The world trembles as the Leviathans stir from their slumber, and the scholars of the sunken valley preach of the coming storm. Felix, a thief on the streets of Bruma, begins his journey to the Astralarium as, deep with the Great Devourer's belly, a...
Revolution is such an appealing concept when the world grows stagnate. A little spice to add flavor to a boring dish. How many lives have been lost in the name of causes we don't believe in anymore? Yes, those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it. Think about it. You could learn so much by studying the gods. At the dawn of time, Xerxes started a revolution and the war that followed rages on without end. Would he have revolted if he knew the consequences? Would you? How different would your answers be, I wonder? After all, you're not immortal, are you?
6
Xerxes could feel the call, that stiffening of the arterial lining, that swaying of lateral hairs beneath his neck scraping the collar bone; the drought was almost over.
There was some time left, a few short days before the crimson kiss. What better time to celebrate? He beat the tiny silver wings along his spine, filling the empty spaces with fluid and a crackling blue light. There was a charge in the air, a buildup of energy making the needles in his skull vibrate and the tip of his pronged nose snap.
Just one touch, that's all it took. Xerxes lowered the tip of his nose close to the epithelial lining of the hive. Suddenly, a bright arc of volatile energy zipped from his pointed snout, causing the halls to convulse. A soft blue light now emanated from the roof, illuminating hundreds of vats filled with a boiling red liquid.
He dipped one of his talons into the hissing soup, bulky, clumsy, and hard to rotate. These hands were not meant to shape, not meant to elongate the bones, shorten the trachea, or stitch the kidneys. No, he had another set of hands for that.
Under crooked scales, between plates in his skull and through the cracks in splintered nails, came a hundred fingers. These appendages were fragile, an extension of his true self, an ancient porous light freed from the throat of the Great Devourer.
Xerxes was an engineer, but not just any engineer. He was the heir apparent, the first victor of the Pallid Wars, and one of the three greater names.
That is why his vibriatus clung so tight. That pink flesh looping through the pours in his soul and tying him in place. He couldn't leave now, not without significant effort. He was too accustomed to this body and it to him. As it should be, he spent so much time in selection, after all.
At the beginning of the last Pallid War, when the nameless killed each other for the right to carry their names, Xerxes scrutinized each contender.
This body was too small.
This body was too big.
This body had one chipped tooth and was missing its left eye.
Weak, desperate, ignorant, and soft. One by one, he rejected them, tossing them back as scraps for lesser names.
Xerxes wouldn't settle, and so the war of succession continued until, finally, he found the right one. There amongst the gnashing of teeth and claw was a bleached skull with crooked scales, a daunting mane, and a twisted spine. It wasn't the fastest, nor the strongest, but the glove fit just right.
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