Basic Information
Full Name: Watari Devante of Obsidian Canyon, The philosopher, Artist of war, Scourge of humanity,
Breaker of insurrections, General of beasts, and the sullied, first of his name and first of his kin.
Nicknames: None.
Titles: Everything after Devante
Race: Kitsune (Half-human but rejects this part of his heritage.)
Gender: Male
Day of Birth: 19 years before the 19th era
Age: 32
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Family- Matsumota Devante, Mother
Beris, Deadbeat father
Myan, Sister
Jinistu, Brother
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Hair: Naturally red, however, he can paint his mane any color, turning jet black like ink when he channels his chi.
Skin: Tan
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Eyes: Can shift due to his ink.
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Height: 6' 4
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Weight: 240Lbs
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Place of Residence: Sandslout
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Place of Birth: Sandslout
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Alignment: Neutral
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Relationship: Single
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​Sexual Orientation: Straight
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Personality: Artistic, poetic, philosophical.
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Appearance: Tall, muscular with flawless skin.
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Distinctive Marks: The magical ink engraved in the form of tattoos on his skin, they pulsate and wane as he draws on his magical pool.
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Traits: Collective, reserved, calculative, tactician.
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Faults: Naive, overly optimistic, blind loyalty
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​Senses: Racial Abilities
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Equipment- Steel Greatsword 6ft in reach, enchanted to serve as a conduit for his spells, two paintbrushes to channel his magic.
Racial Abilities:
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Speed- A kitsune is able to reach a max speed of 30 mph due to its heritage as fox spirits. Making them quick opportune hunters, able to chase down their prey for extended periods of time with the right cardiovascular workout routines.
Strength- Throughout the White Sand’s history, the Kitsune have served as loyal guardians and warriors of the state. They were being seen as a spiritual reflection of the cunning will of the people. As well as a manifestation of their inner spiritual strength. Their people, while far from the most physically strong creatures of the realm, can be as much as 2x stronger than their human counterparts, lifting a max of 500lbs. The increase in muscle density to make this possible also, in turn, makes their muscular system more durable than your average mortals.
Flexibility- Nimble and agile by trade, the proud kitsune race are the embodiment of a graceful predator. Able to bend their form as much as the most efficient human contortionist. While benign able to jump up to twice their total heights. From a young age, they are trained in the acrobatics arts, for it is believed that combat is an art form much like a fine waltz. Even those that never taste blood still have an appreciation for the art due to their ancestors and cultural beliefs.
Smell- Kitsunes can smell up to 2 miles away in favorable conditions. Aiding them in tracking and chasing down their prey. An evolutionary trait that has surprisingly not weakened with time. While not perfect, the predators can pinpoint the general location and approach of their target. But like any animal, this sense can be tricked with enough wit.
Hearing- Their animal-like ears are well-developed tools of their craft, the product of countless years of evolutionary progress. A kitsune's hearing is 3-4 times greater than that of your normal human, permitting them to get the general location of their foe even when their vision and other senses are robbed of them.
Unique Trait
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Stillness (stance)- The Devante art, passed down from generation to generation of the line. A rare, potent ability that grants the user the ability to sense magical properties with semi clarity. This means that while Watari can sense something is coming, the exact nature, velocity, angle, mass, or nature of the attack remain obscured. Imagine it like that of the hairs of a fly, while it informs the host of a coming attack or intruder, it doesn't provide a perfectly clear vision of the source. The second effect is the ability to suppress one's own Chi to a near 0, coming off as unimpressive. The mask fading whenever an attack is ready to be made. Making it, so the target has a far limited time to react when contrasted to most users of the arcane/spiritual arts. When achieving this state of mind, the body emits a soft white outline.
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Kitsune form- The Kitsune form is a state of being only the wisest, and most skilled hunters can achieve. Being able to manifest their inner fox spirit to the flesh, they are often revered by their otherkin as the apex predators, selected by the ancestors to guide the people with their wisdom and strength. As such, being able to manifest this unique racial transformation is often considered as much a curse as it is a blessing. The form ebbs and flows with the host's inner spiritual will, proving relatively malleable in nature. While this form is achieved, their physical strength will nearly double and be allowed to move at speeds up to 50% faster at burst with a 25% boost in sustainable mobility. The form is often depicted in folklore and art as a bone exoskeleton, with tribal markings embellishing the wicked appearance. Some have fur, others spikes, but all have the same terrifying otherworldly masks. Because of these coverings, many races once thought, and some still do see them as demonic spirits and tricksters. Watari's due to his human half and the eldritch taint inherited from his mother, resulted in his form becoming devilish in composition and intermingled with the human half. For what is a man, but an animal?
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Resilience
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+50%- Resilience to poison and disease based attack due to racial passive
+50% resilience to the effects of temperature. This does not mean ice and fire attacks, rather the cold and heat they produce.
Kitsune Race Lore
Kitsune, monster slayer, vanquishers of the worlds grime and pest, the ultimate killing spirit made flesh. Their influence over the realm is undeniable, hero to some, mischievous meddling spirits to others, even con artists usurping hard-earned coin from the gullible to a few. Yet with the advent of the caster gun and the advancements in technology, the need for monster slayers has dwindled, long gone are the comfy contracts of old, what remains are more proving precarious. As such, those that have forgotten the old ways, having thrived in safety brought by technological development view them as mere myths, treating them with haughtiness. Kitsunes, by nature, are masters of therianthropy, capable of assuming the form of their spirit animal to magnify their intrepidity in conflict.
As a result, many indigenous tribes spread across the cascading gnolls of blanched sands depict the species as foreboding demons. Harbingers of deception, pestilence, and destruction. A fact not helped by their diabolical form when assuming this hard to master ability that not all Kitsune can maintain, let alone harness without consequence. Masters of melding the dance of blades with the conjuring of magic, these monster slayers are a unique breed of fighter destined to find their new place in the ever-shifting land. Leaving behind only the middling to most precarious contracts available, only those outside the city truly see a need for their kind. Throughout history, the species has been looked on as freaks, second class citizens, or abominations. Yet, whenever monsters are prevalent, or during times of war, suddenly the government's and peoples position toward them shift ever so slightly.
Contrary to romanticized depictions, Kitsune's with nine tails is not a sign of strength, but rather a symbol of division. Outsiders are often mistaking more, as an inherent token of being of higher merit or importance. Despite popular mythos, only the most disciplined of Kitsune can achieve their animal form, yet being skillful in the art of therianthropy, they are not restricted to a pure fox form. Rather embodying the animal spirit they are most drawn too, legends say that only the most powerful of their kind can maintain control while dawning such bestial visage. Being beastkin, they have a strong sense of smell and hearing, quick reflexes and speed, and more imposing strength when compared to their human counterparts. Their kind possessing a natural resistance toward disease and toxins. Capable of living a life up to the mid 300ish years of age before expiration. Though their line fo work, and warrior society often means they perish long before their natural end. Some cling to this notion, while others deduce it is merely whimsical thinking.
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As a society, they are very honor based, mastering their proficiency before venturing into another field. It is said that if one is a stablehand, they should aspire to be the best Stablehand in the realm to bring honor and pay reverence to their ancestors. From a young age, every member of their society is trained in combat, though only those able to survive and endure the harsh training regiment, are permitted to become monster hunters. The kitsune race within the white sands views this vocation as beyond reputable, considering the hunt's stimulation to be the very pinnacle of their existence. While most human children may seek to be kings, lords, knights, the kitsune only aspire to be the best mercenaries and hunters within the realm. Aside from martial disciplines. Those that are judged worthy of becoming slayers are trained in alchemy, magic, and history. Pertaining to their craft and the monstrosities of the world, finding knowledge like any tool to have its place.
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While far from the most well read species, they still value scholarly pursuits, even if it isn't on the top of their social hierarchy. That distinction goes to monster hunters and artists alike, the two often juxtaposing brilliantly together. Religion wise they worship the Eldritch aspect of war and the Eldritch aspect of art. Marriage within kitsune society is unique; there isn't a huge ceremony; instead, the two mates return to their tent and dwell together. The mere act of fornicating in one's home a symbol for the two houses melding their flesh into one; thus, it is not uncommon to find those kitsunes preferring more sexual encounters to seek out a brothel. As brothels are sanctioned and not seen as a source of moral quandary, but a necessary function to alleviate stress and primal desires. When it comes to funeral rites, their species believe in endocannibalism, that devouring the dead grants them the fallen one's powers. This barbarous, repugnant tradition in most outsiders eyes is not done by eating flesh, but grinding cremated remains into a fine powder and adding it into their tea or stews. When a hero of the people passes on, the entire community will gather to drink a few glasses of tea as a group, honoring their accomplishments by accepting their essence into the whole of the society's body.
Kitsune Form
Magical Painting Description- Watari begrudgingly embraced the sword much to his mother, Matsumota's disdain. She told him if he didn't learn to fight in some form, that he'd be no son of hers. And so being a skilled painter, the intelligent lad saw fit to combine his passion with battle. After all, is not combat just an art form, albeit a bit more barbaric one? After 14 years of practice, and using the ink produced by his closest friend, a kind-hearted octopi humanoid named Silve' Kadael. Watari learned how to use his mind, body, and chi to create beautiful yet deadly creations to employ as means of defense—winning his mothers favor and respect by melding her hand to hand sessions with his craft, while taking her lessons and finding ways to intertwine them with his philosophy.
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When Watari uses his abilities, his ink flares in various hues, the image painted on the skin slowly draining, and fading as his Chi pool diminishes. He fuses his essence with his friend's ink: as such, if his mana is depleted, he will wilt away unless fed dosages of arcane energy. The Kitsune uses the tattoos as conduits to manifest his innate abilities and skills, able to transfer it to his extremities paintbrushes, or enchanted greatsword. If his brushes/blade are destroyed, he will lose the use of any abilities that specify the tools' need or usage. When drawing constructs, they can be any shape or size, resembling an animal or object, and are then used as the skill describes, If a land animal they rush and pounce, if a winged creature or dragon they divebomb, if an inanimate objects her hurls them like spears.
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The ink can be either liquid or solid, being that it's his mana made physical, he can soak in it to reabsorb the energy back into the body. Watari can decide to keep the paint a liquid, sticky, or solid as blocks of jagged spikes, able to change one pool on the ground at will to serve as traps if he should trick or knock his opponent into them. The ink can be washed away with water, scrubbed off with a towel if hardened will need to be scraped with a dull knife or other such devices. The ink itself has high levels of dopamine, resulting in the target getting high if they fail to remove the ink over three turns. The serrated spears stand 3ft in height, and 5 inches in width. Covering the area of influence, and lasting for a few seconds. This offensive deployment is capable of puncturing flesh, cloth, leather, and gambeson while proving ineffective against plate or chainmail.
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Swiping Ink- Watari can coat his sword, arms, and legs in brightly colored ink twirling about like a flame. The fire's effect is purely aesthetic, as it generates no heat but instead allows him to do two things to enhance his combat prowess. The ink will enable him to move at speed of ten mph greater than usual, stick to walls and inclines surfaces with his legs, or send a wave (Five feet tall, seven-foot wide. Travels up to thirty feet) fluid in a roundhouse kick to his enemies. The ink once is coated; the target will harden on their flesh resulting in limited mobility, and if covered from head to toe will result in their skin suffocating. With his arms, they grant him superior grip and allow the Kitsune to send a jagged ball of the material, which solidifies once exiting the hand. He can also use it to grow spiked claws from his knuckles, extend the reach of his blade, or a spear from his palm reaching a length of 3ft and a diameter of 6 inches.
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Coated arms- The kitsune can draw on his ink, to manifest spiked gauntlets/leggings running from the shoulder to the end of the fingers, and the upper thighs, to the bottom of his feet. This amplifies his physical brawn, granting his blows to be akin to a steel mace while providing an equivalent layer of protection. The brushes became infused in the material, resting under his forearm in a quarter-inch layer of the coating. This allows his extremities to serve as the bristles for his attacks.
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Art of the brush- The artist can use a brush/his enchanted greatsword and his mind to draw any animal or object he focuses mentally on, swiping with uncanny speed as the image comes to life, charging, divebombing, or being hurl at the desired target. On impact, the ink will explode, covering the goal and simulating the effects of being hit with a bowling ball on the initial impact. Fracturing bones or busting vital soft organs, once doused in the liquid the Kitsune, can restrict his enemies muscles and skin or gluing them to a surface depending on the situation. If the attack misses, the creature will explode into a mist of ink. Covers a 4ft while in ball form, and 30ft as a mist after impact.
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Life imitating art- The fox can create a single thrall, a being composed of the dense ink taking on any trait of the animal he draws using his brush. This can only be used once in a battle and serve as a loyal pet to assist the hunter with its prey. Imitating the attack methods and deliveries of his creation, such as claws, maws, stringers, pincers, or any extremity. The Kitsune can whistle and order the creature to do a suicide charge, resulting in the same effects as the Art of the Brush. The creation can inject the target with itself, entering their mouth or bloodstream, poisoning the foe, and calling their cells to suffer from necrosis. He can have the thrall up while drawing ranged attacks with the Art of the Brush.
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Inky tentacle- Watari can launch a fifty-five-foot-long tentacle from his hand or blade tip to wrap and pull a target back into the fray, or use it to carry himself away from harm or toss a target or his artificially drawn companions. It can also form into a lasso shape to bind up his enemies.
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Deluge- The philosopher can slam his foot or weapon onto the earth, sending forth either a lined wave from the area of impact or an AOE tsunami from the epicenter of his body. This 10ft tall wave of liquid solidifies, creating a wall of ruination, smacking against any targets as they are rolled backward, fracturing bones. They are extending 90ft if a spherical spread, or 60ft in length, and 30ft in width if the line/wave variant.
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Wiping the canvas clean- Watari's ultimate attack, gathering on nearby puddles of ink, or that housed within his tattoo still. The Kitsune can send them crashing into a target. The paint becomes chip-like sharps as shards of glass resemble that of white rose petals, swirling around the targets as the skin is brushed off the body leaving all meat and organs exposed. It will take on the form of a tornado. It is covering a Seventy-foot radius. The abrasive nature will not cause all skin to vanish instantly, taking a turn to do so; as such, the opponent, if not restricted, can simply walk out of the damaging storm of petals.
Combat Skills/Description.
CH 1. Birth of a Philosophy
Watari is the firstborn son of Matsumota Crisandra Devante, the fabled blood fox, and the vanguard of the wall. Growing up in his mother's shadow proved difficult; some possessed aspirations while others belittled him due to her expulsion from Kitsune culture. His father is a foreign Shaman from another world Known as Beris, yet the man left his mother shortly after using her for his sexual devices, leaving the lone fox to bear and raise the three cubs on her own, valuing his spawn worth a few measly gems, which he left on the table instead of being in Watari's life. The dysfunctional family was taken in by the maiden of the sea, an octopus sentient humanoid who ensured the family had a stable environment. Not having a father figure, it fell on Watari to assume the mantel of man of the house. This, in turn, did thrust a great deal of responsibilities on the young man, which have stunted certain aspects of his social development.
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Matsumota suffered greatly from his father's treatment; she returned being known as a whore not worth her man's time. Often being referred to as damaged goods, unfit for any man's attention, as Watari and his siblings were referred to sinful spawn. The other children were picking on them, striking the Kitsune offspring while bad-mouthing their only parent. Some Satyr younglings believed their parents' extremist views, going as far as to say their mother was a slutbag. Who sacrificed their fathers or grandparents to fuel their own aims, but ultimately got betrayed by her conspirators. Without a father figure, Watari lying to his siblings to shield them from the frigid truth he long since accepted. He was telling his brother and sister that dad was busy doing things for the realm, that one day he was coming back to make up for lost time.
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With each lie, the eldest suffered from mental anguish, sacrificing his sanity in the delusions of keeping the other two happy. His mother treating him the harshest, expecting the most since he by cultural standards was the second in command of the family unit. Watari never blamed her for this cruel world view, instead directing his anger toward their deadbeat father. This fueled his hatred, as one day the Kitsune swore if he ever saw the man he'd challenge him under the old ways to restore some worth to his ailing mother. The artist often watching as at first Matsumota told herself constantly he was coming back, eventually bending to the truth as she broke down and was in a depressive stupor for many years. Seeing the endless abuse and suffering his father inflicted deepened the resentment, Watari using this deep-seated wrath to fuel his progress as a fighter. Often venting to his sole friend Silve' Kadael about this pain, telling her one day he'd find a way to rectify it all.
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His family suffered for twenty years for one night and false love, while Beris enjoyed two decades in lavished halls, chasing his worldly desires like a depraved animal. If there was going to be any justice, then the Kitsune would need to bring it about by any means necessary, for no one else would fight for the Devante lineage. His opportunity revealing itself, as one day Myrriah, the home wrecker, and her Mongrel boy toy Beris were dispatched to Sandslout. The Kitsune waited at the dock, with a knife in his hand. The tattooed fox stepping from the umbra and levied his allegations against his enemy. The deadbeat scoffed at his spawn, but retribution was denied from Watari this day. As Matsumota rebuked him, apprehending the painter's hand and pushing the blade into her shoulder.
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This performance moved Beris, as the cretin felt emotions rekindled, proclaiming a sense of responsibility for the woes afflicting the Devante house. The philosopher didn't believe a single word of it, sensing his father's internal turbulence, yet suffered this indignity, lest he risks fragmenting his Mother's bruised psyche. Jintsu, the youngest cub, had been kidnapped as the unruly sibling disobeyed their Mother's orders. The radicalized and disenfranchised Saytyrs held the restrained child at sword point, spewing out their dogma, as the family left to witness in utter terror as the inculpable soul was gutted in plain view. The blood fox had sought a simple life to protect her whelps, permitting the Empire to become feeble and fat. As the Samurai went into a blood frenzy, the already battered consciousness shattering, the Oni and other denizens did nothing to support her. Thankfully, the lunatics lacked any backbone, having their morale triturated by the blackened flame and monstrous metamorphosis the vertically challenged fox underwent.
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Ryse, the mayor, failing to take control, as those guilty for Jintsu's demise were held prisoners to stand trial. Having suffered a lifetime under their persecution, Watari was bereaved with the torturous cognizance that he failed as the eldest child. Taking full benefit of the moratorium, Watari poured most of the chi into creating a horror, constructed after the accounts his PTSD suffering mother spouted regarding the horde. The tendril, otherworldy aberration disgorging lies, focusing its attention toward framing the Goats to ensure their swift execution later. The once serene hamlet burst into sheer pandemonium, as this push sparked a race war. Amongst the chaos, the Devante's smuggled themselves free from the devastation, peering back as the brittle alliance devolved effortlessly. The dysfunctional family, strolling across the blanched dunes, embarking toward crystal town as Matsumota had an ardor in that eye.
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The house's matron, vowing to toss off the Empire's yoke, creating an independent state for the neglected beastkin. This new civilization, her Nirvana, to be governed by a sole Mantra, "Everything earned, nothing given." Being a philosopher, Watari was drawn to such a quaint concept, feeling his people's innate blood boiling from fervency. From there, they split, carrying the deeds and name of the fabled blood fox, negotiating and trying to do the improbable, unite the unyielding widespread tribes into a single banner. After toiling laboriously, their ventures bore fruit, as the Wulfgar, Gnolls, Giants, and Goatkin rallied to Matsumota's cries. Lamentably, here, catastrophe struck the family once more. Beris, the useless father, couldn't suffer facing the consequences of his depravity. Targetting the Cephlapod merchant, who, unlike him, had spent her days trying to support this repudiated and spurned family.
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Matsumota, forced to abolish her mate, just as old wounds started to mend, was ripped wide open once more. The house set ablaze, as in the distance, the painter could see the whisking embers soft glow reflecting from that tear drenched face. Such despondency, was this the predestination that prowled after those who prevailed by the sword? Seeing the misery firsthand, Watari contemplated if this was the real legacy of his formerly great house? If so, the poet resolved to find a way to discontinue the cycle, to rip free from these sorrowful shackles. Once more, the Kitsune had disappointed his family, as his failure to exact retaliation coerced his Mother's blade to enact the decisive blow. An epiphany resonated within the spirit that there are two types of transgressions in life, each equivalently abhorrent—sins of Commission, shortcomings we enact, and omission, distraught elicited by a failure to rise.
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Watari would become powerful, carve his path, and do anything to protect his Mother as restitution for neglecting his responsibilities this ominous day. The family untied, starting a funeral pyre, as Jintsu and the other dead were cremated, their ashes seized and grafted onto their vessels. The blood fox whispering to her spawn to closely watch as this was the fate awaiting all in this Darwinian world, be they great or wanting. Once the ritual had finalized, their forces were mustered, divided into two parties to launch an offensive against the unassuming and gelatinous Empire. Matsumota was to usurp control over the Obsidian Canyon, their homeland, veering the government's focus, while the real forces were to advance to Sandslout, the lands breadbasket. A profound move, albeit suicidal on her end, a revelation that had yet to bud within the artist's mind. The municipalities would dissolve into disarray without food, only to lay siege to the center of power afterward, Clockwork City.
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Ironic, his father bequeathed the child with nothing in life but his death, that propelled the Kitsune forward. The one thing that prompted a void in his soul plugged, a lack of tenacity resolved, as the painter had something indestructible to service as a guiding star, that being an ideal.
CH 2. The season unending
It's said that a Kitsune genuinely doesn't know himself till his mettle is tested within the maelstrom of war. The placid water's traversal proved mostly uneventful, each member of the army abiding in taciturnity as they quarreled internally over the coming bloodletting—that damnable farming community, Sandslout, where the streets ran crimson with a rivulet of blood. The redolence of death was still swirling within the sea's breeze as the binary suns loomed overhead. Their unrelenting rays showed no clemency, lacking nepotism as the harsh arid climate evaluated every organism's merit. Matsumota's use of thunder seemed to have worked, as the still damaged epicenter of produce was licking its wounds. It had been over a month, the troops repositioned, marching south to the canyon, as the plantations were open to attack. Their flimsy walls, and lack of manpower, proved inadequate at thwarting their combined forces.
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This amalgamation of diverse cultures and creeds, swearing fealty under a single Khan, brought the full wrath of the Beastkin against the enemy units. Their drums and throat singing vehemently shaking the grains beneath the enemy units' stride, as the very foundations of the world trembled at the looming shade of despair they did cast. Some would seek to flee, others abandoned their armaments as a gesture of surrender, while a few true warriors embraced an honorable death. The lack of Oni's and Saytyrs evidence enough that Watari's prior conspiracy had perhaps proven too effective. The philosopher had no time to query himself, instead of assisting with securing the town, setting a parameter as their vessels docked from the sea. The artist worked vigorously, concluding that his mother was left alone to fend off the onslaught of the imperial forces at every hour wasted. Internalized frustration seething over, as once they had accomplished their Goals, the cephalopod merchant and aspiring queen endeavored to dawdle within this blighted cesspool of desolation.
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The sound of horns blaring in the distance causing those ears to flick as the Kitsune looked toward the source of this auditory disturbance. Did this mean Matsumota had failed, was the empire onto them, or was this something else entirely? No matter the truth, one thing remained self-evident, that whatever triggered their sense of trepidation was not a welcomed addition. The Varnekun attacked with a small force, the invaders were repelled swiftly enough; either this was a scouting party, or their paths coincidentally crossed. What transpired next was a bit muddied, a tendril woman, proclaiming herself to be Zelena, Daughter of knowledge convulsed. Eventually stirring from torpidity only to bring a foul stench, otherwordly leeches, and ramblings. The poet's mind befogged as Watari grappled with coming to terms with what he witnessed, confounded by the abstract utterances divorcing itself from those lips.
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The artist witnessed a few executions as he strolled back to the docks, boarding the vessels as he remained entrenched in thought. Something maleficent was at work here, a veiled force operating within the sanctity of obscurity. The soul exasperated as the consciousness spiraled downward into madness, only to be removed by the stark reminder that was their mission. Whatever this meant, it proved of little consequence at the moment and seemed like a quandary to face tomorrow, given the more pressing issues at hand—the others loitering about for a few more hours. Before embarking on the ships, the poet felt the boat bobbing on account of the waves. Their journey would take two days, a day and a half already lapsed, meaning, Matsumota was left to ward off the imperial forces alone for that duration of time. A grisly prospect was inundating the Kitsune, as the son was left to entertain the possibility they were already too late rather morbidly. No, the philosopher needed faith, his mother had eluded the grave before, and no force in this world could keep her from meeting that fated rendevous.
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Forty-eight hours of languishing, as the drum heralded their approach. Watari rousing from his perched position, navigating through the ship's bowels, before rising to the deck. Those brown eyes were enlarging as the fox beheld an astonishing, albeit encouraging spectacle. Clockwork city, the heart of the oppressive regime, expelling forth plumes of exhaust and smoke mingled. Those artificial edifices, towers of heartless bronze, were damaged from some bombardment. That heart was hammering, invigorated by rejoicing intertwined with loathing of the coming verbal lashing. Matsumota's fury and brashness was a meager price to pay; at least Watari knows his Khan still induced breath.
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The maritime transports pulling into harbor, a path cleared to the throne room by the surviving Wulfgar, Gnolls, Kitsune, and Goatkin that made up the blood fox's units. The winding streets filled with doom and gloom as the battered faces of those defeated in spirit gawked at the marching soldiers. Their dread palpable, the painter's chest, puffed with pride, although misplaced, as this conquest was hardly his to declare dominion over. Watari loathed the empire; however, it's citizens were victims in this inescapable tussle. No, that didn't seem right, as they happily stood by and scorned the plights of those outside these lavished barriers. The men entering the palace, the troops' footsteps rode across natural acoustics as they uniformly navigated those passageways. The regiment penetrated the still heart of the world of men, as the painter once again felt guilt-stricken, noting the bandage wrapped and wounded samurai sitting on the throne.
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The decapitated carcass of the former emperor lied on the floor. The lifeless husk used as a footrest. The philosopher was residing in muteness, hearkening to what his mother had to say. Any gesticulations warranted a thrashing, as the chiseled fox felt minuscule next to the vertically challenged warlord. The occupants all left bewildered as the proud blood fox offered the seat to the cephalopod merchant. This expression brought a serene smile across Watari's face as he realized the message his parent strived to communicate. Matsumota wanted to give the world of men a second chance, leave it in competent hands, and let this defeat humble the aristocrats.
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The Khan may seem war-hungry on the outside, but it appeared the samurai thirsted for peace. The newfound admiration fleeting, as whatever tugged on the strings from the shadows, used this opportunity to exhibit itself. Comm'Orra, Elder being of madness, thrusting from the shade in a vortex of inky slime and golden, bioluminescent winged insects. The poet's mother cut off from the rest, as the unknowable force summoned forth a champion. All hope seemed lost; how could they, mere mortals, oppose such an abomination? Matsumota was breaking free from her incarceration, her form adorned in a boney suit of armor, with skeletal feelers protruding from the spine, pulsating a faint amethyst hue. Comm'Orra's siblings were emerging within their plane, as the entities exceeding reproach contested one another intangibly.
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The Khan sustaining her ethos engaged the crustacean aversion the lord of madness metamorphosed into the world. Images beyond comprehension, noises that the mind couldn't decipher flooding over the metropolis. The invader was expelled by the other horrors, as the Khan managed to overpower and purge this hideous entity in a series of fluid strikes with her katana. The prodigal son joined his mother afterward, hugging her, as he vowed never to abandon her again. Matsumota outwardly seemed unmoved, but the mild fluctuations in her pupil told a differing tale. This entire nightmare secured the beastkin aid from flesh mages, as the current empress extended a covenant to assist with architecting the Beastkin's empire's capital. A once distant dream, blossoming, the idealism of Nirvana, extracted from the domain of intellectualism and into the sands.
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The army leaving the broken city behind, for their work was far from over; no, it only commenced. To actualize their dream, the impossible would need to be achieved. Convincing each beastkin to unify under a new identity, a process of integration never previously endeavored, that even Watari doubted it was plausible given their contentious histories with one another. But, there was but a glimmer of hope that the world his mother envisioned, a slice of Nirvana, could be forged nonetheless...
CH 3. Nirvana
Watari had arrived earlier than the others, having a heartfelt concern for his mother given recent events. The derangement the painter witnessed within the throne room of the empire, still fresh on his mind as the Kitsune grappled with the potential implications. Their ambiguous nature, the stories of elder beings, was not embellished, rather underplayed. It had been weeks since that day, the artist spending his time as a caretaker of the obsidian canyon. Begrudgingly fulfilling their obligation to the Goatkin, an unreasonable concession his obtuse father agreed to uphold. The parent's failures passed onto the son as he strived to maintain control of the Kitsune during these troubling and trying times. It became clear how decisive of a figure his mother had become given the radical changes she enforced. The poet was sitting at the table first, watching as the Giants, Jackals, and syndicate poured into the meeting chamber.
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Those inked chiseled forearms were resting against the armrest; as one by one, they took their designated seats. The philosopher unsure how things would evolve, as the Beastkin were not known for their brotherhood. In confidence, Watari's heart did beat with anticipation, as his curiosity spurred on a natural investment in the outcome. The warrior familiar with Valerna, Matron of the Jorgenskulls, though, knew little of the blonde who seemed to saunter within her adumbration. The poet was wholly astounded that the reclusive Jackals even showed up, given their famous compulsion toward utter seclusion from the outside world. The artist was reclining in his seat as Matsumota commenced this assembly with the declaration of her titles before laying forth her intentions with little regard toward appearing potentially abrasive.
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The wolf creature known as Hunter, Watari had seen briefly before within the empire's seat of power, but the talking rodent, that was something new. The artist kept to himself, permitting the others to have their say first, as the painter reflected over them. His eyes drifted across the scene, toward that of his parent, giving her a leisurely nod as it seemed it was finally the philosopher's turn to speak. "I am Watari Devante, here to serve as the mouthpiece for the Kitsune people. I'm quite glad you all could make it, and look forward to starting possible friendly relations with everyone present. Though my mother may be a bit relentless in her approach, I assure you, her aims are unsullied. I may be young, but even these inexperienced eyes can see the imminent destruction awaiting us all if we refuse to embrace some change. Whatever secrets you value will mean little when the empire shows up on your doorsteps one day. "The Kitsune added, giving a heartfelt simper toward the Jackal as the poet saw little worth to directly contest his desire to cling to the past values, any further than he already had. The artist secretly was doubly confounded why the young man bothered to bring it up, given none speculated them of suppressing any esoteric erudition.
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Watari was admonished by his mother, the eldest sibling taking no offense from her blunt approach. The painter understood that the Khan needed to appear fair, devoid of bias that may otherwise pollute her vision. And so the artist undertook a lesson in humility, listening intently as Matsumota took control of the situation and replied to the discourteous Jackal Amun. The crimson maned fox was sitting in silence, his peach eyes drifting about the meeting chamber, trying to uncover the others' thoughts based on their outward reactions. This young philosopher was under no deception; he understood whole heartily that he had much to learn. He had enough wisdom to discern when to speak and permit others to do so for him. Watari watched the empire's representative and the two lapdogs of the syndicate, the latter of which seemed to value silence above all else.
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The mood forever shattered as the once inert Giantess Valerna sprung into action, the beauty coating that absurd body in armor as she vehemently slammed her palm into the table. The glass of water spilling over on Watari's lap once the furniture had reset itself. The young man recounting his time at their camp, their alien traditions, and unique architecture mostly left him inspired. The way the leader spoke of her punishment, that air of confidence, only furthered his fear. This realization made more evident as her daughter managed to calm the wrathful spirit.
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Zanryue Queen of the Goatkin chiming in next, speaking of their rocks, typical of her kind. Their infatuation with stone always did strike the Kitsune as odd but through much meditation. He was able to see the truth concealed within those modest words. When the monk spoke of stone, she referred to natural forces and everything associated with it. Being a man of culture, the artist respected their philosophical perspectives, deriving some value in its otherwise seemingly convoluted mess. The Giant's leader divulged her thoughts, the poet seeing the intrinsic value in maintaining a healthy relationship with the jungle, even contemplating an attempt to join their houses. Such a union would prove beyond beneficial, her daughter was soft to behold. Her unique pale skin and locks of gold, coupled with steel eyes, made her quite the unique flower compared to the other sands' women—his eyes surveying the huntress keenly, as she too seemed to exhume valor.
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The prodigal son hadn't much to add to the others' banter, instead opting to remain soundless as the poet discerned their actions. Whether or not Watari agreed with his mother didn't matter; in the end, she was over him in position, and he was subject to her determinations. While degrading, considering the painter wished to be his own man, it wasn't a truth he could so deliberately disregard. Those eyes were leaping one representative to the next, leaning back against his chair, the Jackal Amun retorted to a barrage of accusations. His approach was causing the philosopher's face to shift to that of disappointment, as the Kitsune understood his words' inevitable consequences. Matsumota couldn't afford to stomach stubbornness, not without gambling on a division in an already fragile alliance. Watari let out a sigh of disapprobation, shaking his head, as he took a sip from what water was left in the glass.
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Zelena and him once more crossing paths, though this time, she appeared to enjoy arriving fashionably late. Her words were indeed difficult to follow, but despite their complex nature, the verbose Kitsune was able to extract some meaning. Was this tentacle creature a threat? She resembled the horde's description, but her actions so far hadn't provoked anxiety within the poet. For all of his faults, Watari wasn't shallow enough to judge a creature by its appearance alone. Though, the fact she was of Mirage's lineage did usher in many mysteries. The philosopher pondered if the emerald beauty had any answers at all, as her relationship toward the cosmic librarian seemed somewhat distant at best.
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Watari attention had been drawn to the Giant as Valerna stood, and her already massive chest swelled further with wrath. Being a young man, he had learned to admire the figure of a woman. And although her features may be quite...robust, this did little to whittle down his hormones. The artist recalled a darker time, where he was forced to witness degeneracy within the Giant camp, shuttering in his seat as the whole ordeal still evoked disgust. The philosopher was so distracted by the moons stuck to her chest that he had forgotten about Zelena. As the room filled with the odd smoke, his eyes widening as the limbs got rather stiff. Being of appropriate age, he was used to such a sudden increase in rigidness, albeit in a different member of less notable reach. The tendrils were sprouting from the ground, wrapping around him, as the artist was lifted and flung outside the room.
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Watari believed his mother would catch him; her lack of an attempt should have been anticipated given her tough-love approach. The man stood to his feet, grumbling unintelligibly, as the poet patted the dirt and sticky substance from his body. The ooze forming strands between his digits as the painter stared curiously at his hand. At this point, Matron Valerna started to bark, giving her barbaric speech as the painter grasped his tool of destruction, imposingly dual-wielding paintbrushes. The ears were flicking as Watari hearkened to her call, looking at Aiveera his mother's protege, who seemed to hold some reservations. Being too tired and edgy for this measuring contest, the son would let his mother handle this situation.
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The Giants and jungle didn't seem the type to follow ineptitude. From what he had gathered from his time in their army, during the siege of Clockwork City. The sands had enough bloodthirsty rulers in it's past; the philosopher felt it was time for an unconventional approach. At least with the Khan, the cub understood reason could be achieved. In comparison, this Giant before him remained an unknown variable.
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This amphibian homunculus Hunter betraying Myrriah, publicly mentioning how his sister was kidnapped by Comm'orra, as the Djinn's voice resounded across the expanse, today was shaping out to be quite an unusual affair. The artist watching as the Giants seemed to want blood. Thankfully, catastrophe was averted, his mother spewing off another rant before withdrawing from the assembly with the enraged giant matron. The painter left to watch as the Wolf and Amun proceeded to commence their battle. Watari had no dog in this race, caring little for the women responsible for seducing his father and causing pain toward his mother. Though, the poet would annotate the outcome of this fight, making an effort to gauge what caliber of men these strangers were in contrast to himself.
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For once, the poet could watch a state ambivalence without having to worry about being killed. As the Homunculus sibling, the filthy rodent stepped forward as Amun maintained that waltz of death. Watari having his brushes kept firmly in grip, his hand resting at the side, as the chiseled ink form, lounging against the boney wall. Rakash was pulling out his blunderbuss, but 4ft ahead of Watari. Who was trained by Matsumota, understood that such weapons required basic knowledge. A general rule was to know your target and what lurked beyond it. His mind was quickly deducing that Aiveera and the other Wulfgar were in grave jeopardy. There was no time to warn; no, the Inkmancer needed to act fast to avert disaster.
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The left hand was speedily raising, steering the bristles toward the vermin, as the chi poured into the extremity. The formerly stagnant drawlings, springing to life as the color slowly flushed. Starting from the shoulder, as incrementally, they shifted into a black and white tint. The liquid was running from the pores, crossing those ripped biceps, rushing toward the tip, as it solidified. The philosopher loathed violence; his main goal was to circumvent catastrophe and bloodshed as much as possible. Why kill or maim if Watari could subjugate and pacify? Within a blink of an eye, the process completed, launching an 8-inch thick, 25ft long tentacle from the aimed bristles. The blackened appendage was lunging toward the target, its surface as durable as a stone. Alas, Watari was too late, the shot being expelled and propelled downrange. That octopus extremity aimed for the back (belly height) if the Rat had no way of detecting the seemingly unexpected action. The tendril may wrap around his body, moving upward, clenching his figure tightly. The arms would be pressed close to the body, the gun hopefully aimed downward to prevent further harm to others, as the end coiled around that brittle neck.
His eyes remained focused, keeping control, breathing sharply as the other brush hummed, and preparing for a follow-up attack if things should devolve further. While the Kitsune fretted for the Wulfgars, he couldn't afford to fixate on them at the moment; instead, the philosopher needed to have faith in their kind.
Whether or not Rakash was stupid or afflicted with rabbis remained to be seen. And the artist recollected the memorable words of his mentor and mother. "Leave nothing to chance, thats how you get ball tapped. Losers think they've won and give speeches, actual fighters, stay observant, disembowel, and plow the whore in distress...Like I did with your father."
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Matsumota's protege seeing Watari's attack connecting, the rat subdued, as her wrathful heart and blood-hungry eyes exhibited those unsettling intentions. Hunter knocked the glaive from Aiveera's grasp, the weapon deviated from the intended target, as the foul-mouthed rodent's words were seen as childish. The artist had no intention to kill, rather bind this rabid flea covered rat. Though that harsh tongue almost made the kitsune reconsider his position. Those peach eyes were looking toward Hunter, annoyed with the prospect of having to battle the man. But just before things could fully devolve, Matsumota stepped into the hall. The tentacle was throwing Rakash toward the Khans feet, giving the amphibian a stern staredown as the brushes remained clenched firmly in his grasp. "I have no quarrel with you or your short-sighted brother. I intended to subdue; I promise if I were so uncivilized, he would already be dead given his lacking position."
An astute mind could see that much, but did humunculus possess rationalism? Watari was looking toward Aiveera as she assaulted the Jackal verbally. "You lost your weapon to the same guy; who are you to mock Amun? I thought to a wulfgar, their weapon was an extension of their worth, and you lost it twice now, once to that wordy tentacle creature, another to this warrior Hunter. The only warrior here who has honor and held their values is the delegate Amun" The painter drawing a tiger, as he would mount the artificially conjured steed giving Zelena a nod as the feline whisked Watari toward his mother's side. Her words were harsh, a trait they shared, but such was their customs. A harsh truth over a sweet lie, which, often annoyed those used to being humored.
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"Khan, with your blessing, I will tend to the Kitsune forces. Delegates, while not the most peaceful meeting, this has proven enlightening. It was an honor to meet you all, and I look forward to moving past this to construct a better world. I hope you all see reason, and if not, wish you many blessings in your future endeavors should our paths separate this day."
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Matsumota excusing herself, considering that this heated situation had been successfully defused. The philosopher sought to withdraw as well, but before he could do so subsequently, the air around them chilled. Being an indigene of the desert, the Kitsune not accustomed to such frosty temperatures. Those observant orbs perceiving his visible breathe, as something corrupted would soon coalesce before his very eyes—a woman with raven hair beautified in streaks of blue. Who, or whatever she was, considering Hunter's earlier revelation regarding Comm'Orra, bestowed the artist with extensile dread due to this emergence.
CH 4. Delirium
Time is often perceived as linear by those lacking the fortitude to see past the veil. This reality, this dream merely a tapestry, meant to be bent by those deemed above mortality. The nexus within the old world's carcass had been digested, Mazana, part homunculus, part Djinn, an unholy fusion by all metrics, now above a mere spirit. Her siblings, those that had spurned her, imbeciles tugged by strings beyond fathomability. Their eyes blind, unable to see, polluted by the grime and filth of their mother. Victims in a grand orchestra, pawns to be navigated by insidious wills. The empire they knew, the society they sought to protect, stitched together via the use of innumerable corpses. Those innocent victims were begging for redemption, imploring any who may listen for retribution.
Mazana was stepping free from that silvery pool, carrying a cadaver, the arcane energy thoroughly consumed. That voracious appetite hardly satisfied; she needed more power to bend this wretched realm to her whims. The sands outside may seem white, but in truth, they were varnished in the blood of the unsullied. Those thigh-high heels colliding with the floor, the dragon watching as the spirit sat on the ruined throne of the former Mer empire. Those faultless legs were overlapping, as a broad and wicked smile ubiquitously sprawled forth, across soft to behold features. The hand was stretching forward, as the essence begged Comm'Orra to fulfill his end of their bargain, as Viessa corpse laid resting on top of her lap. That quaint hallway of bone, the theater that labored as their little fray, would serve as an agreeable stage.
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Like a mirage, an illusion, the blue streaked beauty emerged into view—the sight of Mazana's golden and black dressed attire, those reddish and dark heels on display. As crimson painted nails stroked Viessa's cold, lifeless face, a demure expression resided on the visage as the head tilted curiously. The air within plummeting, those inhabitants observing their breath now twirling from lips, as the icy blood coursed through the regal enigma's veins. The thumbs were wiping away the tears still staining Viessa cheeks. "These tears of sorrow, what virtue they possess. Indeed, such heartfelt expressions are the most estimable substance of our world. Don't be frightened; this husk is hardly a corpse. Hunter, I wonder, are you deserving of shedding such tears? The act of mourning our failures and the fallen resides within the domain of mortality."
The hand was trailing down the face and body, clutching that dangling forearm from the inert vessel. Mazana deviated her gaze from her sister to her still living brothers, gifting them with a delirium enriched smile. "Tell me, can you all seriously call this aberration a corpse!?" The woman suddenly snapping the bone, the forearm puncture the skin and muscle, before tossing the rag dolling body from the throne onto the boney floor. Standing free from a perched position as she offered them all a theatrical bow. "Frivilotiy, thy name is woman! No, that doesn't seem reasonable, as we Homunculus weren't even born from a womb. Humor me, Beastkin, can something not birthed from flesh ever be classified as a carcass? Thats right, brothers, she too, was one of our kind. An unfettered soul, purged of all impurities, transcending the levity that is our finite existence." The apparition was melting from view. The Djinn only reappeared ten feet in front of her siblings with an ice dagger clenched tightly in her grasp.
"My beautiful comrades, we are all marionettes, just some of us have longer strings than others. What you're experiencing is merely the first moment your consciousness has been awakened—time, space, meaningless ideas, much like morality. Revolution, discord is the fuel that propels life forward. Civilization, ethics, all constructs formulated by mediocre wills to justify the futility of thwarting and eluding the ravenous abyss. What is derangement, but to repeat the same cycle expecting a differing result? What I offer is change, brothers, join me in this venture? Let us ride the spiral to the end and take our rightful place within the new epoch. Don't be alarmed; I sense proof is required of our divinity. Of which I am delighted to oblige for all those in this room...Behold." The madness plagued beauty laughed as she raised the dagger, placing it to her neck, as her free hand clenched those locks of soft mane. The jagged implement hacking away, a bloody mist was pushing itself toward her siblings as the head was untethered from the body. The decapitated top being tossed to their feet, rolling around so that the eyes faced them, peering up at Rakash and Hunter.
Those haunting eyes were staring into their very souls as the lips smacked together. "Myrriah, the empire, used us all for their devices. No more, I have seen the way forward. For us to survive, drastic recourse must be...enforced!" The foot raised, crushing the skull from the temple, caving it in, as blood pooled onto the surface. A swarm of shadows and fireflies circled from the hole, its blinding light filling the room, as it vanished. The Djinn was standing resolute, the APV orbiting her curvaceous body, as a new head sprouted into view as she leaned down toward her brethern. "Boo!" Whether or not any of this was real remained to be seen, but one thing was tangible. Mazana, the frigid rose, had gazed into the lamenting void and awakened from its chaotic depths changed.
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The lips trembled as his magic sense told him one thing, whatever she was, this lady was anything but a standard mage. The bone was snapping, causing the color to fade, as the cold demeanor reflected a sensation of mania. Watari had enlisted to support his mother, but events were spiraling far from control. The artificial mount growling as the painter patted the upset construction, watching keenly as the self-proclaimed frigid rose spoke. Her temper was mystical, precise, like a siren song. Was this their sister? The being supposedly held captive by Comm'Orra? How could someone escape his clutches? No, it seemed more rational that she was freed, but for what aims Watari deliberated? This titillating flower spun a morbid song, her tale, and perceptions anything but a glamorous portrayal. In truth, Watari felt sympathy, as it was painfully evident that her mind had suffered immensely while in limbo.
The poet being a philosopher, found the question sent his way was indeed worth meditating over. What is life? An age-old thought, one that has tormented even greater minds than his. But any such considerations were destined not to last, as the creature seemed to travel instantly between the space. His eyes were gravitating toward the bloodied brandished weapon, an efficient tool, thinking now this child was here to exact cathodic revenge. The anguish she endured, while out of view, could still be glimpsed from her madness. Who was Watari to deny her this justice? Even if it boiled down to cold murder, who could criticize such justified poison here in this room? Did, this woman just hack away with unbridled merriment? The painter being behind the siblings had a front-row seat to the horror, as he could swear those mirrors of despair were gazing at him with equal contempt.
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The stomach churned as the poet hardly kept his bile at bay, shunting his eyes as the foot was raised. The racket of bone-crunching under that stomp echoing long after silence took root. Enough of a declaration to let Watari know what he thankfully missed. What was the point of this entrance? Just to enter and kill yourself in such a primitive and repulsive fashion? The philosopher expected to see a corpse on the floor. Instead, he observed the head sprouting as the Boo prompted him to jolt back lightly. Rakash's words were provoking the Kitsune to feel pity, as he couldn't comprehend the pain he'd languish under if this happened to Myan. Perhaps this was a wasted venture, even if this wasn't his family, the sight of the rodents pleas spurred Watari to speak his mind.
"Mazana, my name is Watari Devante. To answer your questions, let me offer this nugget of wisdom. We think, therefore we are. No amount of words can turn back time, undo the sins of the past. Like a parchment, once crumbled, no matter how hard we iron it out, it can never be perfect again. But even the most creased paper can still be used to tell a story. I will not involve myself directly in your affairs, as it is not my place to stay your hand: Justice, vengeance, all equally justifiable given what little I know. But, do you not think it to be foolish to cast out your siblings? Whether Myrriah is to blame or not, is not Rakash innocent?" Would such a deranged consciousness hear reason? In his mind, Hunter was a lost cause; using him would only weaken Watari's intentions.
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For all her posturing, Matsumota was still a mother, albeit far from a perfect one. The cry of her child, reaching those honed ears, as they pulled back due to that distressed utterance. The body prevailed momentarily inert, that peach eye widening as the Khan detected a familiar sensation. The Elder's taint beyond reproach, it's acidic nature unable to be cleansed from the mind, as the bosom swelled and deflated rapidly, inspired by extensile dread. This corruption, whatever it was, Matsumota had tasted it before. Comm'orra, the same as the obsidian canyon, the same within that basement when the horde awakened from torpidity. What was this bastard doing here? What insidious web did the lord of chaos weave this time? The samurai, having already lost a child, sprung into action without further delay.
Those sandal fleet colliding with the bone hall as the fox broke into a full sprint. The hoarse whisper of steel clashing against steel accompanies her audible stride as the distance dwindled. Those children, every one of them beyond retarded, for whatever unveiled itself, proved far more nefarious than any theatrics could reveal. The vexed mind finding some relief, seeing her dimwitted child sitting on his vivid steed. While her eye may not have perceived what had transpired, the sound, words, and aftermath left on her floor testified more than enough. The blood fox had lost enough friends, enough family, she would not suffer any more death on her watch. ---
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Mazana was looking toward the Kitsune, making the connection between his lineage, as the fright-filled expression of a mother was a laborious thing to conceal. Watari, a rabid animal who thought of himself as wise and eloquent but disgorged absurd ideals. Aiveera, the loyal flea-ridden mutt, powerless to think for herself, lapped at the shit crusted fingers of her mistresses spawn. This audience demonstrated themselves as nettlesome, beyond redemption, their minds far too befogged to discern the veracity of her words. An asinine quality both Rakash and Hunter dishearteningly shared. What heartfelt supplications, the feeble rodent was pleading for his family, a bond that never tangibly existed. While all amphibian could do was stand there and witness the edifice of his transgressions, the manifestation of the "honor" bound warrior's failures. This intruder retired those arms behind her back, interlocking digits, as the side of her palms rested against her rump. Those heels were riding natural acoustics, as the frigid rose paced rather calmly from side to side as if contemplating Watari and Aiveera's words.
"Am I real? Rakash, a vapid question, as empty as the future of the Empire. Permit me to counter your query with what you sincerely wished to demand but lacked the testicular fortitude to, are you real? " Her movements ceasing, peering over the side of her shoulder toward her distressed brother, chuckling softly as a madness infused smirk resided on attractive features. "This isn't about mother, nor is this about me. We are both pawns in your tussle over self-identity. How quaint, but fret not my forgetful brother, I will provide the answer you solicit after. Us homunculus are the product of mothers' sins, the culmination of her misadventures stitched with others' flesh. Your cognizance transcends that of man. Yet, it is still hampered by your unwillingness to embrace the rancid reality of our permanence."
The spurned daughter pivoted to face hunter, peering unwavering into his soulless eyes. The APV oscillating maintaining that mesmerizing orbit as it was now time to address her forgetful kin. "Hunter? Our brother?" Mazana laughing, leaning back as her right hand deviated from the back, placing the back of her hand against the forehead. This atrocity in an ostensible jubilant mood. "No, not even an acquaintance will turn their back on you as you are tortured. Hunter, thanks for inquiring into how I have been; it's so refreshing to see you care! Maybe I should delight you with a retelling of what torment I suffered while you stood next to mother at clockwork when the fox transcended. Oh wait, thats right...you didn't know I was watching, now did you? Tell me, "brother," how is it you didn't open your mouth than when our mother dearest was at your side?" The rejected matron taunting, as eyes rode toward the rat. The Djinn genuinely fascinated to observe how he'd handle this dismal epiphany.
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"As to what I will do, why would a dead man care about a future he has no stake in? On second thought, I won't exterminate you. Death is so finite, but life, there will be perpetual misery there for you here. Hunter, the honorable warrior, the coward who turned his back on his sister. The aversion accountable for what is to come, all the death, the piles of burning carcasses. It's all thanks to you, your magnum opus. Ma belle peche, do not weep; I am not displeased with you; in fact, I am appreciative." Matsumota had enough, growling as she stomped her foot forward. The sudden disturbance was warranting a harsh glare as Mazana extended her hand for Rakash to take. "The hound of the Empire is angry. Tell me, can a fox with one paw still use her claws? I have seen him, you know, Aquaria. They all cry within the maelstrom of chaos..."
The blood fox bolting toward the frigid rose, her blade reeled back, as the tattered kimono flayed about with her approach. Time flowing slower within that dilated peach pupil as Mazana spread forth her arms as if being crucified. The wrist was turning the blade, steering the jagged tip toward apparitions heart, as the blade punctured the chest and went clean through the Djinns back. The Khan was grinning, snickering as her fiery glare took note of Mazana's shocked expression. The olive beauty was grunting, panting sharply as her hands shook vehemently, clenching the blade.
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"I am Matsumo-" Those words cut short as the blue streaked spirit pulled the Kitsune in for a hug. That serpentine tongue was slithering from the parted lips, sliding up the Kitsunes delectable cheek. Bone like tendrils sprouting from the head and spine, as once expressive eyes turned a fathomless black. The oral muscle left a strand of Saliva that forced the Kitsune to reel with absolute repugnance. "Bravado, such...passion in you, little one. I see now why my mother kept your leash close; what a useful pawn you have become. How I would enjoy breaking your body and devouring your very spirit. However, we are not enemies; both of us have been scorned by Myrriah and the world of men. In time, you will come to see me as an ally." A force of energy launching Matsumota back, hurling her toward Watari's steed paws. Nonchalantly pulling the blade out and tossing it toward the zeal filled cretin. "Catch. Now...where was I? Thats right, Rakash...I wouldn't dare separate you from your newfangled friends. Tell me? How will you all enjoy going on a little trip with me?"
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The frigid rose breaking into blackened smoke as the umbra slithered across the hallway. All those unable to escape it would find themselves submerging into its depths, being pulled under by thrashing tongues. The light from their world was dissolving, a sensation of weightlessness taking hold; they'd find themselves inundated by a rivulet of fibers. That space between space, the stimuli deprived void where time and reasoning hold no influence—those mucus-covered strands of hair speeding across the prey as it hauled them deeper into its clutches. Nirvana but a meager endeavor, as the party would find themselves lying on the floor returning to the dream they so fancied. There within the ruined palace of the Mer empire, they awoke, resting on the dust-caked floor. A beam of silver light rushed into the heavens as emerald-like snow descended to rest on their faces on account of the roof missing. A song, an eerie choir, echoing within their minds, and that of the fast-approaching expedition...
Soon their worlds would collide, as the final act in this play would commence. Mazana smirking, resting on top of the dragon's head. Viessa stasis ridden body on the lap as the Djinn caressed that scaley head somewhat affectionately. "Do you hear my sweet lullaby? A new song for the creator, my gift to you all. Trust me; you aren't dead; rather, for the first time waking from a long slumber. Welcome, to the final stage, the dream of the real. Here I am, the alpha and the omega, please, make yourselves at home. Myrriah...she is on the way."
CH 5. Family
The artist could only watch with disgust as the scorned sister pranced about the room, her words ripe with derangement. What had happened to this woman to twist her mind so swiftly? How could one's Family so callously toss aside their kin, permitting such torture? Watari felt contempt; being a brother himself, he couldn't understand why Hunter would turn his back on blood? Matsumota hearing his call, standing by her son's side, as the poet gave the maimed samurai a gentle nod. While not perfect, their family unit seemed vastly more stable and normalized compared to the homunculus freakshow on full display.
Mazana, this beautiful yet deranged stricken woman, seemed intent on change. The philosopher found her words eerie, yet alluring placed, each syllable an adequate brush stroke. While macabre, those limericks still resonated rather profoundly within his bewildered mind. Those eyes widened, recalling the clockwork affair, while his mother ascended, and the Elders did battle within the mortal plane. How could she know of such matters, the Kitsune didn't see her amongst the crowd? The thought plucked from his mind at the revelation that Hunter stood amongst all those that could have averted the disaster to come. But before Watari could express such contempt, his mother sprung into motion, seeing the Djinn for what she indeed was, a predator. "Mom!"
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Those words escaping his tongue, those pupils dilating as to his shock, the unruly spirit was impaled. Was it over, had the Khan felled such an abomination? No, whatever this woman had become, seemed far too complex to be smitten so effortlessly. Matsumota launched backward, As Watari leaped off his mount, catching his parent as he held her close. His knee planted within the ground as he glanced down at the scarred face of his guardian and mentor. A half-hearted smile was stretching across the rugged face as the half breed chuckled before raising his head to face the matron of frost. "Family, stands by one another no matter what. Mother, it is my turn to catch you for a change!" -
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Holding the cherry blossom fox close with one hand, cradling her in that ripped bicep as the freehand grasped the hilt of the thrown blade. Ever since he was a cub, his Khan did what she could to help the artist as he stumbled. Life may not have been ideal, but the love of a mother had a way of shining through the darkest of times. Watari standing steadfast, his muscular chest swelling as the katana was clenched and aimed to the floor. The darkness was writhing under his feet, as no fear would be displayed for this mutant.
"Do you remember what you told me all those years ago? That no matter what today may bring, as long as we stand as one, we will see a better tomorrow. You are not alone; you are no one's dog; you are Matsumota Crisandra Devante-Weyshla Ardese of Obsidian Canyon. Champion of the grand Djinn tournament, The Blood Fox, Slayer of Oni's, Butcherer of the tribes, Mistress of cherry blossoms, Wielder of the Blackened Flame, The Great Hunter, Vanguard of the wall, Survivor of the pass, Hero of the 13 banners, Grand champion of the tournament of power, Queen of Slayers, Protector of the Realm, Slayer of the Horde, The Ashen Kitsune, The Ronin, General of the imperial hounds, Ender of Giants, Spawn of war, Leader of the Warband, Khan of blood and bone, Lady of House Devante, Matron of the Devante line, The unyielding, Usurper of thrones and the best damn mother a man could ask for!" -
​
The light may fade from those eyes, but the Devante lineage works together from the heart, no matter how far they are spread apart. The infinite void may have robbed their bodies of their senses, but the spirit transcended the physical realm. The sea of hairs doing little to shift Watari conviction, the two now appearing within the ruins of a bygone age. The greenish ash like snow drifting around as the son place his mother's sandal-clad feet on the ground, handing her the sword that served as an extension of the Kitsune's will. Those two paintbrushes were appearing in his hand as the towering man stood behind his discarded mother. Myrriah, the empire, the syndicate, these names meant nothing to the artist. Only one legend he knew to be accurate, and it was that of the blood fox.
"Mazana, you claim to be on our side? I couldn't care less for the empire, but, unlike you, I value Family. The world of men has abused my people, discarded my mother, and kept us on a leash like dogs. Peace was attempted, but diplomacy was ultimately a failure. I may be a pacifist by nature, but only a fool sits by and awaits the guillotine to drop thats hovering over their head. You just want to undo the system, punish your mother, and burn away everything she touched? However, if those that have been wronged have a claim to justice, as you seem to be hinting at? Then who here has suffered more than my mother? Myrriah is hers to kill; the sands belongs to her not by birth but by action. The blood fox grew from nothing and blossomed into the legend. It took an Elder being to awakened you; my mother did so using her legs! My name is Watari Devante, just a small man trapped on a tiny grain of sand. Kill me, or don't, either way, get the hell out of my Family's way!"
​
Watari looked at the rat who rushed to his aid, giving the rodent a nod to confirm he was well. "Rakash, your mother will die this day. My condolences. I do not pass the parent's sin onto her children; even Mazana is innocent in my eyes. Your Family will never be the same again, but it is still your Family. I grew up with only my mother and sister, far from perfect, but here we are making do with the cards dealt."
​
The world outside may have forgotten these crystalized remains, but the Djjin, Myrriah, could never. An entire civilization expedited to the brink of extinction, all so the age of man could be set into motion. A new era, one of her designs, where magic, tech, and reason ruled as the pillars of civilization. The act of birthing a new epoch was an arduous and mentally taxing one, riped with nightmares and deeds others may see as despicable. But who were they to judge? Babes who have grown in opulence suckling greedily on the tit of this Djinn. The former Mers' statues followed their approach, forming a wall behind them, ensuring they couldn't retreat so freely.
The scholar continued his pointless hunt for knowledge, yet, this mortal was incapable of comprehending the truth. Even if the purveyor of coin obliged him, it would only lead to the swelling of more interrogations. This studious soul is soon to be vexed with internal frustrations, but the infant will find the truth no matter the consequence. Notwithstanding the mental anguish, the human mage Dhiyuh will learn a harsh reality of this world, that edification wasn't always a gift. "Fret not, boy; you will soon have all your answers. What lies before you?" The spirit was pausing as the haunting lullaby that unraveled the last empire resonated. Those pools of gold were broadening, as for the first time, the mistress of shadows was visibly agitated.
​
"I-Impossible!? Th-that song! I see now; a Djinn has managed to uncover the truth I sought to bury. How poetic it is to either end or be sustained, where this entire experiment originated. You wanted to know what awaits us; the answer is simple....The truth." Those ambiguous words would have to suffice, as Myrriah hadn't the time to invest in explaining the history of his species.
​
Myrriah looking toward the cart on her right, giving the agent a firm nod. The syndicate operative whistling as the tarp behind a maid known as Bette was throw off the side, revealing a giant sarcophagus of stone. Magical runes inscribed along the exterior meant to keep who or what was at bay in a state of inertia. The men were dumping their Chi as the various marking lights began to dull. "You are all about to see the truth, what lingers behind the dark side of the moon. Be vigilant; a retreat is no longer an option." The caravan reaching the end as Myrriah dismounted from the beetle drawn cart, looking toward the ruined palace's skeletal remains. Her men being ordered to guard their supplies, as the Djinn looked back toward the party.
​
The mistress of shadows added before turning her back toward the lot and ascending those stairs. That beam of silvery light piercing the spiraling clouds above, as green snow kept caking over the land. The air chilly as their breath twirled from lips and nostrils with each exhale. The light from the beam enveloping them as they wandered through the labyrinth of dismantled pillars and walls before eventually stepping into the main stage, a vast 400ft opening. Myrriah was pausing as she saw just the head of the dragon poking from the sands, those eyes widening with shock as she witnessed Mazana, her daughter, holding Viassa on the lap. "Y-you did this?"
The choir was getting louder and louder. What started as a whisper was swelling up into an explosive symphony of madness and revolution. The Djinn was taking a second to notice Matsumtoa and her child. The others, most of whom she hadn't seen before aside from Rakash and Hunter. "Rakash! Come to mother! Y-Your sister isn't well!"
​
Matsumota recalling how she was grabbed by her child, the Khan bestowing her spawn with a deadpan stare, as he cradled her within those muscular arms. This very act made her feel diminutive in stature, only worsened by Mazana's comment. Typically, the vertically challenged Kitsune would be ranting; however, the encroaching blackness took precedence over her quirks. His words concerning their dysfunctional unit, taking the blood fox by astonishment, as she stood utterly humbled by this performance. Within the deepest bowels of her soul, the mistress of cherry blossoms craved for acceptance, a den to nuzzle her war-weary head. Watari, while still a dumbass, was her retarded offspring. And no one, be it mortal or Elder thing, could eradicate this certainty.
The inundating darkness robbed her of sight, as that familiar, albeit undesired sensation of the void washed over the fox—the samurai thrashing about, kicking, swinging her fist, ready to wallop someone's ass. The slime coated hairs were slapping against the spawn of war. Matsumota grabbed a handful and mouthful, tearing them free from the source. If she were going to die or be abducted, the unruly Kitsune would take her pound of flesh to purgatory with her. The warmth of their plane hitting the body as those pink ears and tails twitched in response. The wielder of the blackened flame emerged in the mortal realm, growling with those fibers still clenched by claw and maw. That peach orb was bounding about before spitting the clump of fur onto the floor.
​
Most might find its texture appalling, but, Matsumota had ingested worse substances throughout her life. The gloved hand was releasing its grip, losing the hairs as she gazed up at her heir. The bratty warrior grumbling, snatching her Katana while she was placed on the floor, still covered in the gunk from that middling domain. "Brings back memories of your father." The Kitsune spoke in jest, smirking before directing the gaze toward the perched abomination. Matsumota slamming her right foot forward, pointing the blade at the dragon, and grinning with excitement. "I want one, not going to lie." Before spanking her flamboyant son's tush with her tail, giving him a wink. However, failing, on account to possessing but a singular eye. The time for light-heartedness dissipating, as the coy sneer supplanted with a stoic, deadpan stare. She was obliged to endure the artist's flowery words, picking the wax from her ear before attempting to smear it on Rakash's coat as a "gift." Why was Matsumtoa still here, just to suffer? Dreamer knows how she detested preambles—groaning from remission once the philosopher ceased disgorging rainbows and other heartwarming garbage.
​
"Let me surmise; I'm done being a tool. I ain't no battered wife, not going to keep returning to the same small pricked abusive relationship. Friend or foe, stay out of my way; your mother's head is mine. Your brother is my son now, only fair, on account of Myrriah about to contract a lethal case of the sword to chest syndrome, a major epidemic in these parts. So we can continue measuring dicks, but either way, I have better...stuff...yeah that...to do...like feed some fish or something." The hand shooing away Mazana as she turned around, only to see Myrriah come into view. That pinking unkempt mane was tilting with her head as she greeted the home wrecker with an unamused stare. "3...2...1..." Matsumota counting under her breath before snapping those fingers; as on cue, the deranged Djinn slide off the dragon to address her mother. The self-absorbed Madness stricken cunt would be permitted this show, as the Kitsune waited. The Khan was aware that her words would mostly be ignored, giving how loud Myrriahs cheeks were clapping. It must be some Djinn mating call.
​
"For the record, everyone, everything she just said was bullshit." The only retort she felt like expressing, knowing that soon the streaked blue princess would ramble.
​
Watari watched as his mother proved as ferocious as ever; despite the dragon's presence, Matsumota seemed undeterred. The artist was withstanding the embarrassing display, that slapping of his buttocks caused the inked pillar of muscle to sigh. The philosopher kept his eyes focused on the beast, as fearlessly he retained the brushes held firmly in those grasp. Myrriah arrival expected, given Mazana's previous declaration, as the poet shifted his feet and stared at the curvaceous dark-skinned enigma. Those peach eyes fixating on the Djinn, the face expressing anger for all this witch had put his family through. Rakash defiance proved a welcome sight, as once more, his wolf sibling refused to speak up. This trend proving beyond distressing, the kitsune disputed what, if any honor, this warrior had in him.
That insane jester was putting on yet another convoluted performance; while most saw insanity, Watari perceived insight tucked behind the madness. A single bead of sweat running down masculine features, as the inane rambling hinted at another one of her kind, is present. The fox haughtily supposed that one of her entourage was the accused. The hand reached out, setting his callous covered palm on the Rakatta's shoulder, attempting to comfort the distressed child. Hunter may enjoy being a spectator in his family affair, but Watari would not allow this tortured creature to feel as if he was alone. Despite being a rodent, a "monster," the thief was now family, and the Devante always care for their kind. "Remain tranquil, as upsetting as it may be; anger will cloud your sight. Mazana needs you, she may be damaged, but one mustn't give up on family." -
​
Watari was looking to his side, giving a disgusted glance toward the amphibian combatant. "Hunter, is it not enough your slothfulness has damaged your sister? How about your shortage of tact brought this division upon Rakash and will lead to one of our parent's demise? You speak of honor, you posture like some fabled warrior, but you're just a fool with a sword. If you had any sense, any shred of dignity, you would take that blade and insert it into your belly." His words cut short as the energy attack Myrriah expelled sped across the scene, detaching Mazana's arm from the body. What he had thought to be a trick of the mind, once more transpired before his very eyes.
The severed appendage regrowing at a mind-boggling rate as the frigid rose laughed from amusement. If the poet hadn't seen what she was capable of, beheld it with those same orbs, he would consider her to be arrogant. Was this Djinn above him? On some level, yes, but in others, she seemed proportionately deficient. As the artist contemplated her words, that former ray is long gone before reaching a disturbing conclusion. It couldn't be a coincidence, the choir's deafening at the same time, her ostensible disregard for her welfare. "I see now; we are beyond the point of return; even if we succeeded in killing you, the deed is already done. Mazana, do not throw your life away; you are not beyond repair." -
​
The painter doubted his reason would penetrate that thick skull, but this recognition wouldn't deter his need to try. "Myrriah, it is over; even if you managed to kill us all, it changes nothing. If not for your sake, please cast down your arms, for your children if you sincerely do love them?" Watari looked down at Rakash, giving him a tender nod as the artist stepped ahead of the vermin. Matsumota was remaining planted just to the right of his position. "Rakash, stay back. You still cherish your mother; I know this; as a son, I too could never loathe my parent. But, don't look away either, such is our way. Averting your eyes will not remedy the atrocity of her failures, nor will it benefit you in the end. Mazana, Rakash, I am truly sorry." Watari felt authentic compassion, as even his mind couldn't fathom what it must feel like to watch your sister descend into self-destruction yet seemingly being too feeble to avoid disaster. "Mother, end this cycle, or I will..."
​
Sweet little Rakash, finally standing up to his twisted mother, how this performance induced a smile on her face. The frosty rose, disregarding the tattooed fox's proclamations, finding most of these spectators' declarations to be lacking merit. The conniving spirit had a profound idea; beholding Myrriahs anguish at the vermin's actions goaded Mazana onwards to propel her off the edge. The pitiable rodent yearned to preserve his sibling; why not feed this delusion with a mere act? A modest, heartfelt gesture to lead the bewildered and befogged consciousness down a critical junction. "R-Rakash? I love you, y-you aren't a failure. T-the darkness if coming!"
The Djinn was staggering back, simulating tremendous despair, as she settled the palm onto her forehead, feigning a massive migraine. The breathing sharply, as those potent pools gazed at the rat, slipping from endearment to mania. The baboon human scholar's words prompting Mazana to laugh, such disdain, what imprudence this clueless chimp maintained. All that chatting, and in the end, to quote Matsumota, everything regurgitated was absolute bullshit. A simple reminder of the absurdity of his kind. That even those vested with a progressive education were still akin to a toddler.
​
"You wound me! In the land of fools, the sage appears deranged, so your ignorance is to be expected. Human, let the adults speak. If we wanted the inane ramblings of a juvenile, we would ask for your riveting insights! Now be a good ape, and go bang some rocks together or something?" Mushufasa was glancing toward the mortal, suffering out a gnarl as he elevated his head. The dragon tilting it to the side as the massive body rose from the grains, kicking up a thin haze of dust across the scene. The serpentine-like body was hovering in the air, surpassing the city's length, as those elongated whiskers flailed about in the wind. Who was this worm to insult such a being? His species, their insolence beyond fathomability. Oh, how the creature of myth and legend would relish immolating his world.
"I am Mushufasa, last of my kind, but this does not absolve me of pride. Human, a speck, an insignificant worm releasing utterances and erroneous judgments. This titan is no creature's pet; I was to remain inert, to watch who won this campaign of wills. But I grow fatigued; the results are amply clear who the vanquisher will be this day. Mazana, I do this not for you but myself. It seems this world has forgotten my kind; I will not suffer such indignities any longer. I will glass your feeble empire, pulverize it to ashes. Their extermination will prove legendary, kindling the fable and legacy my kind leaves behind for a thousand cycles. The world of men will be no more, as the Beastkin may herald me as the precursor of their reign."
​
The dragon was flying off into the sky, casting a spectacular shadow as it wiggled through the heavens, vanishing from sight behind a thick layer of clouds. Myrriah was whetting her teeth, her efforts undone, those children spurning her. Matsumota, her ideal pawn, nipping at the hand that feeds her. So be it, if the wielder of fate was to fail this day, then, she'd take the blood fox's blasted son to Comm'Orra's dominion with her. The massive pool of energy housed within unlocking, as above her head, a glyph shaped like an eye appeared. Sparks of amethyst and pink bolts thrashing about, glassing the sand in its path. The current was running up the body, congregating where the pupil should be, as a dazzling glow illuminated outward, perforating any darkness nearby.
A torrent of comparable hued beam was expelled from the center, covering an area of six feet. The energy rod was speeding across the scene, kicking up grains of sand that clumped together, fusing into a pebble like structure. Rakash and Watari were the intended targets once they had been reduced to dust. Should the attack connect, Myrriah would angle to projectile toward the beastkin one by one, exploding them into a fog of cremated remains. "I am Myrriah; the desert rose, the soul of the empire and architect of the world of men! I have persisted well beyond the rules of lineages and their epochs, mark my words; I will endure well beyond your expiration!" Such unbridled vigor, the destructive nature far surpassing that of any mortal. Who could hope to stand in her way? What creature among them could dare contest such power? 'Watch closely Mazana, as I reconstruct my vision from the ruination you loftily thought to inflict!"
​
The glory of the Beastkin is forever! The blood fox gawked at the scholar as he seemed resolute in ignoring her; instead, he petitioned the painter. That peach eye following Watari's movements, lingering in taciturnity as Myrriah and Mazana had their little quarrel. The Khan reached amid her bust, extracting a tube of Salami as she munched down on the meat. The way Matsumota saw it, if they were going to put on a show, she might as well savor a snack. The dragon's shuffling prompted the sands to shift lightly under her sandals as the fox peered over her shoulders at the beast. The Kitsune was blinking as the titan spoke, that eye squinting as she flung the pillar of juicy food at the creature's face.
The meat was hitting the mark, having no real result, but the samurai convinced that dominance had been inserted. The reptile was now boring her, as it too seemed to be the rambling barker type. How dull, here the monster hunter supposed she could ride on its back and dash across the heavens, puffing away on that pipe. Much like her ex-husband, the dickwad had to speak, ruining the mood, typical men. The matron of cherry blossom, regretting so liberally flinging her meal, once more delving within the valley between those mountains. This time Matsumota pulled out a bag, taking out one piece of Beetle jerky at a time, as she returned her focus toward Myrriah, blowing her a kiss from those greasy lips. It wouldn't be long now when she can stick her long, stiff blade inside of the bimbo. Maybe then she'd understand why her former lover deserted them, for this ass clapping homewrecker.
​
The kimono adorned warrior may seem a fool, but Matsumota understood how such nonchalant irreverence would piss off the gaudy purveyor of opulence. "So...dragons can talk? Cool....you learn something pointless every day?" The bag was dropping to the ground as the wielder of the darkened flame could sense Myrriah preparing for her attack. Finally, they can halt the foreplay and get into the raunchy bits. A ubiquitous simper stretching across her face as pearly fangs exposed themselves, exhibiting bits of meat nestled between their gap. The Katana clenched firmly by a gloved hand, as a faint white shimmer outlined her body. Stillness, the Devante art was employed, obfuscating her energy while focusing all her senses on the prey.
"About time! Hit me wi..." That single eye-widening, the cannon whirling, as the vessel and crystal's energy were collecting within the artificial body of that prosthetic. By its angle, the fox could tell that the attack wasn't aimed at her. Time was of the essence; she had little room for error. Matsumota had three choices, let her mentally disabled son die, try and knock him out the way, be exposed, or throw caution to the wind and engage the destructive force. The Khan was coasting on a bed of cherry blossoms, her right knee skimming across the sand as she steered her cannon toward the spiraling ray. "Watari!"
​
The samurai was done running, having suffered enough loss for countless lifetimes. No parent should live to bury their spawn; having already lost one child, the Kitsune wouldn't mourn another! The body stopping in front of Rakash and the artist as the cannon ejected a pillar of pink light energy to combat Myrriahs. As the power caused a severe gale to rush across the region, the tips connecting, blowing back a massive cloud of debris. This power the Djinn possessed, it was...incomprehensible! "Watari...run!" The beam was contending against her attack, enveloping the fox in that glow. The cannon heated from the eruption of magic, smoking as the sheer force of their clash forced the Khan to slide back ever so slightly. "I...It's too much! I...I can't stop her! Forgive me..."
At this time, Matsumota sensed a familiar presence as several hands rested on her back. They were here, infused on her flesh, depending on the sole survivor of their pact. Aquaria, her brother, Theo the drunken uncle, Jintsu the innocence robbed of this world, all their deaths meaningless, all the innocents sacrificed for the realm devalued if she didn't win. "Your Empire...Epochs...these are fleeting things Myrriah. But glory...the glory of the Beastkin...that...is...forever!"
​
The tainted form, her kitsune armor birthing from the pores, coating the body, as Matsumota had accepted her failures. Innumerably the warrior had fallen, and each time, she rose back up to face the challenge. Her children, future generations, the fate of the Beastkin, were all riding on her. The combined wave of energy met in the middle as the ends whipped about, knocking over the loose pillars nearby. The barrel wouldn't last much longer, as the blood fox rose to her feet, confidence smeared across her face, as Myrriah peered through the torrent with utter disbelief. The cursed bone plating embellished her curves, those scars, anger, and all her suffering were emblems of honor to be presented. Those legs carrying the monster hunter forward, as the dark outline of her figure greeted the Djinn.
"You created me, walked me down this path, fed me my power. You thought you could enslave me, use this fox like a pawn! No, Myrriah, you should have learned from all those that dared to stand in my path, that unwritten rule of the Sands. Don't...fuck...with...Matsumota!" The crystal within the oscillating chamber shattering, doing little to break her tenacity.
Aquaria- "Matsumota...let it go...You are the best of us, always have been. Do not falter, do this not for us, but for yourself, my sister..."
Theo- "Listen here, sport, a Devante never dies on their back! Show this cunt why the realm needs us, not the other way around!"
​
Jintsu -"Mom! Kick her ass! Like you always said, losers bitch, winner nut up!"
Those under her command, their ululations were resounding forth, as the Kitsune put every fiber of her being into this one attack. The tip of the cannon starting to melt as dark flames and cherry blossom embers joined the column. Pushing through the attack as the combined energy of the two beings collided with Myrriah. "I was close to ascending!" The Djinn proclaimed as the 40ft wide beam pushed past where she stood, racing across the distance as it seemed to keep moving toward the horizon. Matsumota was unlatching the dripping cannon so that it dropped to the floor, falling to her knees, panting heavily.
"Almost...doesn't count...beside sex...you cunt..." The kitsune form vanishing, exposing the naked fox. Those myriads of burns, scars all were telling the story that was her failure. Mazana stepping toward the weary samurai, she could kill this child where she stood relatively quickly. But no, the delirious maiden was nothing, is not sincere in her madness.
​
This man was well dressed and pampered, his arms as narrow as his perspective. Watari listening as the college representative dribbled out his infirmed banter. Did this mage believe he could divide their Family so quickly, divert their conviction from this set course with just bungling words alone? Aiveera's continued verbal onslaught toward the Jackal ruffling the honorable painter, looking back over his shoulder as she frequently showered him with praise. Was this Wulfgar afflicted with heat? Sorry, but this snarling zealot wasn't the philosopher's type, as her intellect had established itself as wanting. Why his mother suffered these eruptions, the son would never know, but, thankfully, he wasn't Matsumota.
Amun fought Hunter honorably; they both respectfully walked away when another childishly lept into the fray. Aiveera must have been stricken with some impairment, as she went from trying to ride the Kitsune coat tails and securing a kill under the falsehood that is retribution. To valiantly decrying any ill intent directed toward Rakash, going as far as to wish him an extended stay in this world. Was this creature that emotionally stunted, that the death of her troops, that honor guard meant so little? Either the mutt was bipolar, or she had the attention span of a gnat, invariably bouncing her attention around at anything that moved. "Magic man, you speak alot of funny words, yet they hold no sway. Do not converse with me any further, as you lack a spine. A man of conviction would have acted, not wasted our time with ill-fitted words."
​
With that pretentious aristocrat out the way, the muscular fox would note the necromancer's attempt to secure more bodies. Some may perceive this as vile, but the Kitsune understood that magic, like a tool, is incapable of aligning within a moral spectrum. The craft itself mattered little, more what the user desired to accomplish with it. The same gout of flame that can devastate an innocent soul is equally proficient in kindling a fire, saving a poor man from exposure to the elements. "Aiveera, leave him be. Amun, pardon her harsh tongue, despite initial and continuous misgivings. I feel our kind, notwithstanding our contentious history, can move forward. Matsumota may be rough around the edges, but I assure you, she does respect you. Otherwise, you would know. A fact we both grasp to be true, given my mother's questionable reputation."
The tattoed combatant shifted his focus back toward the rat as Rakash once more strived to spark a bond with his wayward sister. Her shift striking Watari as odd, yet the sentiment a part of her remained, a single flickering of a star within that abyss, did seem plausible. "Hunter may have given up on you Mazana, but Rakash hasn't, nor will I. Whatever you may feel, be it justified or not, you should be leery. For bitterness, like an acid, will eat away the vessel housing it. " The dragon lifting off, Watari watching as Matsumota flung a tube of Salami at the creature, impacting it, just before the wonderment of nature spoke his peace, and vanished into the heavens. What wisdom could such an ancient soul impart? Such potential wasted when all is said and done; the Philsopher covertly harbored a longing to converse with the titan.
​
The excitement of it all leading Watari to neglect the Hybrid wolf for a bit initially; his expressions of regret seemed futile. Atone? Amend for past transgressions? No, this oaf had done far more than irrevocably damaged his siblings: an entire empire, millions soon to be dead. Not because of what sins he committed, instead, what the juvenile warrior refused to do. The painter held no admiration for the world of men, but that didn't mean he took immense delight in their extermination. But before the philosopher could express his thoughts, Myrriah conjured forth her ray of devastation.
Matsumota was rushing toward them, as Rakash wasted his breath trying the red-maned Kitsune to flee. The inked fox was coating his arms and legs in that vibrant ink. The brushes absorbed into the material as they were moved toward the forearms' bottom as the liquid solidified. The strength of this shielding, kindred to bronze, remaining a third of an inch thick. His mother was engaging the blast with equal fervor from that prosthetic armament; the spawn looked toward the rat and extending a smile. "No, my mother stands for us, as she always has, I will not retreat in our hour of need. If we are to die...it will be together. For that's what Family is about, sticking it through thick and thin."
​
The fox was marching onward, the blinding blast and tremendous gale kicking up hardened particles of sand. Nearby flimsy columns were collapsing under the storm of their assault. The Khan was resting on bending knee as Watari placed his inked hand on the samurai shoulder, lowering his body as he offered it support to resist the urge of sliding. Those muscles were bulging as the warrior-poet struggled to keep his parent from being hurled back from that deluge of power. "Mother, the realm may have deserted you countless times. Turning its back on the sacrifices you've made, the mental anguish and pound of the flesh offered for their safety. But, I will not do the same. We stand as a family against this tyrant, or we perish and join our kin waiting on the other side."
The body was resonating, glistening that same aura, as the two remained united in this endeavor. Matsumota found her second wind, spewing forth an ungodly amount of Chi, enough so that even her child couldn't believe his senses. The cannon melting, as Myrriah proved far too confident, having the monster she devised ultimately transcending her power. It was down, the mischievous manipulator was no more, as Watari stood close to his mother to comfort her if the need arose. "It's finished, Myrriahs reign of terror forever relinquished. Mother, thank you for standing while others hid." The inked philosopher watching the one behind the recent events approach Hunter seeking to shield his Khans raw form with unworthy garb. -
​
"One million, that is the number that dies this day for your sins—the monument of your endeavors. I have no love for the empire, but you should. The people who raised you, your culture, snuffed out in a single day. A thousand years wasted, all because you couldn't be bothered to open your mouth. How long did it take you to ask forgiveness? Hunter, step away from my mother, as your hands and clothes are tainted with dishonor." Watari was yanking the coat, throwing it away as his chest puffed with rage, gazing into those eyes with the want to rip this warrior to shreds.
"Rakash may pardon you; Mazana may find it in her heart to exonerate you. However, atonement is beyond your grasp, or do you think those million wilted souls give a damn what crusade you undergo in their name? I am sorry, but you are not worthy to stand in my shade, let alone the shadow of the Khan. Seek repentance amongst your kin, but I will kill you after we are done if you dare tread within a mile of our house." The artist was glancing to the rodent, then toward the remaining Djinn, offering a gentle nod. "Family looks out for one another; your thanks isn't necessary." -
​
"Mazana, I say again, while perfect healing may not be possible, do you not find Rakash worth the effort? Come, join us, see the construction of the new world. I can not return your old life, nor revive the dead. But, I will do everything in my finite power to bestow you a new family. Though I do have a question, did Comm'Orra let you escape? If so..." Watari was thinking to himself, those eyes widening as he reached a dreary conclusion. "This other homunculus! Where is it? I may not know an Elder beings mind, but I have enough experience to understand that they seldom plot without some gain!"
CH 6. The awakening
The artist looked upon Mazana's face, the Djinn unaffected by his gestures, going as far as to wholly ignore her sibling, as much as Watari would love for them to unite. To move beyond this hurdle and become a family once again. The poet questioning if he was in her shoes if that task would prove so straightforward? The reasoning for her unwillingness to absolve her sibling made obvious as Matsumota strode forward and held his solidified ink varnished hand. If the kitsune could sense the Khan's thoughts, he would have told her all was well, and she had nothing to worry over. Rakash and Mazana finally sharing words, as the frigid rose teared up as the truth was exposed. She was never freed, her prison shifted, but in the end, this poor soul was still in bonds.
​
The inked fox was taken back, her plight beyond wearisome, as the philosopher started to see the warning signs. The declaration they lacked perspective, the need to find reality, and that damning line "We are all marionettes, just some of have longer strings" becoming clear. This fate, this imprisonment, made death seem like a sweet release. Thousands of times, the icy wielder claimed she predestined to repeat this chain of events. Every time, wounding Rakash, seeing his anguish on perpetual repeat. It seemed Mazana had tried to end it all numerous times, yet, the Lord of manipulation wouldn't permit his toy to find rest. The supposed delirium afflicted Djinn was the only sane one in the room after all.
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Matsumota's words inspiring a smile on his face, as for the briefest of moments, they locked eyes. Watari had countless inquiries, but his inquisitions didn't replace Rakash right to spend these moments with his sister. "Mother..." The explosion was resounding outward, removing the words from his lips, as the blackening plumes swept to the heavens. Mazana's mention of Comm'Orra's arrival causing dread to adhere toward Watari's soul. This artist had been cursed with but a glimpse of that abominable entity's capabilities. It took his mother and Myrriah at full power and three other horrors akin to that coming monstrosity to repel his reach.
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By the time his eye returned to the siblings, they had embraced as the frigid rose faded from sight. "Hunter, you better pray Comm'Orra kills me. If we end up with a fate like Mazana, I will spend that eternity endlessly pommeling you. You have not only cost your sister and brother any hope of a happy reunion but have now risked everyone here by proxy. You have inadvertently put my family in harm's way; this is an offense I will not overlook." The syndicate men were clearing the corner, firing shots from their rifles at the approaching master of disorder. The blood fox stepped ahead of her spawn as the son placed his coated hand on the kitsune shoulder.
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The revelation of their actual location having little impact on the painter, as the artist had no clue what dire implications this held. "Why stop at the balls? When we can rip the whole thing off, mother?" The rodent overloaded with tribulation, had his senses clouded, going into a bloodlust, sliding toward the author of his misery. The rat suspended, moved to the side as if garbage as Watari noted the tomb he so freely carried around. The way Comm'Orra so nonchalantly and casually walked about while dismissing the barrage of caster fire served as ample proof that the game was rigged from the start. "Hunter, haven't you done enough damage? Why don't you stop pretending to be the hero, a man, and sit there while the adults try to clean up the mess you created. Comm'Orra, while not guiltless, couldn't have accomplished anything without you. Imagine playing for the opposite team while fancying yourself as an equal on our side. Couldn't be me..."
​
Watari was swiping his freehand about, drawling a 5ft tall scorpion of shifting, rainbow hues. The ink bursting from his pores as the creation materializes into life. "I know you all feel fear; I do as well, but if this is the end. The time for standing idly by has expired, curl into a ball and die, or stand fighting for the slimmest of potential we may push through this abomination. Brothers, sisters, let us show Comm'Orra that while he may be temporary, the glory of the beastkin is everlasting..." No matter what happened, Watari had to survive, for his mother's sake, and to eviscerate the wolf, Hunter
Rakash, who was still held by Comm'Orra. Aiveera, AETU-2, Watari and Dhiyul all unifying, rising to the call of the hunt. In contrast, Matsumota stayed in the rear, the only rightful heir to what remained after this all, far too precious to be freely offered. While Amun, the necromancer, having lost his thrall, would prove of little help in the coming battle. Hunter tried to break his brother free by attempting some new spell never before practiced, only for it to rebound and his freehand offered next in some shallow redemption attempt.
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The shameful brother Hunter attempted to free his sibling from Comm' Orra's clutches. The notion demonstrating too little, too late, as the shielding that preserved the entity, was used to repel the flimsy attempt. Somehow, that detestable homunculus only received minor burns, withstanding the concussive force with stride. The ball of light that followed this incredible feat emanated out from the tomb. Its purple glow was passing by the stalwart artist nearly as hastily as it had formulated. A hand was sprouting from the lid, as the top was so easily hurled to the side. A peculiar woman was flipping into view, clenching the Elder with those muscular thighs, before tossing him across the way.
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The sarcophagus formerly containing this slumbering beauty, being launched next, as the Lord of chaos stretched forth the hand, dispersing the projectile, forming a cloud of debris. How did she elude the barrier? Then again, giving the minute suffering afflicted on Hunter, it seemed Comm'orra was weak. Those shots were fired, knocking the horror to the ground, as the scholar took advantage of the fog of war to fire forth a concentrated energy beam. Watari was shunting his gaze, looking at Hunter with immense disdain. So he had spoken to Comm'Orra before, were these two in league with one another? Did the fool willfully hand off his sister, given his lack of care and urgency?
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This probability seemed hardly so far fetched, given perceivable evidence. This creature, reminding the artist of his father, a selfish organism bent on destroying his family for wholly selfish gains. Hunter, Beris, such men were blights to society, cancers that needed to be ripped from the body. That suppressed hatred was boiling to the surface, running over, as fist clenched tightly. The biceps were bulging, muscles flexing, as the extremity shook with such intensity. The poet may have been denied the slaying of his father, but this homunculus, he would not be permitted the same stay of execution. For some time, the primal song chimed in Watari's mind, imploring the artist to let go and give in to its mesmerizing call.
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The warrior may have disappointed his family in the past, but he would not suffer replicating the same grievances toward Rakash's. And so, for the first time, Watari let go and surrendered himself to the bestial will skulking within the abstract nature of his consciousness. The light outside fading, the thrill of the hunt. The prize that guided this mass of muscle was all that remained: his inner animal, the proper form encapsulating his soul coming into his mind's eye view. What trickery, what an indignity, that which formulated from the darkness wasn't some magnificent beast, but a mundane human. A vital lesson of humility now imparted, as the painter had to accept that he was part human. With this begrudging epiphany embraced, the two melded into a new being, a better organism outfitted for the furnace of war.
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On the outside, the spawn stood still. Almost as if in harmony, as the twinkling silvery outline of stillness illuminated from the body. The Eldritch shame of his mother, while lessened, proved hereditary, as it oozed in a light brownish fluid coating the body. The body encased from head to toe, as this material was shaped like clay before solidifying into a boney, jagged suit and imposing armor. Horns were sprouting from the side of his head, as a mask and tattered hood and layers of skin like material draped freely from the vessel. Those once serenity glazed eyes, replaced with that of burning pools fixated on Wolf. Comm'Orra, the others, but distant memories were holding no sway within the mind of the deranged fox. If anyone stood in his way from that goal, they would be torn asunder without prejudice. Matsumota watching with pride, as her spawn had ascended, finally unlocking the birthright of all skilled Kitsune, this bestial metamorphosis.
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The hands still glazed in ink like coating, resting on top of the newly melded shielding, as the gauntlets stretched toward wolf as Watari sped across the distance at 30 mph. The beast wounded, distracted, refusing to fight Comm'orra, had little time to react or consider the relatively simple mutations transpiring from his view. The open palm was colliding against the spine just behind the heart, striking the prey as a single spike shot forth two feet from the point of impact. Hunter, having no armor, would find himself being impaled, hoisted into the air, as some semblance of Watari returned. The crimson rivulet of blood staining his attire as the artist refused to cease his momentum. The heart was rupturing, as the ribs shattered by the protruding tool, as a few vertebrae were realigned to the side, snapping free from a fixed position. The hide material flowing behind fast approaching stride as Watari let out a blood-curdling howl.
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In life, Hunter was useless, but in death, his corpse would serve the party well. Comm'orra may be powerful, but he couldn't defend from an attack the entity couldn't see coming. Using the carcass as a wall, the freehand pulled back, the cadaver servicing as a shield to absorb possible retaliations. The spike penetrated the gut from Comm'Orra, as what bits of flesh remained collided with the Lord of revolution. "Take your puppet with you, Elder one. But know this, it is I, Watari, who will serve as your challenger! " The freehand racing for the head, sending a punch as from the knuckles, another spear emerged. The tip was breaking through the cranium as the poet tore the skull from the body, bringing it close.
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Watari turning his back toward the headless game, his tail whipping about as the severed top was brought close to his plated chest, before crushing the bone and spewing blood across his armor. "It is finished..."The body of Comm'orra falling to the floor, inert, as the poet considered the fight won. Complete oblivious to how fruitless any such ventures would prove. But how could he know? It wasn't everyday one did battle with such an entity...
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The hunter, confident he had secured the kill, pausing his march as the strange woman jumped into the fray. That AETU weapon system, privy to matters escaping his observation, Watari intuitively turned to face the now rising horror. The vicious onslaught, having little consequence, as the elder one generated another head. Those eyes widened from absolute perplexity and dread while the entity lifted a pillar, effortlessly launching it to the airborne woman. The dark-skinned newcomer, managing to rotate her figure in the air, using the energy and air her feet generated to evade the looming threat barely. The painter flabbergasted, expecting her to be squashed by the coming attack, as Melody seized the projectile before falling to the floor, landing on those heels. The column swung in retaliation; at first, Comm'Orra eluded the blow, bounding into the air, only to be smacked as the AETU system guided the rock to meet the aerial threat.
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The abomination now struck, was thrown to the floor, though Watari doubted this collision would do much to quell the threat. "What kind of creature is this? Thank you, you save me from my folly." Those words not registering to the unit, as Melody charged forward as Comm'orra raised his hand, creating a large ball of unprecedented power. The weapon held his wrist in place as the plane around them started to strain, breaking apart as small segments were thrown into the darkness below. Such power and scope unveiled how out of their league these fighters were against such a force. The armor glad philosopher steadfast, a spear of ice seemingly out of nowhere, fracture through the horrors chest, forcing the egotistical entity to manifest shock for the first time.
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The expression revealing this wasn't of the Lord of revolutions doing, could it be, Mazana? Such queries were evaporating, as the Wulfgar yelled her warning, letting loose that explosive spear free without much delay. Matsumota had chosen to sit this fight out, for now, waiting for the entity to get close. Watari understood why now, as the looming threat could easily shatter his bones, burn the flesh and possibly rupture organs. "Move!" The Fox cried, hopping back twice, only to be cut off by the Eldritch entity surrounding him in a large crustacean pincer. He protected them from the blast, the appendage turning to ash once it had served its purpose; why?
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Melody calling out, warning them to flee, notifying the fighters that the realm was disintegrating, soon to implode on itself. Only for the enemy to slam his foot, Comm'Orra sending out a burst of energy that knocked Watri on his rear before he tumbled a few feet. The muscles a bit sore, the wind knocked out of lungs as the Kitsune struggled to rise to his feet once more. "Damnnit all!" The artist growled, glaring at the incomprehensibly potent threat towering over them. But before the elder could release his attack, the body exploded outward, as a haze of snow and cloud followed the explosion of flesh and fluids. There flying free, standing on a hovering flower of crystal and ice, stood Mazana.
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The Djinn was confident as she stepped free from the APV hovering system. The sister scolded her brother Rakash, as Watari glanced toward the rodent, giving him a smile and nod. This woman, how did she escaped his clutches? "Your sister is fine; we must believe in her." The philosopher added as those ears twitched, hearkening to her demands for them to flee. Wasting no time, with his pride wounded and muscles bruised, the Fox rushed toward Amun and his mother as they engaged in some ritual. The bone clad painter picking up the partially completed undead thrall as he pivoted to face the wiggling growth carrying a familiar face.
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Zelena, the wordy bastard, had provided them with an escape. "Amun, mother, let us hurry. I rather not have my story end in this forsaken place." Wasting no time, the warrior poet ran, carrying the dangling thrall toward the distant tendril of hope. The realm was quaking, causing the Kitsune to stumble a few times, as Watari managed to regain his footing without falling. Grains of sand floating, defying gravity, as the realm formed blisters that exploded in fire and debris. Portions of the regions being let loose in clumps as the sand shifted with each lost space.
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The line between reality blurring as the sore Fox poured all his focus and passion into this sprint. He was leaping over a few cracks, pushing beyond plumes of debris, only to make it toward Zelena's unorthodox transport finally in one piece. Resting the undead minion on the ground, the painter turned to face the others to see who, if any, made it—preparing to use his ability to paint to assist, if any should require it and were within range. "Zelena, thank you. But, might we try and hold our retreat if possible. Mazana, she is buying us time. She deserves a chance; I implore you." Watari knew the spawn of knowledge needn't humor his request. It seems she indeed was Mirage's daughter, this much thoroughly made apparent now. All the artist could do, was wait...and see.
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The philosopher witnessed events that defied understanding. The expanse they formerly inhabited, rolling into a tube shape, as chunks of earth plummeted downward. Mirage, the elder of knowledge, snaking backward, eluding the rocks. Watari was looking toward Rakash with sorrow, doubting in the hardness of his heart that his sister would manage to escape the destruction around them. Everything this hunter had done was in the hopes to avert another family from weakening due to depression. Zelena's desire to flee was logical; the painter couldn't fault the cephalopod for making this disheartening call. But before the last flicker of light could be swallowed by the ravenous void, AETU-2 mentioned an anomaly, which motivated the purveyor of information to take one final chance.
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Hovering close, this solid mass of earth appeared nearly impenetrable by what little facts the Kitsune could glean. The tentacle was waiting, carrying the others as Watari clung to one of the dull Barbs, as the spawn of worlds commanded. The boneless limb wobbling, shifting due to the boulders pelting that spongey exterior. That barrier before them, bubbling, blistering, and erupting like a cyst. As the distinct shape of Mazana emerged within view, followed by a current of vomit and a golden explosion with numerous shades of embers. The poet reached out, placing those strong arms on Rakash's shoulder as he grabbed his sister's forearm. All of the kitsune brawn exerted, ensuring the rat didn't plunge as the Djinn for a second or two, whipped in the omnipresent darkness.
Those biceps were bulging, veins pressing against the skin, as his newfound vigor and form proved ample enough to keep the family of Humunuculus bound to their organic craft. "Family, never, turns on family!" He grunted, Watari undergoing the strain of those efforts as Rakash managed to yank his sister onto the tentacle, just as the world that was dissolved into oblivion. That space, where no light could reach, was all that remained as they shifted back to their reality. The pinkish glow of the binary sun's setting came to view across the horizon—the desert sands' warmth between the toes, all signs they had escaped that purgatory. They survived, albeit no small feat; the fox could ignore the tumultuous affair and learn to accept the sheer fact he persisted another day. That philosopher was pivoting to face the others, seeing them all standing within the dunes just outside Nirvana.
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"Home. " A single word, but the only one that demanded to be uttered. The warrior approaching his mother, standing next to the Khan as the sight of such a behemoth next to a small woman proved off-putting. "There is no time for rest; the world of men is being consumed as we speak. A power vacuum is all but inevitable, but if we stand as one, I believe we can unite the fragments and prevent an era of darkness. As for any of humankind's survivors, I feel that a desperate human is a loyal human." That deep voice resounded as eyes peered from under that brownish hood of hide and boney mask. Hopefully, from this blighted ordeal, the others would see reason and the need to move onward united and not divided.
Before their time within that blighted realm, The Verdant Dynasty Queen bent the meeting at Nirvana to her whims. Unbeknownst to Watari, the agitation worked wondrously, their lack of bonds sowing seeds of discord. Hunter, Myrriahs, son, revealed that manipulators empire, as Valerna needn't do anything but sit back and watch as they rip jagged maw into one another's throat. What nefarious fingers plucked such fortune onto the chieftans lap? The leaders behind these factions, the armies left rudderless and adrift in a soon to be a tumultuous sea. Nirvana was exposed, the Wulfgars and Gnolls culture to be used as a weapon against them. While they were off gallivanting about, Valerna pushed the pieces forward. Sitting on that throne, the chessboard was set up to best fit the coming change. Those five thousand engineers still in the city, proficient warriors, prepared to use the very earth beneath them as weapons. Simultaneously, the Goatkin were granted unfettered access, scaling the buildings with their rifles under the illusion of setting up a defensive parameter.
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Those remaining officers oblivious, exposed, and ripe for the butchering. As the auburn beauty waved her hand, sending forth a series of messages to engage their trap. The ruse infallible, the unfurling events bolstering what was an already rigged game. Across the city, the distant sounds of explosions reverberated across the air, forcing succulent lips to contort under a smile's influence.
The kitsune didn't love their commander, more or less following her out of an obligation, instead of a profound theological/ideological structure. Wholly surrounded, finding themselves in an inadequate position, the foxes were the first to cast down armaments. For fifteen years, the Giants dealt with the Wulfgar and Gnolls, Valerna often meeting their leadership in-person to pave the way for her inevitable rise.
Seeing the efficiency in her webbing, drawn to brawn and tactical brilliance, the loyal bonds tethering them to the Khan deteriorated swiftly. Unbeknownst to those in that pocket space, time flowed differently within the mortal plane—their few hours absence encompassing several days. Couriers dispatched across the sands, organizing the Mothkela, Goatkin, and Giants at crystal town, while those stationed at the border marched toward the Whitestone college and Ashtown.
The settlements being overrun, as what sentries were left proved far too lacking to offer effective resistance. A tactical blunder on the blood fox's part, bringing so many troops toward the capital without recognizing alternative threats besides the sullied Empire. What a grand orchestra, the defeat of the spirit proving more savory than the territory gathered. The college hunkering behind their walls, but even those academics understood it was only a matter of time before they starved or capitulated.
​
What frivolity, as if anyone would rise to their aid, given the Empire's current entanglement with a particular dragon and otherworldly song, those scholars were utterly alone and cut off from the realm. The Verdant Dynasty's Matron, leaning over a map, repositioning her forces, as so far, the chaos guaranteed unfettered dominion. Sentries posted at all commandeered territories, retaining vigilant eyes out for the recognizable and distinguished appearance of Matsumota.
What useful pawns, the party thinking themselves free, willfully carrying out Valerna's decree. Whether Myrriah or Mazana rose victoriously proved of little consequence, for, in the end, either faction would be licking their wounds. The Eldritch horde, the civil war, events, while not set into motion by her hand, was thoroughly taken advantage of without prejudice. Let them fight, whittle each other down, then slide in fresh, armed and ready while they lay bleeding and feeble.
The sound of those warhorns blaring, as the auburn hair manipulator smiled, looking toward her stoic blonde spawn Bersia. The signal, that final act within this whimsical play, the conclusion of over two decades of tugging on strings. The spider stirring from her nest, stepping outside as she mounted that bone armored Allosaurus. The Matron joining the new regime as they marched posthaste toward the giant tendril reaching out from the heavens. The sound of war drums thunderously resounding as a dense cloud of dust blanketed the horizon. Their number veiled by the haze of heat, making it all seem like some foreboding mirage instead of an actual army. The distance was rapidly dwindling, as the Banners of the Jorgenskull could be seen twirling within the heated breeze.
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Tityana smirking as she had been dispatched to "spy" on Myrriah and document everything that transpired within Comm'Orra's world. Valerna was an agent of chaos, revolution, and change, their unique infrastructure, weapons, and tactics an art form in and of itself. Indeed, the Giants were affiliated with the Elder one of those same spheres, albeit only momentary. The higher entity just another piece, unknowingly bent around Valerna's finger to service her ambitions.
There would be no escape; if the heroes sought to flee, they'd be chased down and without clemency butchered. But, if they waited, Valerna would see their compliance as a positive gesture, bestowing them a most advantageous offer. The mounted units were inundating the diverse group, composed of Arachnids, reptilians, and insectoid mounts: caster rifles, revolvers, spears, and curved weapons all at the ready, five thousand in total. The hulking and terrifying manifestation of the Allosaurus stepping into view. Its sturdy muscles and scales covered in morbid ostentations of bone, as the Queen peered down from on high encased from head to toe in a skeletal edifice, with a lance in hand. Those brown eyes were bounding from one member to the next as she raised that free hand to quell any side banter.
​
"While you were away, I claimed my birthright. The Gnolls, Wulfgar, Goatkin, and Kitsune all bend the knee to me. Crystal town, Ashtown, the Whitestone college, Nirvana each sail my banners with pride. The Empire is broken, its human soldiers scattered, as my Dynasty conscripts or cuts them asunder. For twenty years, I sat by, watched your land become caked in blood and filth. The people, uncivilized, devoid of leadership, were forced to grieve within unfit rulers' hands. No longer, the age of turmoil is no more, as unification, a distant dream, has become a reality. Lay down your arms; you will see that my rule will be beneficial for all involved. "
​
As the newly formed army, the hand gesturing remained inert, keeping vigilant eyes out less one of them be obtuse enough to try anything.
"Before you retaliate with dull expressions of bile, permit me few more moments of your time. But, before I can disclose your position, I feel it necessary to predicate. You are not needed; the truth is not hindering on your whimsical beliefs. I am a just woman, a lady of my word, and a ruler of compassion. Within our meeting, despite constant breakdowns of communication, I afforded certain positions and promises. Matsumota, you, and your child will stand as high ranking generals within this new world. Amun, the Jackals, offered their fealty, as a gesticulation of my sincerity, Emerald city is now yours. With your help and my resources, men, and wealth, we can construct the new White Sands Empire. If you feel so inclined to resist, plot against me, or attempt a rebellion, keep this in mind. The Jungle, your former masters, and the Beastkin have all bowed the knee to me, with minimum loss in influence or power. I can afford this long and bloody affair, albeit ineffective, I query...can you? Each of your species will be afforded a spot within the council. Their voices heard as each faction will be sanctioned some autonomy. You will all join the Verdant Dynasty, gain access to our aid and protection. Congratulations on your citizenship; in return for this humbling opportunity, you need only offer 10% of your income and resource to the whole of this alliance, and of course, your armies should it be needed to deter certain...aspiring troublemakers. Our once distant worlds will be joined, permitting open trade and exploration. With embassy's being placed in each stronghold for the offering of bones and discarded remains. Or do you genuinely believe you can build a new era from nothing, without decades of strife, famine, plague, and revolution? In truth, what I offer isn't opposition but tranquility. Of course, if I must, and if catastrophe can't be averted, I look forward to shattering your spines and wills on the battlefield. After all, everything earned, nothing given? If you truly hearken to this mantra, then you must see the folly in such juvenile antics...As I have merited this position."
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Matsumota the Khan, her son philosopher son Watari, hearkening to reason, observing the way forward as they adopted the shift in tides. The Djinn, the rat Rakash, the wolf Aiveera, Pharoah Amun, and his wife had established themselves as delinquent in their quips or acknowledgments. Instead, they aspired to wrangle amongst themselves like children. While some fools retreated within the sanctity of their minds. As if the reality stretched before them were susceptive or reliant on their acceptance.
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Those paltry locutions from the Djinn, eliciting no outward expression, as the Matron stood stoic and steadfast during her ascension. The trifling squabbles of the Rat and Wolf, being deemed obsolete, her brownish pools were peering toward more plentiful pastures. If one perished, and the other persevered, would beget trivial ripples across the splendid tapestry that was her webbing. Amun's vocalization shortage, the position he assumed, reflected poorly on the contrarily ambitious and astute cognizance Valerna had come to respect. Zelena's preamble, those loving gestures, sowing lesser befuddlement, as the Queen was left to contemplate what truth, if any, were inferred within otherwise inane ramblings. The troops standing at the ready, set on edge due to the orbiting rose caught within Mazana's gravity. The head of the Jorgenskull, smirking, chuckling, as the auburn-haired beauty's chortle belayed any antagonistic retorts.
The blood fox and her painter of a son, seeing their deficient status, accepted the prescribed extension of goodwill. This former Khan was nothing, if not unyielding to her word. This epiphany was permitting them the required furlough, as the Matron motioned with her hand, as an external signaling method to let them pass. So far, everything had continued to bear the coveted fruit, though such fortune may not last. To construct Valerna's fancied outcome, such established persons' assistance would prove a beneficial tool to expedite the propagation of that grandiose vision. But before they could move forward, leaving behind the ruination of yesteryear, the Chieftan needed to be confident toward their resolve. Change was a precarious thing; progress can quickly become unfurled due to a singular lapse in awareness. --
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The porcelain maiden was anything but haughty, possessing no delusions of infallibility, furtively scrutinizing each utterance and thought before it could germinate outward. The mind, her most prized implement, could efficiently be utilized as a double-sided blade if proper prudence was not administered. The denizens of this arid hellscape, this lair of iniquity, a bastion of incivility, would slowly conform. Ultimately, not by the might of the blade, nor the drums of war, but by ideals and language, intangible concepts far transcending the intrepidity of any archmage. Their fall, coming not in the design of a siege or an invading force. But by their cultures' manipulations, being inseminated by foreign postulations. The others' granted ample time to meditate over her conferred messages, not wishing to dawdle; the Giantess would press this pitiable lot one final time.
"The blood fox and her child have answered, accepting my decree. The architecting of a new era is anything but a mundane affair. That work sprawled out before me, exceeding even the breadth of my fathomability. The sooner we can come to terms, the more punctual this initial step can be made, the quicker your world can mend. I understand your apprehension, your fear, and your paranoia excusable given the flow of history. But, I assure you, in due time, you will see such ill-begotten worms wiggling within that consciousness was solely an echo of your primal nature keeping progress at bay. So I query, will you be willing to take such a leap of faith with me? Or, perhaps you prefer to wallow in internalized despondency? As an era of extensile dread is permitted pursuance? I am a busy woman, the congealing and amalgamation of worlds scarcely a menial achievement, so do not tarry too long within the shade of taciturnity..."
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One by one, those that remained, found themselves unable to resist the coming tides of change. Begrudgingly bending the knee while everyone, including Watari, had doubts about this red-haired foreigner's intentions...
CH 7. War delayed
To construct a new empire from the remnants of the old, force was a valuable commodity. The warrior poet understood that sometimes peace must be upheld with armaments. Watari took charge, donning his skeletal kitsune transformation, as the hulking form of terror prowled the desert. Those under his command, quelling internal turmoil from beastkin and squashing any would be human rebellions. Many sought to join those illustrious ranks, but only the most worthy were permitted acceptance into the fold. Trading in some weapons looted from Garnot's corpse, the general commissioned the construction of a suitable, albeit barbarous weapon of war. His greatsword, capable of sending forth vibrant strokes of destruction, laid waste to any caught in its kaleidoscope brilliance.
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Seen by some as a terror, others the vanguard of security, both sides learned to fear his mind no matter their thoughts. The tactician was making use of whatever was available, ensuring victory at any cost. For two years, the fires of war became his home, the darkness of conflict feeding his ravenous and voracious soul. The once-proud philosopher, bending the knee to the foreign queen, paranoid she'd plant seeds to serve as his undoing. Yet, through all the battles, she never once spurned his men, instead, joining them within the fray of war. The deep voiced commander spoke with his kin and loyal officers, declaring unbridled shock, as they mused if perhaps the Jorgenskulls indeed did have the good of the realm in mind. Once the humans had been gathered, forced to reside within a single settlement, the war fox had received word that Lord Amun summoned him.
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Marching toward Emerald City, the tower of muscle longing to see his friend. He was entering the court, as the Jackal King requested the slayer of men to take his tendriled spawn under his wing. "Everything earned; if the lad proves capable, I will forge him into a worthy fighter. If not, I will return him to you unharmed." For another year, the war became routine until, eventually, peace had been forged from that furnace and was bequeathed to the land. Osiris, Amun's spawn survived, before being granted a position of officership within the Kitsunes ranks. He was personally seeing the sharpening of the lad's senses and intrepidity within this ancient theatre of conflict.
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"Osiris, war is coming from the umbra. Do not become fat and weak; remain alert. Less your slothfulness prove your undoing." The unit marching across the sands, ensuring that peace lingered, engaging in the occasional skirmish with those savages to the north. The treaty signed would only keep the hound of destruction at bay for so long. For war, it can never be averted, only postponed. This epiphany neglecting to devalue peace, as this tranquility, permitted the once trampled Beastkin to lick their wounds, and with Valerna's guidance, reinstitute a new Empire. The muscular tower of flesh, chuckling, as he recalled prior utterance before the Cephlapod's Osiris time.
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"I once said, a desperate human is a loyal one. While I do not doubt the veracity of those words, I now am left to wonder. If perhaps, in our time of need, if Queen Valerna deduced the same toward my brethren? I anticipated her to betray us, to kill my mother or me the first chance afforded to her. But, it's been thirteen years, and yet she continues to maintain her word. While not the ideal world I envisioned, what she orchestrated in its place, is establishing itself as more than sufficient. Osiris, the Matron, personally requested that I be her general and governor of the Kitsune people. My mother offered to head the Devante clan, instill discipline in our distinguished and elite legacy, to become operatives in her army. And during times of unity, to assist with keeping the monsters that seek to gorge on our people within the shade. Go home, see your family, enjoy the month off. But when you return, expect to assist with the final steps in reforming the sands..."
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Watari stepping off, retreating into the labyrinth of Sakura trees to discuss his discission with Matsumota. The two finding determination, acceptance within the terms laid out. As they from on high, eyed the human reservation camp deep within the bowels of the canyon. That perpetual cycle of anarchy, thought invulnerable, has finally been stemmed. But war, war couldn't be rendered extinct, merely delayed...
