feelings that churned within Hethra. The turmoil between her reverence for the raw, undeniable might Kilik possessed and the festering disdain for the cost of its unleashing. On one hand, Kilik's power had opened the floodgates upon their enemies, shattering formations, turning the tide of battle in a single, cataclysmic moment. And in that same breath, that same devastating wave, it had washed away over half their infantry. Comrades, friends, seeds never to sprout into the trees they could have become.
The Empire might exalt Kilik over such methods, celebrating the victory regardless of the price. But Hethra, and the Sylvan people, while understanding that it is nature's way for the strong to devour the weak, also understood the fundamental importance of nurturing the most delicate of seeds, tending to the saplings, so that they might one day form mighty, enduring forests. How many seeds had Kilik's power pulverized before they could even be sowed? How many lights had she cleaved from this world in such a blinding flash? Kilik… she was unlike anything Hethra had ever witnessed. Perhaps only Jack himself, the last of his kind, offered a stark comparison to this otherworldly, terrifying might.
Hethra watched the rise and fall of Kilik's chest beneath the alien tendrils, a painful, confusing dichotomy playing out in her mind. She had watched Kilik treat her people with genuine regard, patiently weathering slanderous remarks from higher-ups, holding her composure in ways Hethra didn't think were possible for the same woman she'd watched butcher the training ground months before, turning it into a landscape of broken equipment and shattered spirits. Yet, that composure, that apparent regard for life and well-being, vanished the moment she stepped onto the battlefield and unleashed that. It made Hethra question everything she thought she knew about her commander. What did the Empire truly mean to Kilik? What did they, her crew, her soldiers, mean to her?
Her eyes scoured over Kilik's unnervingly still form, searching for answers in the blank face and the strange, pulsing light of the tendrils.
"Are… we just pawns in some scheme you've grafted, commander?" The question was barely a whisper, more for herself than for the unconscious woman on the cot.
"Or… do you consider us family?"
The silent room offered no reply. Hethra clasped her hands together, the smooth bark-like texture of her skin a familiar comfort. She held the pose for a moment, a gesture of respect for the position Kilik held, perhaps even for the power she possessed, before her gaze hardened with resolve. She had a duty. Rising to her feet, she cast one last, lingering look at the encapsulated enigma that was Kilik, then turned and moved silently towards the door, leaving the strange vigil behind. She had a status report to deliver, and the heads of the healing division needed to know that their commander was stable, albeit still lost somewhere between the world of the waking and slumbering.
She Who Dreamed Of Dragons[END]
She Who Dreamed Of Dragons[END]
Last edited by Kilik on Mon Jun 23, 2025 11:33 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"I hear the screams of the Ocean, the cries of the waves. The sea floor yearns for healing and begs for retribution. My wish is to grant it"
Re: She Who Dreamed Of Dragons
Meanwhile, in the realm of her subconscious, the bleakness of darkness gave way to a blistering dawn of light. As it faded, there sat Kilik before a vast ocean unlike any she had ever seen. The sky cast a parade of colored light refracted between rising pillars of water spun from the ocean before her — majestic columns twisting and shimmering, bending the very essence of light itself. The shore was silent except for the solemn rhythm of waves rubbing gently against sand, ripples counting away the time she had spent here, alone.
How long had she been here? She wondered, tracing the intricate patterns made by the shifting tides with her gaze. A heavy feeling gathered in her chest, a longing that rooted her firmly in this place between dreams and waking: the crystal stalks of the Emerald Groves, the salty brume of Toscano Bay, the grand reef and, most of all, her father and family. These memories felt like distant shores, fading further from her grasp.
"Am I... homesick?" she whispered, letting the waves brush against her toes.
The question seemed foolish. She had chosen this path willingly, resigning herself to any cost necessary to see her dream realized, to gain the power to change this broken, derelict world. And yet, despite the steel resolve she'd worn like armor, the smallest piece of her still faltered — not fully committed to the course of action she had taken.
When someone or something grew too much of a threat to the empire, they were culled — without mercy. But after everything she, Kilik, and her companions had witnessed... something she still did not fully understand, how would she be viewed by General Delion? By the others? The words of Hethra lingered still on her heart:
The tone of the Sylvan girl’s voice haunted her:
“Dammit...” she murmured.
Her lamentation rose and fell with the breathing of the waves, as though the ocean itself shared her turmoil. Then, she understood. This was no mere dream, but the Root of her Authority — the core of who she truly was.
“Do you... regret your choices? We... are a little too deep in for that, are we not?” came a voice from within the roiling water.
Pillars of twisting water rose from the ocean’s surface, dancing and converging at its center. From the typhoon they formed, the visage of Orvyn—the Dragon Spirit intertwined with Kilik’s very soul—emerged. His massive body gleamed with cherry blossom scales that shimmered magenta and rose, molten golden eyes burning with ancient wisdom. The Mother of Waves, once an unruly obstacle on Kilik’s quest for mastery, had become a trusted ally and invaluable guide. She could see through the façade of false certainty, straight to the heart of her conflict.
“Regrets are for the foolish... what is done can never be undone...” Kilik said, tracing lines in the sand as if half-believing her own words.
“Yet the Sylvan girl’s words cause you to question... to... redetermine course,” Orvyn said, her voice a rumble like distant thunder. Her presence was both comfort and challenge, pushing Kilik to face truths she sought to hide.
“Have they come back to you? Your memories?” She asked.
Kilik rose to her feet, staring out across the endless ocean.
“Yes... with Ragana’s presence subdued, my original form was invoked... I have remembered much about life before that storm,” Orvyn said, his voice full of weight and ancient sorrow.
“Orvyn... what... what are you, I mean...” Kilik faltered.
“You wish to know about the Primordials? Who we once were... what we once were?” Orvyn’s golden gaze met hers.
Kilik nodded. If she was to master this power, she must first understand what it meant to bear the blood of the Primordials — ancient beings of raw creation, order, and destruction intertwined. What was she? What deep legacy had been awakened inside her? And could this power truly ever be hers to command...to subdue.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the ocean’s eternal song. Kilik took a deep breath, feeling the tide of her own spirit shifting like the swirling water around Orvyn.
“The path ahead is no simpler for knowing,” Orvyn said softly, “but it is clearer. You cannot — and should not — walk it alone.”
"Then will you do what you always have done? Will you walk it with me?"
Kilik raised her hands out to Orvyn. The dragon rest it's massive head against her tiny hand and with it a gleaming golden light manifested.
How long had she been here? She wondered, tracing the intricate patterns made by the shifting tides with her gaze. A heavy feeling gathered in her chest, a longing that rooted her firmly in this place between dreams and waking: the crystal stalks of the Emerald Groves, the salty brume of Toscano Bay, the grand reef and, most of all, her father and family. These memories felt like distant shores, fading further from her grasp.
"Am I... homesick?" she whispered, letting the waves brush against her toes.
The question seemed foolish. She had chosen this path willingly, resigning herself to any cost necessary to see her dream realized, to gain the power to change this broken, derelict world. And yet, despite the steel resolve she'd worn like armor, the smallest piece of her still faltered — not fully committed to the course of action she had taken.
When someone or something grew too much of a threat to the empire, they were culled — without mercy. But after everything she, Kilik, and her companions had witnessed... something she still did not fully understand, how would she be viewed by General Delion? By the others? The words of Hethra lingered still on her heart:
Kilik’s mind re-formed the terrible vision she had seen upon first setting foot on B’halian soil — herself standing atop a literal mountain of corpses, thousands of dead stacked beneath her feet. Was she truly prepared to be a sower of death and destruction? Was this her only path to achieve her aims? Right before she unleashed the deluge that killed all those people she thought she had made peace with the means to her ends....and yet.“That to do so would also mean eradicating the people who they are charged with leading. Power alone does not make a King... or queen... what point is there in ruling a kingdom of the dead?”
The tone of the Sylvan girl’s voice haunted her:
The hurt in the girl’s voice stuck in Kilik’s mind like a thorn. She was torn. One part of her was exhausted — tired of always holding herself back, stifling her growth for fear of what might happen to those beside her. Yet, at the same time, she did not wish to be remembered as a wanton, murderous beast with no self-control. What then? What was she to do?“But are you seeking to truly be their ally? Comrade? When we accompanied you on the excursion to the Emerald Groves, you showed your ability to fight with integrity... is it because we are not your blood that the lives of B’halian soldiers mean so little to you? Would you have the same callousness were the Zenith to decide they no longer served a purpose and destroyed them?”
“Dammit...” she murmured.
Her lamentation rose and fell with the breathing of the waves, as though the ocean itself shared her turmoil. Then, she understood. This was no mere dream, but the Root of her Authority — the core of who she truly was.
“Do you... regret your choices? We... are a little too deep in for that, are we not?” came a voice from within the roiling water.
Pillars of twisting water rose from the ocean’s surface, dancing and converging at its center. From the typhoon they formed, the visage of Orvyn—the Dragon Spirit intertwined with Kilik’s very soul—emerged. His massive body gleamed with cherry blossom scales that shimmered magenta and rose, molten golden eyes burning with ancient wisdom. The Mother of Waves, once an unruly obstacle on Kilik’s quest for mastery, had become a trusted ally and invaluable guide. She could see through the façade of false certainty, straight to the heart of her conflict.
“Regrets are for the foolish... what is done can never be undone...” Kilik said, tracing lines in the sand as if half-believing her own words.
“Yet the Sylvan girl’s words cause you to question... to... redetermine course,” Orvyn said, her voice a rumble like distant thunder. Her presence was both comfort and challenge, pushing Kilik to face truths she sought to hide.
“Have they come back to you? Your memories?” She asked.
Kilik rose to her feet, staring out across the endless ocean.
“Yes... with Ragana’s presence subdued, my original form was invoked... I have remembered much about life before that storm,” Orvyn said, his voice full of weight and ancient sorrow.
“Orvyn... what... what are you, I mean...” Kilik faltered.
“You wish to know about the Primordials? Who we once were... what we once were?” Orvyn’s golden gaze met hers.
Kilik nodded. If she was to master this power, she must first understand what it meant to bear the blood of the Primordials — ancient beings of raw creation, order, and destruction intertwined. What was she? What deep legacy had been awakened inside her? And could this power truly ever be hers to command...to subdue.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the ocean’s eternal song. Kilik took a deep breath, feeling the tide of her own spirit shifting like the swirling water around Orvyn.
“The path ahead is no simpler for knowing,” Orvyn said softly, “but it is clearer. You cannot — and should not — walk it alone.”
"Then will you do what you always have done? Will you walk it with me?"
Kilik raised her hands out to Orvyn. The dragon rest it's massive head against her tiny hand and with it a gleaming golden light manifested.
"I hear the screams of the Ocean, the cries of the waves. The sea floor yearns for healing and begs for retribution. My wish is to grant it"
Re: She Who Dreamed Of Dragons
She turned inward, focusing on the resonant warmth that was Orvyn. Orvyn, she projected with her mind, a plea wrapped in determination. Tell me. Tell me everything.
A deep, resonant hum vibrated through Kilik's very bones, a sound that seemed to draw on the earth beneath her feet and the air around her. Orvyn’s presence expanded, not physically, but conceptually, filling Kilik's inner landscape with the weight of forgotten ages. The reflected cherry blossom scales pulsed with soft light, and the golden eyes, though internal, felt intensely focused on a distant past.
"You ask of the blood that sings in your veins, Kilik," Orvyn's voice resonated, not in her ears, but in the core of her being, carrying echoes of crashing waves and shifting currents. "You ask of the Primordials."
The cherry blossom scales seemed to shimmer brighter, reflecting the dawning understanding within Kilik as Orvyn continued, weaving a tale of the world's deep past, a history buried under layers of myth and forgotten time.
"To understand the river, you must trace it to its spring."
Orvyn began to weave the tale, projecting images and sensations directly into Kilik's mind—a world young and vibrant, teeming with nascent life, then abruptly scarred.
"Vescrutia... our world... in its first Astral year, was wounded by the touch of the Horsemen. It was not the largest of such afflictions, but it ran deep, a scar upon its very being, a place called the World Wound. But the planet is resilient."
The internal vision showed slow, inexorable mending. "Over thousands of cycles, it mended, filling that wound with an energy so pure, so overflowing, it became a wellspring of life, healing the lands around it, pushing back the taint. Becoming now the World Pulse."
The internal vision shifted again, the vibrant greens and blues sharpening, only to be shadowed by a encroaching darkness, a time of renewed threat.
"Then came the Second Astral year, and the Horsemen returned. They did not come as conquerors of kingdoms, but as whispers of ruin. Blight and decay followed them, sickening the air, twisting the very essence of growth, threatening to strangle the natural life the World Pulse had so painstakingly nourished. And so, the planet stirred." Orvyn's presence felt like a vast, slow awakening. "To protect itself, the World Pulse did not unleash a weapon of destruction, but birthed guardians from its own essence, beings intrinsically linked to its restoration and power."
Images of four magnificent beings formed in Kilik's mind, forms that defied mortal description yet felt utterly real, each embodying a fundamental force of the mended world.
"There was Pyros, The Ember, whose voice could ignite suns, a being of pure, refining flame. Sethis, The Bud, whose whisper coaxed continents from the depths, a titan of earth and growth. Bulvulsa, The Gale, whose bellows shaped the skies, a force of purifying wind. And I,
Orvyn's internal form solidified slightly, the golden eyes burning with ancient memory, "I, Orvyn, The Dew, whose song guided the waters and all life that blossomed from them."
"Our power," Orvyn continued, the resonance deepening, "was born from our connection to the World Pulse. Its energy flowed through us, the very core of our being. Our very voices, tapping into that pure flow, could shift the world around us, not through force of will alone, but through harmonic resonance with the planet's own life force. We could command our elements with but the sound of our being, shaping reality with sung power. This is what mortals, glimpsing fragments of our acts, later came to call Wyrmspeech."
The internal vision showed flashes of landscapes blighted by grey rot and creeping pestilence, withered by famine's grasp, then saw them soften, purify, and grow intensely green and vibrant under the resonant song of these four primordial beings.
"Our purpose was clear. The Horsemen Pestilence cast a sickening blight upon the lands, twisting life into corrupted forms, a mockery of health. Famine withered and choked the earth, leaving barren husks where abundance should be. Our essence, born from the pure healing energy of the Pulse, was the antidote. Our power could soothe that blight, could purify the corruption, could restore the lands marred by their touch, breathing life back into the dying."
A deep, resonant hum vibrated through Kilik's very bones, a sound that seemed to draw on the earth beneath her feet and the air around her. Orvyn’s presence expanded, not physically, but conceptually, filling Kilik's inner landscape with the weight of forgotten ages. The reflected cherry blossom scales pulsed with soft light, and the golden eyes, though internal, felt intensely focused on a distant past.
"You ask of the blood that sings in your veins, Kilik," Orvyn's voice resonated, not in her ears, but in the core of her being, carrying echoes of crashing waves and shifting currents. "You ask of the Primordials."
The cherry blossom scales seemed to shimmer brighter, reflecting the dawning understanding within Kilik as Orvyn continued, weaving a tale of the world's deep past, a history buried under layers of myth and forgotten time.
"To understand the river, you must trace it to its spring."
Orvyn began to weave the tale, projecting images and sensations directly into Kilik's mind—a world young and vibrant, teeming with nascent life, then abruptly scarred.
"Vescrutia... our world... in its first Astral year, was wounded by the touch of the Horsemen. It was not the largest of such afflictions, but it ran deep, a scar upon its very being, a place called the World Wound. But the planet is resilient."
The internal vision showed slow, inexorable mending. "Over thousands of cycles, it mended, filling that wound with an energy so pure, so overflowing, it became a wellspring of life, healing the lands around it, pushing back the taint. Becoming now the World Pulse."
The internal vision shifted again, the vibrant greens and blues sharpening, only to be shadowed by a encroaching darkness, a time of renewed threat.
"Then came the Second Astral year, and the Horsemen returned. They did not come as conquerors of kingdoms, but as whispers of ruin. Blight and decay followed them, sickening the air, twisting the very essence of growth, threatening to strangle the natural life the World Pulse had so painstakingly nourished. And so, the planet stirred." Orvyn's presence felt like a vast, slow awakening. "To protect itself, the World Pulse did not unleash a weapon of destruction, but birthed guardians from its own essence, beings intrinsically linked to its restoration and power."
Images of four magnificent beings formed in Kilik's mind, forms that defied mortal description yet felt utterly real, each embodying a fundamental force of the mended world.
"There was Pyros, The Ember, whose voice could ignite suns, a being of pure, refining flame. Sethis, The Bud, whose whisper coaxed continents from the depths, a titan of earth and growth. Bulvulsa, The Gale, whose bellows shaped the skies, a force of purifying wind. And I,
Orvyn's internal form solidified slightly, the golden eyes burning with ancient memory, "I, Orvyn, The Dew, whose song guided the waters and all life that blossomed from them."
"Our power," Orvyn continued, the resonance deepening, "was born from our connection to the World Pulse. Its energy flowed through us, the very core of our being. Our very voices, tapping into that pure flow, could shift the world around us, not through force of will alone, but through harmonic resonance with the planet's own life force. We could command our elements with but the sound of our being, shaping reality with sung power. This is what mortals, glimpsing fragments of our acts, later came to call Wyrmspeech."
The internal vision showed flashes of landscapes blighted by grey rot and creeping pestilence, withered by famine's grasp, then saw them soften, purify, and grow intensely green and vibrant under the resonant song of these four primordial beings.
"Our purpose was clear. The Horsemen Pestilence cast a sickening blight upon the lands, twisting life into corrupted forms, a mockery of health. Famine withered and choked the earth, leaving barren husks where abundance should be. Our essence, born from the pure healing energy of the Pulse, was the antidote. Our power could soothe that blight, could purify the corruption, could restore the lands marred by their touch, breathing life back into the dying."
"I hear the screams of the Ocean, the cries of the waves. The sea floor yearns for healing and begs for retribution. My wish is to grant it"
Re: She Who Dreamed Of Dragons
The internal vision became a maelstrom of elemental power, not just shaping, but battling. It was a desperate, brutal conflict played out on a planetary scale against shadow and decay. Fire clashed with rot, burning it away. Earth rose against pestilence, creating barriers of living stone. Wind tore through blighted air, scouring it clean. And water, Orvyn's own element, washed away corruption, nurturing life wherever it touched, even amidst the struggle. It was a grueling, world-shattering battle, the very fabric of Vescrutia screaming.
"We fought", Orvyn's voice lowered, becoming thick with a profound grief that Kilik felt as a heavy, aching weight in her own soul, a sorrow older than mountains. "We poured the entirety of our being into defending the world that birthed us. We helped push the Horsemen back. We helped save Vescrutia." The internal vision of the dying world began to recede, replaced by a desolate quiet.
"But it cost... it cost was everything."
The vision showed The dying Primordials, their forms magnificent even in dissolution. One by one, they fell, not defeated by the enemy, but consumed by the sheer expenditure of their essence. Pyros, a supernova of final defiance, its light burning out. Sethis, a mountain of unyielding will, crumbling to dust that fertilized the ravaged land. Bulvulsa, a final, cleansing storm that scoured the skies clean of their taint before dissipating into nothingness. The internal vision showed three brilliant lights extinguishing, leaving a profound, aching void where their vibrant presences had been.
"Only I remained", Orvyn’s voice dropped to a whisper, though still carrying the weight of millennia of lonely vigil.
"Injured, diminished, my physical form shattering, unable to hold its shape. But I could not bear to fully vanish. The foe was defeated for now, but the wounds they inflicted ran deep, and the World Pulse needed protection, a connection, a lingering echo of its guardians.
Orvyn's voice gathered strength, a determination born of necessity.
"In a last, valiant effort to cling to existence, to continue my vigil in some form, I sought a vessel."
The focus shifted, narrowing. Orvyn projected an image into Kilik's mind – a woman, vibrant and strong, her eyes bright with a spirit Kilik recognized with a jolt, a spirit she had seen in faded sculptures and family stories. Her great-grandmother.
"Your great-grandmother, Iridia," Orvyn confirmed, the internal image sharp and clear. "Her spirit was resonant, her bloodline bore a latent, quiet connection to the World Pulse, likely a remnant of those ancient blessings we once gave to certain protective lineages long ago. She was pure, strong, capable of holding a fragment of my essence. Her fury and determination to protect the seas drew me to her. I bound my spirit, my fading consciousness, to her mortal flesh. It became a symbiotic existence. My spirit preserved, my knowledge and power dormant, existing within her, then passing down within her descendants' blood... waiting for one whose own connection to the Pulse was strong enough to stir the echoes, to awaken what I had hidden within the blood."
The golden gaze settled entirely on Kilik now, unwavering, filled with an ancient expectation finally met.
"Waiting for you."
"We fought", Orvyn's voice lowered, becoming thick with a profound grief that Kilik felt as a heavy, aching weight in her own soul, a sorrow older than mountains. "We poured the entirety of our being into defending the world that birthed us. We helped push the Horsemen back. We helped save Vescrutia." The internal vision of the dying world began to recede, replaced by a desolate quiet.
"But it cost... it cost was everything."
The vision showed The dying Primordials, their forms magnificent even in dissolution. One by one, they fell, not defeated by the enemy, but consumed by the sheer expenditure of their essence. Pyros, a supernova of final defiance, its light burning out. Sethis, a mountain of unyielding will, crumbling to dust that fertilized the ravaged land. Bulvulsa, a final, cleansing storm that scoured the skies clean of their taint before dissipating into nothingness. The internal vision showed three brilliant lights extinguishing, leaving a profound, aching void where their vibrant presences had been.
"Only I remained", Orvyn’s voice dropped to a whisper, though still carrying the weight of millennia of lonely vigil.
"Injured, diminished, my physical form shattering, unable to hold its shape. But I could not bear to fully vanish. The foe was defeated for now, but the wounds they inflicted ran deep, and the World Pulse needed protection, a connection, a lingering echo of its guardians.
Orvyn's voice gathered strength, a determination born of necessity.
"In a last, valiant effort to cling to existence, to continue my vigil in some form, I sought a vessel."
The focus shifted, narrowing. Orvyn projected an image into Kilik's mind – a woman, vibrant and strong, her eyes bright with a spirit Kilik recognized with a jolt, a spirit she had seen in faded sculptures and family stories. Her great-grandmother.
"Your great-grandmother, Iridia," Orvyn confirmed, the internal image sharp and clear. "Her spirit was resonant, her bloodline bore a latent, quiet connection to the World Pulse, likely a remnant of those ancient blessings we once gave to certain protective lineages long ago. She was pure, strong, capable of holding a fragment of my essence. Her fury and determination to protect the seas drew me to her. I bound my spirit, my fading consciousness, to her mortal flesh. It became a symbiotic existence. My spirit preserved, my knowledge and power dormant, existing within her, then passing down within her descendants' blood... waiting for one whose own connection to the Pulse was strong enough to stir the echoes, to awaken what I had hidden within the blood."
The golden gaze settled entirely on Kilik now, unwavering, filled with an ancient expectation finally met.
"Waiting for you."
"I hear the screams of the Ocean, the cries of the waves. The sea floor yearns for healing and begs for retribution. My wish is to grant it"
Re: She Who Dreamed Of Dragons
A silence fell in the inner landscape, profound and heavy, broken only by the persistent, resonant hum of Orvyn's presence. Kilik felt as if the ground beneath her had dissolved, leaving her suspended in a void filled with the echoes of creation and collapse. Orvyn's final words – Waiting for you – didn't just land in her mind; they vibrated through her very core, rewriting the foundational truths of her existence.
The cherry blossom scales that patterned her internal form flared, bright and chaotic, reflecting the storm of disbelief and awe raging within her. Her golden eyes, fixed on the receding images of fallen gods and ancient battles, now snapped back to the immense, golden presence that was Orvyn.
She felt the power now, not just as an external force she channeled, but as an intrinsic part of her. The Wyrmspeech, the singing blood, the strange connection to the natural world – it wasn't just a gift or a talent. It was lineage. It was a faint, lingering light from a dawn she had never known existed.
The weight was immense. The burden of a dying god, passed down through mortal flesh. The legacy of a failed, yet victorious, war.
"My blood..." Kilik projected, her internal voice trembling, "It... it remembers you?"
Orvyn's presence pulsed, a slow, vast beat like the turning of the planet itself. The golden eyes remained steady, filled with an ancient compassion that spanned epochs.
"Not merely me, Kilik," Orvyn's voice resonated back, now tempered with a gentle patience. It was the sound of deep roots finding purchase in fertile soil. "It remembers the World Pulse itself. The essence of Vescrutia. The song of creation from which we were born. Your lineage, through Iridia, carries a thread of that song. Strong enough, when nurtured by your own spirit and the touch of the Pulse, to awaken the quiescent echo of my being. But with Shinjustu, forged into something beyond even what we once were."
Orvyn projected a sensation – the warmth of a sun-drenched river, the solid strength of a mountain peak, the wild freedom of the wind, the burning heart of the world. All woven together, fundamental and powerful.
"The Wyrmspeech," Orvyn continued, connecting the threads Kilik was desperately trying to grasp. "It is not a learned language, Kilik. It is a resonance. A frequency that speaks to the world, because it is born from it. Your voice, when it carries that resonance, taps into the same primal energy Pyros, Sethis, Bulvulsa, and I once wielded. The strength of that resonance... that is the strength of your connection to the Pulse, and the measure of the echo you carry."
The internal cherry blossoms settled slightly, pulsing with a softer understanding. It was too much to process fully, this sudden elevation from a girl with strange powers to a vessel for a god's consciousness, a descendant of world-shapers. But it explained everything that had felt inexplicable.
"And the... the Horsemen?" Kilik projected, a new flicker of fear joining the awe. The vision of Blight and Famine was still sharp. "Are they... gone? Forever?"
A low, melancholic hum rippled through Orvyn's presence. "Forces as fundamental as they are rarely 'gone', Kilik. They were pushed back. Banished from this plane. But the scars they left, the corruption they sowed, they linger. And the universe... it is vast and uncaring. Other threats exist. Other hungers." The golden eyes seemed to gaze into an infinite distance. "My purpose, my vigil, was to remain. To guard the World Pulse, the heart of Vescrutia, against their return, or the rise of new shadows. And now... that vigil rests with you."
The weight returned, heavier this time. It wasn't just lineage; it was a responsibility spanning millennia. A purpose she had stumbled into, yet one that now felt deeply, terrifyingly hers.
Kilik took a deep, steadying breath in her external body, though her consciousness remained immersed in the profound internal space with Orvyn. Her hands clenched, the faint tingling of unused power a familiar sensation that now felt entirely alien.
The cherry blossom scales that patterned her internal form flared, bright and chaotic, reflecting the storm of disbelief and awe raging within her. Her golden eyes, fixed on the receding images of fallen gods and ancient battles, now snapped back to the immense, golden presence that was Orvyn.
She felt the power now, not just as an external force she channeled, but as an intrinsic part of her. The Wyrmspeech, the singing blood, the strange connection to the natural world – it wasn't just a gift or a talent. It was lineage. It was a faint, lingering light from a dawn she had never known existed.
The weight was immense. The burden of a dying god, passed down through mortal flesh. The legacy of a failed, yet victorious, war.
"My blood..." Kilik projected, her internal voice trembling, "It... it remembers you?"
Orvyn's presence pulsed, a slow, vast beat like the turning of the planet itself. The golden eyes remained steady, filled with an ancient compassion that spanned epochs.
"Not merely me, Kilik," Orvyn's voice resonated back, now tempered with a gentle patience. It was the sound of deep roots finding purchase in fertile soil. "It remembers the World Pulse itself. The essence of Vescrutia. The song of creation from which we were born. Your lineage, through Iridia, carries a thread of that song. Strong enough, when nurtured by your own spirit and the touch of the Pulse, to awaken the quiescent echo of my being. But with Shinjustu, forged into something beyond even what we once were."
Orvyn projected a sensation – the warmth of a sun-drenched river, the solid strength of a mountain peak, the wild freedom of the wind, the burning heart of the world. All woven together, fundamental and powerful.
"The Wyrmspeech," Orvyn continued, connecting the threads Kilik was desperately trying to grasp. "It is not a learned language, Kilik. It is a resonance. A frequency that speaks to the world, because it is born from it. Your voice, when it carries that resonance, taps into the same primal energy Pyros, Sethis, Bulvulsa, and I once wielded. The strength of that resonance... that is the strength of your connection to the Pulse, and the measure of the echo you carry."
The internal cherry blossoms settled slightly, pulsing with a softer understanding. It was too much to process fully, this sudden elevation from a girl with strange powers to a vessel for a god's consciousness, a descendant of world-shapers. But it explained everything that had felt inexplicable.
"And the... the Horsemen?" Kilik projected, a new flicker of fear joining the awe. The vision of Blight and Famine was still sharp. "Are they... gone? Forever?"
A low, melancholic hum rippled through Orvyn's presence. "Forces as fundamental as they are rarely 'gone', Kilik. They were pushed back. Banished from this plane. But the scars they left, the corruption they sowed, they linger. And the universe... it is vast and uncaring. Other threats exist. Other hungers." The golden eyes seemed to gaze into an infinite distance. "My purpose, my vigil, was to remain. To guard the World Pulse, the heart of Vescrutia, against their return, or the rise of new shadows. And now... that vigil rests with you."
The weight returned, heavier this time. It wasn't just lineage; it was a responsibility spanning millennia. A purpose she had stumbled into, yet one that now felt deeply, terrifyingly hers.
Kilik took a deep, steadying breath in her external body, though her consciousness remained immersed in the profound internal space with Orvyn. Her hands clenched, the faint tingling of unused power a familiar sensation that now felt entirely alien.
"I hear the screams of the Ocean, the cries of the waves. The sea floor yearns for healing and begs for retribution. My wish is to grant it"
Re: She Who Dreamed Of Dragons
"What do I do now?" she projected, the plea still present, but now edged with a newfound resolve.
Orvyn's golden gaze held hers, a slow, powerful expansion of presence filling her inner world. The song of the water dragon deepened, becoming a symphony of countless streams, vast oceans, and underground rivers.
"The mastery begins with understanding, Kilik," Orvyn resonated. "You must learn to navigate this connection, to understand the power that flows through you. Shinjustu...shares a similar cadence to the pulse, I believe that is why I was able to become docile after you tapped into it."
The internal vision began to shift again, moving away from the ancient battles and towards images of the present world – lands struggling, hidden pockets of corruption, but also places of vibrant, untouched life. It was a world that still needed healing, still needed protection. And Orvyn's silent projection made it clear who was now meant to provide it.
"Do you remember where it is? The World Pulse?" Kilik inquired, hope fluttering in her chest. If she could find that, perhaps she could understand everything.
"I... do not," Orvyn said, a note of something akin to weariness entering his resonant hum. "The battle scattered my awareness, anchored only to the echo carried within your blood. However, those we once blessed with our direct teachings, those who served us as guardians and conduits of our will, might still hold onto its location. Your master, Eralia's people, The Ataeru... they might yet know."
Kilik’s internal vision of Eralia's face, etched with grief and loss, rose to the forefront of her mind. She felt her form grimace. "But... My master said she was the last of her kind," Kilik shared, a deep sadness infusing her projection. "Her people slain, her children's children lost. That grief, that profound loss... it is what bound us together."
"I would not be so sure," Orvyn countered gently, his presence steady. "The Ataeru were of three distinct clans, each tied to one of the Primordials, Each gifted a dialect of our speech. Eralia's people, the Silent Leaf, served Bulvulsa the Gale, keepers of the forests and the hidden places. Yet I believe Pyros' clan, the Blazing Hearth, and Sethis' people, the Stone Hand, may yet live, their knowledge passed down in secret, guarding against the shadows."
Kilik's eyes widened as Orvyn spoke this, a sudden surge of possibility chasing away the gloom. "Then... there's a chance." she said, enthused, the word vibrating with fragile hope.
"Indeed," Orvyn responded, his presence pulsing with renewed purpose that mirrored her own. "We must find them, if they yet exist. They may hold the keys to the ancient arts. They can teach you the Ember Tongue, the resonant language of flame and passion, and the Voice Of Stone, the deep speech of the earth and mountains. It is likely these tongues, woven together, will reveal the ancient patois that will guide you to the World Pulse, and help you master your own voice, your connection to the source."
A new cold dread wrapped around Kilik's spirit. "The Horsemen then... are the true threat. Orvyn, you spoke of the Third Astral year... if the pattern repeats, so too will their arrival." She thought of the campaign, the Empire's advance, she couldn't just drop the war to pursue her own endeavors "I cannot allow the Grove to fall to the Clear Rot, to their hunger... but... I am loyal to the empire. They are my people now."
"Continue your campaign of mastery with them," Orvyn instructed, his voice firm but understanding. "Learn from the conflicts, hone your abilities in the crucible of necessity. The universe will conspire to lead you to where you ar4e destined to be... But do not mention the World Pulse to the Empire's leaders, not yet. B'halia would seek to monopolize it, to twist its life-giving power into a tool of war, a weapon wielded against their enemies. The Pulse must not be used as such; it must remain a vestige of resistance, a shield against the greater threat of the Horsemen and other hungers. Promise me this... Kilik."
The weight of the oath settled upon her, a deep, unbreakable resonance. It was a secret burden, a path that might lead her to conflict with those she now served, but it was the only path forward. "I Promise..." Kilik projected, the words firm, sealing the pact.
"Good," Orvyn resonated, his presence beginning to contract slightly, pulling back from the vastness it had occupied. "Now... awake. The journey begins. Again."
And Kilik did just that. As her eyes crept open, the harsh, sterile gleam of B'halian trumping chrome swam into focus, softened by the gentle, glowing tendrils of Sylvan roots woven throughout the ship's med-bay, aiding the healing of her physical form. She was upon the Crimson Cloud Ship, among her unit. Physically, she was still recovering, yet internally, she felt more alive, more aware than she had ever been in her life, a new, terrifying, and utterly vital focus newly lit within her, a quiet hum of ancient song resonating in her very bones. The era of the original Primordials was past, but the era of their legacy renewed, that would spring anew as Kilik carried that weight into a new age.
Orvyn's golden gaze held hers, a slow, powerful expansion of presence filling her inner world. The song of the water dragon deepened, becoming a symphony of countless streams, vast oceans, and underground rivers.
"The mastery begins with understanding, Kilik," Orvyn resonated. "You must learn to navigate this connection, to understand the power that flows through you. Shinjustu...shares a similar cadence to the pulse, I believe that is why I was able to become docile after you tapped into it."
The internal vision began to shift again, moving away from the ancient battles and towards images of the present world – lands struggling, hidden pockets of corruption, but also places of vibrant, untouched life. It was a world that still needed healing, still needed protection. And Orvyn's silent projection made it clear who was now meant to provide it.
"Do you remember where it is? The World Pulse?" Kilik inquired, hope fluttering in her chest. If she could find that, perhaps she could understand everything.
"I... do not," Orvyn said, a note of something akin to weariness entering his resonant hum. "The battle scattered my awareness, anchored only to the echo carried within your blood. However, those we once blessed with our direct teachings, those who served us as guardians and conduits of our will, might still hold onto its location. Your master, Eralia's people, The Ataeru... they might yet know."
Kilik’s internal vision of Eralia's face, etched with grief and loss, rose to the forefront of her mind. She felt her form grimace. "But... My master said she was the last of her kind," Kilik shared, a deep sadness infusing her projection. "Her people slain, her children's children lost. That grief, that profound loss... it is what bound us together."
"I would not be so sure," Orvyn countered gently, his presence steady. "The Ataeru were of three distinct clans, each tied to one of the Primordials, Each gifted a dialect of our speech. Eralia's people, the Silent Leaf, served Bulvulsa the Gale, keepers of the forests and the hidden places. Yet I believe Pyros' clan, the Blazing Hearth, and Sethis' people, the Stone Hand, may yet live, their knowledge passed down in secret, guarding against the shadows."
Kilik's eyes widened as Orvyn spoke this, a sudden surge of possibility chasing away the gloom. "Then... there's a chance." she said, enthused, the word vibrating with fragile hope.
"Indeed," Orvyn responded, his presence pulsing with renewed purpose that mirrored her own. "We must find them, if they yet exist. They may hold the keys to the ancient arts. They can teach you the Ember Tongue, the resonant language of flame and passion, and the Voice Of Stone, the deep speech of the earth and mountains. It is likely these tongues, woven together, will reveal the ancient patois that will guide you to the World Pulse, and help you master your own voice, your connection to the source."
A new cold dread wrapped around Kilik's spirit. "The Horsemen then... are the true threat. Orvyn, you spoke of the Third Astral year... if the pattern repeats, so too will their arrival." She thought of the campaign, the Empire's advance, she couldn't just drop the war to pursue her own endeavors "I cannot allow the Grove to fall to the Clear Rot, to their hunger... but... I am loyal to the empire. They are my people now."
"Continue your campaign of mastery with them," Orvyn instructed, his voice firm but understanding. "Learn from the conflicts, hone your abilities in the crucible of necessity. The universe will conspire to lead you to where you ar4e destined to be... But do not mention the World Pulse to the Empire's leaders, not yet. B'halia would seek to monopolize it, to twist its life-giving power into a tool of war, a weapon wielded against their enemies. The Pulse must not be used as such; it must remain a vestige of resistance, a shield against the greater threat of the Horsemen and other hungers. Promise me this... Kilik."
The weight of the oath settled upon her, a deep, unbreakable resonance. It was a secret burden, a path that might lead her to conflict with those she now served, but it was the only path forward. "I Promise..." Kilik projected, the words firm, sealing the pact.
"Good," Orvyn resonated, his presence beginning to contract slightly, pulling back from the vastness it had occupied. "Now... awake. The journey begins. Again."
And Kilik did just that. As her eyes crept open, the harsh, sterile gleam of B'halian trumping chrome swam into focus, softened by the gentle, glowing tendrils of Sylvan roots woven throughout the ship's med-bay, aiding the healing of her physical form. She was upon the Crimson Cloud Ship, among her unit. Physically, she was still recovering, yet internally, she felt more alive, more aware than she had ever been in her life, a new, terrifying, and utterly vital focus newly lit within her, a quiet hum of ancient song resonating in her very bones. The era of the original Primordials was past, but the era of their legacy renewed, that would spring anew as Kilik carried that weight into a new age.
"I hear the screams of the Ocean, the cries of the waves. The sea floor yearns for healing and begs for retribution. My wish is to grant it"
Re: She Who Dreamed Of Dragons
The heavy cloak of deep slumber began to recede, leaving Kilik with a lingering sense of inertia, yet her body hummed with a newfound, focused energy. She stretched slowly, rolling her shoulders, the joints protesting briefly before settling into a more cooperative rhythm. A hand went to her neck, guiding the movement as she tilted her head side to side, working out the stiffness. Recovery had been deep, guided perhaps by the insights gleaned from Orvyn in that liminal space, and she felt... different. Stronger. More centered.
Just as she pushed herself fully upright from the cot, getting her bearings in the dim, functional light of the recuperation room, the door hissed open. Hethra stepped in, her standard-issue multi-lensed visors reflecting the ambient light. She carried herself with the crisp, alert posture of a B'halian soldier fresh from a mission – in this case, giving her status report.
Then Hethra stopped. She stumbled back slightly, her composure momentarily shattering, replaced by sheer, wide-eyed shock. She clearly hadn't expected Kilik to be back on her feet, looking... well, active, after the relatively brief time that had passed since she'd left for her update.
"Oh...Commander, you're awake." Hethra's voice was a breathy whisper of surprise before the ingrained discipline kicked in. Her spine straightened, and she brought a hand to her forehead in a sharp, respectful bow before her ranking officer.
"Yes..." Kilik replied, the word clipped and simple, her gaze steady on Hethra.
An awkward pause stretched between them, thick with unspoken history and the weight of recent events. Neither seemed entirely sure how to bridge the gap. So much had happened – the mission in Helidor, Kilik and Jack's role in its fate, the consequences, the insights from Orvyn swirling in Kilik's mind. Yet, as Kilik looked into Hethra's earnest, verdant eyes, she could read the disappointment there, a subtle tremor beneath the practiced military bearing. It was a disappointment Kilik felt echoed within her own complex emotions, stirred by Orvyn's perspective and the messy reality of command.
Emotions. They had never been Kilik's strong suit. Despite being able to sense them, and understand why it was people felt the way they did....still, comforting, explaining, soothing – these were not tools in her military kit. Rather than let the uncomfortable silence fester, she defaulted to the familiar, the necessary.
"Well...are you going to just stand there or provide me with a status update?" Her words were cold, sharp, delivered with the impersonal efficiency of a 'B'halian blade cutting through resistance.
There were a thousand things Kilik could have said. Things about her recovery, about Orvyn, about the weight of command, about the B'halians finally feeling like an extended family after a year forged in B'halia's crucible, all moving towards the critical goal of unity. Words that might have softened the edge, perhaps even restored some of the faith she saw dimmed in Hethra's eyes. But coddling was not her style. Not now, not in the middle of a war. She was a ranking officer first, a sister soldier second.
Hethra's gaze flickered downwards for a fleeting moment, unable to completely mask the impact of Kilik's sharp words. The disappointment deepened, a silent hurt acknowledged. But then, the transformation was swift and absolute. The B'halians were soldiers, forged in discipline and duty. Hethra remembered herself, her standing, her Commander's expectation.
"Yes...Right away ma'am." Her voice was crisp, professional once more.
She moved across the small room, pulling up a functional chair directly across from where Kilik stood. Her fingers tapped a mechanism attached to her wrist – a standard B'halian datapad. With a soft hum, a display shimmered into existence between them, a holographic projection centered not on the city of Helidor, but on the vast, smoking chasm where it had once stood.
"After your and Jack's... efforts," Hethra began again, the slightest pause before "efforts" a subtle note of the high cost involved, "the city of Helidor had been primed for annihilation. As per usual protocol, the Mazoku was deployed. A single executioner named, Kuran." An image replaced the chasm view, a grim, detailed projection of Kuran – a hulking mass of ashen fur and coiled muscle, radiating an aura of raw, terrifying power even in holographic form.
"He... and the leader fought." Hethra manipulated the display, rolling back a recording of the short, brutal battle. Erigor, the leader, a figure of undeniable power, moved with a desperate, almost beautiful fury. He unleashed techniques that twisted the very laws of nature, tearing at reality itself. And yet, against Kuran, it was all for naught. The Mazoku Executioner endured every impossible attack, moving with an implacable, overwhelming might that obliterated Erigor with chilling finality.
Kilik's eyes narrowed just a fraction, her jaw tightening. She had heard the legends, the fearful whispers about the Mazoku's resilience, their horrifying power. To witness even this fragmented playback, seeing Erigor's extraordinary efforts rendered futile against Kuran's sheer, devastating force... it was awe-inspiring, most terrifyingly. The Mazoku were not just powerful; they were a force of nature given form.
"So none remain?" Kilik inquired, her voice low, resonating with the grim reality of the display.
"While we believe some might have been able to flee through lower conduits before the full collapse," Hethra said, her fingers working the data once more, pulling up bio-scan readings overlaying the chasm projection, "our internal scans showed no sign of life by the time Kuran departed the primary zone."
The chasm hologram returned, stark and empty.
"I see...." Kilik said, the word heavy. She pondered the battle she had just witnessed, the casual, devastating power of the Mazoku Executioner, the complete annihilation of a city and its inhabitants. The resiliency of the Mazoku, the fact of their terrifying might, had been more than confirmed. It had been demonstrated in a way that left a cold, specific understanding in its wake. The war was far from over.
Just as she pushed herself fully upright from the cot, getting her bearings in the dim, functional light of the recuperation room, the door hissed open. Hethra stepped in, her standard-issue multi-lensed visors reflecting the ambient light. She carried herself with the crisp, alert posture of a B'halian soldier fresh from a mission – in this case, giving her status report.
Then Hethra stopped. She stumbled back slightly, her composure momentarily shattering, replaced by sheer, wide-eyed shock. She clearly hadn't expected Kilik to be back on her feet, looking... well, active, after the relatively brief time that had passed since she'd left for her update.
"Oh...Commander, you're awake." Hethra's voice was a breathy whisper of surprise before the ingrained discipline kicked in. Her spine straightened, and she brought a hand to her forehead in a sharp, respectful bow before her ranking officer.
"Yes..." Kilik replied, the word clipped and simple, her gaze steady on Hethra.
An awkward pause stretched between them, thick with unspoken history and the weight of recent events. Neither seemed entirely sure how to bridge the gap. So much had happened – the mission in Helidor, Kilik and Jack's role in its fate, the consequences, the insights from Orvyn swirling in Kilik's mind. Yet, as Kilik looked into Hethra's earnest, verdant eyes, she could read the disappointment there, a subtle tremor beneath the practiced military bearing. It was a disappointment Kilik felt echoed within her own complex emotions, stirred by Orvyn's perspective and the messy reality of command.
Emotions. They had never been Kilik's strong suit. Despite being able to sense them, and understand why it was people felt the way they did....still, comforting, explaining, soothing – these were not tools in her military kit. Rather than let the uncomfortable silence fester, she defaulted to the familiar, the necessary.
"Well...are you going to just stand there or provide me with a status update?" Her words were cold, sharp, delivered with the impersonal efficiency of a 'B'halian blade cutting through resistance.
There were a thousand things Kilik could have said. Things about her recovery, about Orvyn, about the weight of command, about the B'halians finally feeling like an extended family after a year forged in B'halia's crucible, all moving towards the critical goal of unity. Words that might have softened the edge, perhaps even restored some of the faith she saw dimmed in Hethra's eyes. But coddling was not her style. Not now, not in the middle of a war. She was a ranking officer first, a sister soldier second.
Hethra's gaze flickered downwards for a fleeting moment, unable to completely mask the impact of Kilik's sharp words. The disappointment deepened, a silent hurt acknowledged. But then, the transformation was swift and absolute. The B'halians were soldiers, forged in discipline and duty. Hethra remembered herself, her standing, her Commander's expectation.
"Yes...Right away ma'am." Her voice was crisp, professional once more.
She moved across the small room, pulling up a functional chair directly across from where Kilik stood. Her fingers tapped a mechanism attached to her wrist – a standard B'halian datapad. With a soft hum, a display shimmered into existence between them, a holographic projection centered not on the city of Helidor, but on the vast, smoking chasm where it had once stood.
"After your and Jack's... efforts," Hethra began again, the slightest pause before "efforts" a subtle note of the high cost involved, "the city of Helidor had been primed for annihilation. As per usual protocol, the Mazoku was deployed. A single executioner named, Kuran." An image replaced the chasm view, a grim, detailed projection of Kuran – a hulking mass of ashen fur and coiled muscle, radiating an aura of raw, terrifying power even in holographic form.
"He... and the leader fought." Hethra manipulated the display, rolling back a recording of the short, brutal battle. Erigor, the leader, a figure of undeniable power, moved with a desperate, almost beautiful fury. He unleashed techniques that twisted the very laws of nature, tearing at reality itself. And yet, against Kuran, it was all for naught. The Mazoku Executioner endured every impossible attack, moving with an implacable, overwhelming might that obliterated Erigor with chilling finality.
Kilik's eyes narrowed just a fraction, her jaw tightening. She had heard the legends, the fearful whispers about the Mazoku's resilience, their horrifying power. To witness even this fragmented playback, seeing Erigor's extraordinary efforts rendered futile against Kuran's sheer, devastating force... it was awe-inspiring, most terrifyingly. The Mazoku were not just powerful; they were a force of nature given form.
"So none remain?" Kilik inquired, her voice low, resonating with the grim reality of the display.
"While we believe some might have been able to flee through lower conduits before the full collapse," Hethra said, her fingers working the data once more, pulling up bio-scan readings overlaying the chasm projection, "our internal scans showed no sign of life by the time Kuran departed the primary zone."
The chasm hologram returned, stark and empty.
"I see...." Kilik said, the word heavy. She pondered the battle she had just witnessed, the casual, devastating power of the Mazoku Executioner, the complete annihilation of a city and its inhabitants. The resiliency of the Mazoku, the fact of their terrifying might, had been more than confirmed. It had been demonstrated in a way that left a cold, specific understanding in its wake. The war was far from over.
Last edited by Kilik on Mon Jun 23, 2025 11:04 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"I hear the screams of the Ocean, the cries of the waves. The sea floor yearns for healing and begs for retribution. My wish is to grant it"
-
The Bhalian Empire
- War Herald
- Posts: 78
- Joined: Sun Jan 14, 2024 4:09 pm
Re: She Who Dreamed Of Dragons
A sharp chime pierced the silence—a crystalline tone that echoed from the ship’s embedded speakers, resonating through every corridor, chamber, and pressure-sealed bulkhead aboard the Crimson Cloud.
Then came the voice—measured, metallic, and unshakably calm.
“Attention all personnel aboard the Crimson Cloud. This is Command Control. We are now entering Bhalian sovereign airspace.”
“Estimated time to descent: seventeen minutes. All crew prepare for disembarkation. Maintain formation and observe standard decontamination procedures upon landing.”
“Be advised: all external communications remain sealed under Order Code IX-13 until further notice. Debriefing will commence under the oversight of Commander Delion. All captains are to remain in restricted zones until summoned for preliminary hearings.”
“Repeat—Bhalian skies confirmed. Touchdown imminent.”
The announcement swept through every square inch of the warship—from the quiet steel of the barracks and the dim-lit walkways of the hangar, all the way to the sterile silence of the medical bay, where bodies stirred beneath sheets and flickering monitors.
Then came the voice—measured, metallic, and unshakably calm.
“Attention all personnel aboard the Crimson Cloud. This is Command Control. We are now entering Bhalian sovereign airspace.”
“Estimated time to descent: seventeen minutes. All crew prepare for disembarkation. Maintain formation and observe standard decontamination procedures upon landing.”
“Be advised: all external communications remain sealed under Order Code IX-13 until further notice. Debriefing will commence under the oversight of Commander Delion. All captains are to remain in restricted zones until summoned for preliminary hearings.”
“Repeat—Bhalian skies confirmed. Touchdown imminent.”
The announcement swept through every square inch of the warship—from the quiet steel of the barracks and the dim-lit walkways of the hangar, all the way to the sterile silence of the medical bay, where bodies stirred beneath sheets and flickering monitors.
Re: She Who Dreamed Of Dragons
The hum of the Crimson Cloud's engine was a low thrum beneath them, a constant reminder of their displacement, their mission, and their sudden, inexplicable return. Hethra's verdant eyes flickered nervously between the data pad in her hands and the imposing figure of Kilik, who stood nearby, a silent storm waiting to break. There was a knot in Hethra's stomach, a tangled mess of regret and tentative hope. Should she speak? Offer an apology for the sharp words exchanged during their last, chaotic encounter? Words born less of malice and more of sheer, raw terror mixed with resentment.
Kilik, ever perceptive, could practically taste the unease wafting from Hethra like the dry, muffled heat of a Muvian breeze. It clung to the air between them, thick and heavy. Kilik’s gaze, usually sharp and unwavering, softened almost imperceptibly as she prepared to respond to the unspoken apology she felt brewing in the Sylvan elv.
But the moment was shattered. The intercom on the Crimson Cloud crackled to life, its voice ringing loud enough to cut through the ship's ambient noise and their fragile tension. The directive was clear, stark, and utterly unexpected: return home.
A part of Kilik had braced herself for the opposite – for them to scour the scorched plains of Muu in a blistering, wanton display of mayhem and destruction, a final, punishing act before departure. This silence, this sudden withdrawal, felt profoundly wrong. Something else was amidst, something significant enough that they were ordered to cease all briefing and external communication immediately. The order only fueled Kilik's inquisition, a sense of dread tightening in her chest. Such actions typically signified a need to keep something low, to contain a wildfire of information or consequence before it could spread.
Her thoughts, despite herself, drifted to Qualen and the others from her squad. What had become of them? So far, she had only seen Hethra among the survivors plucked from the Muuvian dust. Perhaps the others felt as Hethra had, wounded and resentful, convinced that Kilik cared little for their lives, their struggles, their efforts.
It was a cruel irony. In truth, it wasn't that Kilik didn't care; not entirely. Hethra, after all, had only survived because of Kilik's decisive, brutal actions. What the young elv was only beginning to grasp, slowly and painfully, was that she simply could not afford to be constantly weighed down by the lives of those... those simply not powerful enough to stand beside her in the crucible of their existence. It was a harsh truth, one written in the blood and dust of this latest invasion. What she was...what she had yet to become, may be beyond what Hethra could understand....
"Well... I should prepare for landing," Kilik said, her voice returning to its usual measured cadence, though a faint undercurrent of distraction lingered. She moved purposefully, standing from her seat.
"Yes... of course..." Hethra replied, her voice small, looking away towards the viewport that showed nothing but the deep, star-dusted black of space.
Kilik walked past her, her boots making soft, rhythmic taps on the deck plating. The door hissed open ahead of her, light from the corridor spilling into the room. Yet, just as she was about to step through, she stopped. She didn't turn fully, only angled her head slightly back.
"Hethra..."
She said her name, and the sound carried an unfamiliar candor, a note of something softer, more vulnerable, not laced with the typical hard resolve Hethra might have become numbingly familiar with.
"Know that come whatever may, you...are probably the closest thing I've ever had to a friend."
Hethra's eyes widened, snapping back to Kilik's form. The unexpected admission hung in the air, stark against the backdrop of their previous, turbulent interactions. A flicker of warmth ignited in Hethra's chest, fragile and hesitant.
But then Kilik continued, her voice hardening slightly, the familiar steel returning. "But... only the strong are fit to remain at my side." The sentiment, delivered immediately after the rare confession, was a cold splash of reality. "May the Zenith... continue to embolden your resolve."
Then she left, the sound of her boots receding down the corridor. The doors hissed shut behind her, the closing final and absolute. Hethra was left alone in the fading light, the data pad forgotten in her hand, the weight of Kilik's contradictory words settling upon her like a heavy shroud. Friend... but only if strong enough. It was the Kilik Hethra knew, yet with a fleeting glimpse of a woman she barely understood at all. And now, they were going home, to face whatever demanded such silence.
Kilik, ever perceptive, could practically taste the unease wafting from Hethra like the dry, muffled heat of a Muvian breeze. It clung to the air between them, thick and heavy. Kilik’s gaze, usually sharp and unwavering, softened almost imperceptibly as she prepared to respond to the unspoken apology she felt brewing in the Sylvan elv.
But the moment was shattered. The intercom on the Crimson Cloud crackled to life, its voice ringing loud enough to cut through the ship's ambient noise and their fragile tension. The directive was clear, stark, and utterly unexpected: return home.
A part of Kilik had braced herself for the opposite – for them to scour the scorched plains of Muu in a blistering, wanton display of mayhem and destruction, a final, punishing act before departure. This silence, this sudden withdrawal, felt profoundly wrong. Something else was amidst, something significant enough that they were ordered to cease all briefing and external communication immediately. The order only fueled Kilik's inquisition, a sense of dread tightening in her chest. Such actions typically signified a need to keep something low, to contain a wildfire of information or consequence before it could spread.
Her thoughts, despite herself, drifted to Qualen and the others from her squad. What had become of them? So far, she had only seen Hethra among the survivors plucked from the Muuvian dust. Perhaps the others felt as Hethra had, wounded and resentful, convinced that Kilik cared little for their lives, their struggles, their efforts.
It was a cruel irony. In truth, it wasn't that Kilik didn't care; not entirely. Hethra, after all, had only survived because of Kilik's decisive, brutal actions. What the young elv was only beginning to grasp, slowly and painfully, was that she simply could not afford to be constantly weighed down by the lives of those... those simply not powerful enough to stand beside her in the crucible of their existence. It was a harsh truth, one written in the blood and dust of this latest invasion. What she was...what she had yet to become, may be beyond what Hethra could understand....
"Well... I should prepare for landing," Kilik said, her voice returning to its usual measured cadence, though a faint undercurrent of distraction lingered. She moved purposefully, standing from her seat.
"Yes... of course..." Hethra replied, her voice small, looking away towards the viewport that showed nothing but the deep, star-dusted black of space.
Kilik walked past her, her boots making soft, rhythmic taps on the deck plating. The door hissed open ahead of her, light from the corridor spilling into the room. Yet, just as she was about to step through, she stopped. She didn't turn fully, only angled her head slightly back.
"Hethra..."
She said her name, and the sound carried an unfamiliar candor, a note of something softer, more vulnerable, not laced with the typical hard resolve Hethra might have become numbingly familiar with.
"Know that come whatever may, you...are probably the closest thing I've ever had to a friend."
Hethra's eyes widened, snapping back to Kilik's form. The unexpected admission hung in the air, stark against the backdrop of their previous, turbulent interactions. A flicker of warmth ignited in Hethra's chest, fragile and hesitant.
But then Kilik continued, her voice hardening slightly, the familiar steel returning. "But... only the strong are fit to remain at my side." The sentiment, delivered immediately after the rare confession, was a cold splash of reality. "May the Zenith... continue to embolden your resolve."
Then she left, the sound of her boots receding down the corridor. The doors hissed shut behind her, the closing final and absolute. Hethra was left alone in the fading light, the data pad forgotten in her hand, the weight of Kilik's contradictory words settling upon her like a heavy shroud. Friend... but only if strong enough. It was the Kilik Hethra knew, yet with a fleeting glimpse of a woman she barely understood at all. And now, they were going home, to face whatever demanded such silence.
"I hear the screams of the Ocean, the cries of the waves. The sea floor yearns for healing and begs for retribution. My wish is to grant it"
The team