Universe Yhena
Exella Cosmos: Grandezea Realm
Shifting the Mechanova out of its multiversal warp drive, Wickels and Baartimo soared the dragonship into the divine world of Grandezea, home of Sol Sanctum, the cloud island temple of ivory and gold. A sacred nation secluded from the earth millions of miles below, the acropolis hung in the puffy white skies through its own primordial magic, the oldest of Grandezi magic and Sol Sanctum's supreme life force; its sacred wings.
One would swear that Sol Sanctum was the uncanny twin of Cruxhaven, but Sol Sanctum posed as the shinier of the two, one with the blue skies, unlike Cruxhaven's cosmic plane.
It was here where Ricven, during a dark age that none could ever forget, defended Grandezea from a calamitous, world-eating evil. Grandezea was one of many realms, universes even, to suffer the debut of this cataclysmic entity, and during the realm's insufferable brink of extinction, Ricven-in all of his aethric might-sundered the realm's doom-induced harbinger.
It was a devastating event for Ricven, too. Far from the usual heroic ventures that he and his comrades faced.
"Place looks a bit cloudier than I last saw it," said Baartimo.
"Clouds for days... To think that everything here was almost eaten by a bigger-than-shit-dragon," said Wickels as he and his brother guided Mechanova close to Sol Sanctum's main landing islet. The hopeless saga was written in the walls of Sol Sanctum's ancient, yet immaculate halls, and Wickels could still recall his own little image, in every detail, engraved upon its impressive vista.
Ricven's included.
None expected him to utter much about it, nor did Wickels think to omit the whole bigger-than-shit-dragon comment. The me'ka honestly overlooked the soul-shattering event in its greater whole that-once he expressed his bit about that bigger-than-shit-dragon-brought grave silence in the pilot bay.
Wickels realized his words. The inconsiderate after-sting rubbed his conscience and an awkward moment ensued. He peeked over his shoulder apologetically at an unfazed Ricven above him-who indulged in the heavenly land in the sky-he regretfully gritted his teeth, dropped his fuzzy ears, and slipped out a sincere "Sorry."
Ricven dropped a fleeting glance upon Wickels, stewing in his silence and adjusting Mechanova's landing phase. He let the me'ka marinate a little further, for the hell of it, then ruffled his fingers into Wickels snow-tipped golden hair like the rough little me'ka kid he appeared to be.
Wickels hated that. He excused it this time around-he realized Ricven's warm gesture, erasing the me'ka's adorable mood of regret, and subtly smiled behind that frown of his.
The airship swooped in smooth, like a whimsical swan, expected when in the hands of two capable pilots. They drifted through a stream of swelling coronas of light, runic check-rings declaring their arrival, and they shortly docked before a sashaying assembly of robed individuals-Sol Sanctuarians-escorted by the sanctuary's shard-winged constructs, the Sol Guards, two large bodies of white steel embellished in gold, stirring with light.
Delum Prys, one of Sol Sanctum's high sanctuarians, and a close friend of Ricven and his party led the welcoming committee. The Mechanova calmed its engines, and Ricven and his crew disembarked, meeting Delum half way a short walk later.
"Sir McQueen!" Delum greeted in his upbeat silky voice. He eyed the others with bright green orbs of content. "Sir Cornelius Hunter; Baartimo and Wickels Hillshire; Sir Aethenius Malik; and Miss Hanakin Thaedus!" He noticed a shortage in Ricven's pack and tilted his bald snowy head. "May I ask where are the others?"
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FantasyWARNING! This novel is an unconventional work of fiction. Anything you may read in the following episodes is solely created out of sheer satirical coincidence and is NOT to be taken out of ANY context OTHER than it being RIDICULOUSLY entertaining as...
