- Joined
- Sep 6, 2008
- Messages
- 200
Atteruce had been expecting them. “Affirmative Chalice of Piety, welcome to Atteruce. Landing permission granted, transmitting co-ordinates.”
The co-ordinates led them straight to the Xellased’s primary government building, a millenia-old monument to the truth of Order and Xellased way of life. It only partially obeyed the typical Xellased building standards, standing out marvellously against the backdrop of the city.
It was perfectly symmetrical, every angle and detail having been painstakingly recorded and reproduced on the other side of the towering structure. It was made of a white, stone-like material that glowed with a soft inner light and would have been incomprehensibly valuable by human standards, although the organism would most likely have protested should one try and remove pieces of it, and despite it seemingly unarmed status it was more than capable of responding to threats. It was a graceful building, with no sharp edges on its exterior, rising high into the sky like a glowing tree. It opened up at the top in a manner faintly reminiscent of a flower, a three dimensional holographic image of the symbol of Order projected from the five curving spires that could be seen everywhere in the city. The Council chambers themselves were near the bottom of the tree, safe from harm where at the top they would have made an attractive target for assassination. There was one entrance, a set of double doors made of the same material around twenty feet tall and ten wide that would open as one approached, thanks to the building itself. From there a Xellased guard waited, clad in green armour with a black cape hanging from his shoulders, a ceremonial halberd clutched in his hands. That guard would guide the Ignisato delegation to the Council chambers, when they arrived.
Within the structure itself, the Council gathered. They had decided early on that only one representative from each of the castes, rather than the two they had, would go to each summit. In effect, that meant that Constructor Lord Zor’ol, Primary Organicist Vil’al and Sut’rinos Zra’ha would be present at this meet.
Zor’ol and Vil’al looked at each other, smiling as the guard reported that the Sut’rinos and Inquisitor had arrived. They had yet to tell him. However, he was by far the most qualified Sut’rinso they had they had, and since he had been out of reach Inquisitor Zir’el had filled in for him last time. Zor’ol nodded,and looked to the guard. “Show them in.”
Zra’ha watched the guard leaving, before looking at Vel’os. “Ceremonial equipment?”
“It is far more functional than you believe.” Zra’ha conceded that this was probably true, and returned to his contemplations. It was hardly a minute later when the guard returned, armour announcing his approach long before he came into view, waving the pair forwards.
They followed in his wake, leaving the antechamber and entering a long hallway. Their armour clattered as they went, looking at the walls as they did so. As the only way into the central Council chambers it was highly decorated, the stones above them bathing the hallway in white light. The walls were covered in an elaborate fresco, done in exquisite detail that would leave a huge number of so-called artists ashamed at the crudeness of their own drawings.
This single hallway broke every last tradition in Xellased architecture. Zra’ha found his eyes following the right wall as he went, realising that each section represented a key turning point in Xellased history. The formation of their people as a whole, banding together against a hostile and uncaring world to create this city and others like it, bulwarks against the terror. There, the first of the great alliances, depicting a pair of Xellased against the backdrop of Atteruce in the day, nowhere near its majesty today. Surrounded by a cheering populace, the pair of long-dead heroes were bowing to each other, starting a trend that would continue on until the whole planet was unified under one banner, one elected ruler.
Zra’ha was not surprised that they did not omit the next one, as they were not in the habit of lying about their past, but still he could not help but feel that commissioning this particular section of the fresco had been a bad idea. His lip curled in deeply-ingrained disgust at the very thought of it, although he had to admit that the artists had not allowed their hatred of the event to diminish their talents, for it was as exquisite as the rest of it, if not more so.
Where he found his eyes slipping away from the others, he could not draw his eyes away from this section.
The War of the Sovereign.
Cities burned, vast pillars of smoke arising from dying cities to choke the skies, their populace butchered like cattle to suit the mad whims of a tyrant. Daemonic soldiers, spikes protruding from blackened armour and wielding horrifically distorted weapons, twisted, chipped blades and hell-spawned guns, revelling in the chaos as they gunned down all those who tried to escape. The few attempts at resistance were slaughtered mercilessly, and Zra’ha saw a representation of just that - his city crashing down around him, the few guards still loyal to him dead around him, and still a nameless Lord fought on. His once-proud robes were ripped and torn, mere rags on a form of broken bones and shattered dreams, and still he fought on. The top portion of his blade had been shattered, desperation and fury plain on his face as the blood, and still he fought on. The forces of chaos were forced to climb over a wall of their own dead to get at him, and for every man he killed two more scaled the wall to die screaming upon his sword, and still he fought on.
For every battle-honour a thousand heroes die alone, unsung and unremembered. The next part of the fresco depicted his decapitated head on a pike, with jeering servants of chaos surrounding it as whoever was left were herded into flaming structures to burn.
But it was to end, of course. After several slides of death and destruction, something new emerged. A giant of a Xellased, meeting the foes of Order head on and slaughtering all in his wake. The expressions on their faces changed, going from gloating to fearful, roaring in savage joy to screaming in abject terror, begging for their miserable lives before they met their well-deserved ends, pulped under his boots, blown apart by his guns or cut down with his halberd. There, wading into a sea of abominations, vile products of malpractised biotengineering, the gun in his left hand chattering, halberd lashing out and crackling with power, a stalwart honour guard right behind him in a wedge as they drove in towards the foe, smaller in stature but no less courageous. Again, fury suffusing their features, they fought and killed and spilt blood to defend a small village from chaos ravagers. A third image, the giant in gold standing atop a mountain of chaot corpses, a flag with the symbol that would soon come to be accepted as that of Order emblazoned on it held aloft in one hand, halberd stabbing down into a traitor’s face. Under that banner they would go on to countless victories, raising it over innumerable battlefields - an open book, the free thought the Sovereign found so intolerable, with a corona of light surrounding it.
More joined his band, cutting a swathe of ‘holy’ justice across the land, until Zra’ha found his eyes turning towards the part of the fresco directly over the door. The two symmetrical sides flooded together over the entrance, a titanic struggle, thousands of Xellased throwing themselves at each other with the ferocity born only of righteous hatred and manic bloodlust. Swords, axes, maces, hammers, their edges glowing with power, rose and fell, reaping a bloody tally. Bullets and beams lanced between the two sides, gunning each other down in incredibly quantities as they rushed forwards to exact their vengeance in hand to hand combat. Aerial craft dogfighted overhead, firing just as much at each other as their guns lanced into the host below. And, above it all, standing on the precipice of a cliff and larger than life, the Last Sovereign and the giant in gold...
Died.
His armour in tatters, his halberd in pieces and a sword thrust up to the hilt into his body, bursting out the other side in a shower of gore, the giant in gold howled his final, fatal defiance into the face of his foe. Red eyes widened in terror and fear, the Last Sovereign reached forth with hands that had known not a drop of water and a river of blood since his ascension to take the giant in gold screaming into hell with him, his chest exploding. The bright yellow beam that had performed this act hung suspended in mid-air for all time, extending from the barrel of a simple farmer’s rifle, his face twisted in despair and fury, tears flowing down his cheeks.
That war had decimated them, a black mark forever upon their souls. They had learned from it however, those few left alive resolving never to allow such an atrocity to happen once more. It had given rise to the prominence of Order, the teachings of which had not been doubted in hundreds of years. It had spawned the Inquisition, an organisation dedicated to seeking out any possible signs of this ever occurring again and expunging them without remorse or regret. They had known peace and prosperity for decades upon decades upon decades, paragons of virtue and justice, never once falling to the taint of chaos after that day.
Research had been slow to begin, but it had turned away from weapons. They had developed medicines, life extension treatments, star-swimmers, vessels that could travel unharmed to the very depths of their oceans and bring back remarkable news of the hidden worlds that existed parallel to their own. They may be aquatic by nature, but they would have been crushed before they ever reached that far.
And then, five hundred years ago, the Inquisition had developed the wormhole drive. Far, far earlier than the rest of their race, they had set out into the stars, one lone vessel bound for the far reaches of the galaxy. It had taken a very long time, but eventually they made it.
That particular vessel returned undermanned, broken and sullied, defiled by the forces of chaos. Horrified at this, the Inquisition had immediately done their best to turn research back to weapons technologies, but by then the alterations to their psyche were too extensive, for few saw the need to continue work into weapons technologies. In the interests of safeguarding Order from the forces of chaos, who still existed although they were being hunted down ruthlessly by the Inquisition, but they needed more effective equipment. Organicists were contacted, and put onto the task of reviving their weapons research. In short order they had managed to return their weapons technology to what it used to be, and surpassed it soon afterwards - particle weapons were upgraded, going from rare and valuable pieces of equipment to a standard sidearm. High-pressure suits were converted to be useful as sealed armour systems, so they could operate in vacuums and other hostile situations, and then improved upon so they were not simply jury-rigged shielding. Eventually, over the course of time, they rearmed their civilisation for the conflict that was almost certainly bound to come.
Few knew of this, and Zra’ha was reasonably confident that he was the only one outside of the Inquisition and highest levels of the other orders who was aware of it.
The wooden, living doors opened seemingly by themselves, the palace responding to their presence. The guard saluted the Council, before stepping aside. “My Lord, Lady.” Zra’ha bowed, hearing Vel’os do the same beside him.
“Sut’rinos, Inquisitor, it is a pleasure to see you well once more. Please, both of you, join us.” Zra’ha caught onto his meaning almost immediately, cocking his head in puzzlement. “I apologise that we did not inform you sooner, however you were unavailable for a large quantity of time. We wish you both to take part in this year’s meet with the Ignisato.”
“Very well.” His composure reasserted itself instantly, and Zra’ha strode forth to take the place beside Zor’ol, Vel’os next to him. The only empty seats left were on the opposite side of the circular table, reserved for the Ignisato delegation. The guard left the room, and once more it was all silent, waiting only for the Ignisato. They had not counted on Vel’os, but decided to include her anyway after a moment’s discussion when they had realised she was here too.
Then they waited for the Ignisato.
The co-ordinates led them straight to the Xellased’s primary government building, a millenia-old monument to the truth of Order and Xellased way of life. It only partially obeyed the typical Xellased building standards, standing out marvellously against the backdrop of the city.
It was perfectly symmetrical, every angle and detail having been painstakingly recorded and reproduced on the other side of the towering structure. It was made of a white, stone-like material that glowed with a soft inner light and would have been incomprehensibly valuable by human standards, although the organism would most likely have protested should one try and remove pieces of it, and despite it seemingly unarmed status it was more than capable of responding to threats. It was a graceful building, with no sharp edges on its exterior, rising high into the sky like a glowing tree. It opened up at the top in a manner faintly reminiscent of a flower, a three dimensional holographic image of the symbol of Order projected from the five curving spires that could be seen everywhere in the city. The Council chambers themselves were near the bottom of the tree, safe from harm where at the top they would have made an attractive target for assassination. There was one entrance, a set of double doors made of the same material around twenty feet tall and ten wide that would open as one approached, thanks to the building itself. From there a Xellased guard waited, clad in green armour with a black cape hanging from his shoulders, a ceremonial halberd clutched in his hands. That guard would guide the Ignisato delegation to the Council chambers, when they arrived.
Within the structure itself, the Council gathered. They had decided early on that only one representative from each of the castes, rather than the two they had, would go to each summit. In effect, that meant that Constructor Lord Zor’ol, Primary Organicist Vil’al and Sut’rinos Zra’ha would be present at this meet.
Zor’ol and Vil’al looked at each other, smiling as the guard reported that the Sut’rinos and Inquisitor had arrived. They had yet to tell him. However, he was by far the most qualified Sut’rinso they had they had, and since he had been out of reach Inquisitor Zir’el had filled in for him last time. Zor’ol nodded,and looked to the guard. “Show them in.”
Zra’ha watched the guard leaving, before looking at Vel’os. “Ceremonial equipment?”
“It is far more functional than you believe.” Zra’ha conceded that this was probably true, and returned to his contemplations. It was hardly a minute later when the guard returned, armour announcing his approach long before he came into view, waving the pair forwards.
They followed in his wake, leaving the antechamber and entering a long hallway. Their armour clattered as they went, looking at the walls as they did so. As the only way into the central Council chambers it was highly decorated, the stones above them bathing the hallway in white light. The walls were covered in an elaborate fresco, done in exquisite detail that would leave a huge number of so-called artists ashamed at the crudeness of their own drawings.
This single hallway broke every last tradition in Xellased architecture. Zra’ha found his eyes following the right wall as he went, realising that each section represented a key turning point in Xellased history. The formation of their people as a whole, banding together against a hostile and uncaring world to create this city and others like it, bulwarks against the terror. There, the first of the great alliances, depicting a pair of Xellased against the backdrop of Atteruce in the day, nowhere near its majesty today. Surrounded by a cheering populace, the pair of long-dead heroes were bowing to each other, starting a trend that would continue on until the whole planet was unified under one banner, one elected ruler.
Zra’ha was not surprised that they did not omit the next one, as they were not in the habit of lying about their past, but still he could not help but feel that commissioning this particular section of the fresco had been a bad idea. His lip curled in deeply-ingrained disgust at the very thought of it, although he had to admit that the artists had not allowed their hatred of the event to diminish their talents, for it was as exquisite as the rest of it, if not more so.
Where he found his eyes slipping away from the others, he could not draw his eyes away from this section.
The War of the Sovereign.
Cities burned, vast pillars of smoke arising from dying cities to choke the skies, their populace butchered like cattle to suit the mad whims of a tyrant. Daemonic soldiers, spikes protruding from blackened armour and wielding horrifically distorted weapons, twisted, chipped blades and hell-spawned guns, revelling in the chaos as they gunned down all those who tried to escape. The few attempts at resistance were slaughtered mercilessly, and Zra’ha saw a representation of just that - his city crashing down around him, the few guards still loyal to him dead around him, and still a nameless Lord fought on. His once-proud robes were ripped and torn, mere rags on a form of broken bones and shattered dreams, and still he fought on. The top portion of his blade had been shattered, desperation and fury plain on his face as the blood, and still he fought on. The forces of chaos were forced to climb over a wall of their own dead to get at him, and for every man he killed two more scaled the wall to die screaming upon his sword, and still he fought on.
For every battle-honour a thousand heroes die alone, unsung and unremembered. The next part of the fresco depicted his decapitated head on a pike, with jeering servants of chaos surrounding it as whoever was left were herded into flaming structures to burn.
But it was to end, of course. After several slides of death and destruction, something new emerged. A giant of a Xellased, meeting the foes of Order head on and slaughtering all in his wake. The expressions on their faces changed, going from gloating to fearful, roaring in savage joy to screaming in abject terror, begging for their miserable lives before they met their well-deserved ends, pulped under his boots, blown apart by his guns or cut down with his halberd. There, wading into a sea of abominations, vile products of malpractised biotengineering, the gun in his left hand chattering, halberd lashing out and crackling with power, a stalwart honour guard right behind him in a wedge as they drove in towards the foe, smaller in stature but no less courageous. Again, fury suffusing their features, they fought and killed and spilt blood to defend a small village from chaos ravagers. A third image, the giant in gold standing atop a mountain of chaot corpses, a flag with the symbol that would soon come to be accepted as that of Order emblazoned on it held aloft in one hand, halberd stabbing down into a traitor’s face. Under that banner they would go on to countless victories, raising it over innumerable battlefields - an open book, the free thought the Sovereign found so intolerable, with a corona of light surrounding it.
More joined his band, cutting a swathe of ‘holy’ justice across the land, until Zra’ha found his eyes turning towards the part of the fresco directly over the door. The two symmetrical sides flooded together over the entrance, a titanic struggle, thousands of Xellased throwing themselves at each other with the ferocity born only of righteous hatred and manic bloodlust. Swords, axes, maces, hammers, their edges glowing with power, rose and fell, reaping a bloody tally. Bullets and beams lanced between the two sides, gunning each other down in incredibly quantities as they rushed forwards to exact their vengeance in hand to hand combat. Aerial craft dogfighted overhead, firing just as much at each other as their guns lanced into the host below. And, above it all, standing on the precipice of a cliff and larger than life, the Last Sovereign and the giant in gold...
Died.
His armour in tatters, his halberd in pieces and a sword thrust up to the hilt into his body, bursting out the other side in a shower of gore, the giant in gold howled his final, fatal defiance into the face of his foe. Red eyes widened in terror and fear, the Last Sovereign reached forth with hands that had known not a drop of water and a river of blood since his ascension to take the giant in gold screaming into hell with him, his chest exploding. The bright yellow beam that had performed this act hung suspended in mid-air for all time, extending from the barrel of a simple farmer’s rifle, his face twisted in despair and fury, tears flowing down his cheeks.
That war had decimated them, a black mark forever upon their souls. They had learned from it however, those few left alive resolving never to allow such an atrocity to happen once more. It had given rise to the prominence of Order, the teachings of which had not been doubted in hundreds of years. It had spawned the Inquisition, an organisation dedicated to seeking out any possible signs of this ever occurring again and expunging them without remorse or regret. They had known peace and prosperity for decades upon decades upon decades, paragons of virtue and justice, never once falling to the taint of chaos after that day.
Research had been slow to begin, but it had turned away from weapons. They had developed medicines, life extension treatments, star-swimmers, vessels that could travel unharmed to the very depths of their oceans and bring back remarkable news of the hidden worlds that existed parallel to their own. They may be aquatic by nature, but they would have been crushed before they ever reached that far.
And then, five hundred years ago, the Inquisition had developed the wormhole drive. Far, far earlier than the rest of their race, they had set out into the stars, one lone vessel bound for the far reaches of the galaxy. It had taken a very long time, but eventually they made it.
That particular vessel returned undermanned, broken and sullied, defiled by the forces of chaos. Horrified at this, the Inquisition had immediately done their best to turn research back to weapons technologies, but by then the alterations to their psyche were too extensive, for few saw the need to continue work into weapons technologies. In the interests of safeguarding Order from the forces of chaos, who still existed although they were being hunted down ruthlessly by the Inquisition, but they needed more effective equipment. Organicists were contacted, and put onto the task of reviving their weapons research. In short order they had managed to return their weapons technology to what it used to be, and surpassed it soon afterwards - particle weapons were upgraded, going from rare and valuable pieces of equipment to a standard sidearm. High-pressure suits were converted to be useful as sealed armour systems, so they could operate in vacuums and other hostile situations, and then improved upon so they were not simply jury-rigged shielding. Eventually, over the course of time, they rearmed their civilisation for the conflict that was almost certainly bound to come.
Few knew of this, and Zra’ha was reasonably confident that he was the only one outside of the Inquisition and highest levels of the other orders who was aware of it.
The wooden, living doors opened seemingly by themselves, the palace responding to their presence. The guard saluted the Council, before stepping aside. “My Lord, Lady.” Zra’ha bowed, hearing Vel’os do the same beside him.
“Sut’rinos, Inquisitor, it is a pleasure to see you well once more. Please, both of you, join us.” Zra’ha caught onto his meaning almost immediately, cocking his head in puzzlement. “I apologise that we did not inform you sooner, however you were unavailable for a large quantity of time. We wish you both to take part in this year’s meet with the Ignisato.”
“Very well.” His composure reasserted itself instantly, and Zra’ha strode forth to take the place beside Zor’ol, Vel’os next to him. The only empty seats left were on the opposite side of the circular table, reserved for the Ignisato delegation. The guard left the room, and once more it was all silent, waiting only for the Ignisato. They had not counted on Vel’os, but decided to include her anyway after a moment’s discussion when they had realised she was here too.
Then they waited for the Ignisato.
