Warrior's Eden

Epilogue

All life, as our people know it, exists on the Planetoid. Though the peoples of this world have long since had the ability to enter the void, no one has ever traveled the circumference of the world, as it is far too grand in size.
The Planetoid is a great sphere in the void, and sprawling across it there exists every habitat imaginable, and some not; some in logical places, some also not. Great swathes of tundra meet desert which in turn meets freshwater lakes. A swamp can be found in the middle of the desert, or a great area of fresh water completely surrounded by an ocean. The Planetoid has no continents or oceans, as the world changes as if at some unseen command.
Mighty civilizations and races rise to power and majesty only to be ripped asunder by the world again. Knowledge and empathy have been lost to countless ages of war; a smattering of artifacts being all that is left from the previous age, except of course, their people’s distinctive weapons of war.
A place a endless battlegrounds, limitless resources, and balanced power. This place, the Planetoid, is truly a Warrior’s Eden.

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I am not asking for your blood. I can take your blood. I am asking for your souls. Only you can give me your souls.
- Confessor Dolan of Chiros, Sermon on the road to Gathalamor

Chapter 1



Five of them, running through the jungle; clad in black body-gloves to which are attached almost completely enclosing pieces of a dark iridescent metal. Their helmets were completely smooth, having no shape for nose, ears, or mouth; they only had a couple of small eye-slits, which glowed faintly green in the darkness.
Each of them just under two meters tall and were traveling through the dense jungle at speeds a normal man would gawp at. Strangest of all, they made no sound.
The one on the farthest left, Drak was his name, pulled out his weapon, a High Yield Magnesium rifle, and fired it into ground of to his right. The large mound that he was firing at began to move at an astonishing rate away from the shot, leaving a trail behind it like an oversized mole tunnel.
Soon the five of them emerged from the jungle, into a large area of desert. Having reached ground that was no longer suitable for burrowing, the creature they were chasing emerged from the ground.
It was an ugly thing, roughly humanoid, with yellowed dead-looking skin, a gaping maw filled with too many oversized, spike-like teeth for it to close properly, and long black talons extending from where a mans fingers would be on its arms. The only other feature of its head was what looked like a cataract-covered eye instead of a skull cap.
Its oversized muscles bulging, the creature lunged at the group's leader, Rirsh, who deftly fired his HYM rifle once, the white-hot slug shearing cleanly through it’s torso and launching it back a couple of meters. Even with it’s ribcage half blown open, the creature got up and charged Drak.
Before he could react the creature used the last of its bestial strength to spear him cleanly through the chest with its talons. It had used to much force that one could see the muscles under its skin had snapped like great meaty wires. He had only two responses to this, and they occurred in this order.
First, he grunted. Then he lifted his HYM rifle and hit the creature in the head with inhuman force. As a testament to this race’s resilience, its head didn’t burst like a rip fruit as many do; it simply crumpled like a can and slumped to the ground. Its talons were still lodged into Drak’s chest so the beast just hung there, limply.
“May Elohim take your soul,” he whispered. If they hadn’t caught the beast it would have gotten back to its catacombs and told the rest of its kind the location of the Mal-ach Nation.
Rirsh turned to Drak, “Looks like we’re gonna have to take you to the dok again. Be thankful, if we were chasing anything other than a Suelevar scout, you would be dead man.”
Drak looked down at the talons protruding from his chest. “It’ll heal.”
Another of the troopers, Pol, who had a slightly slimmer build and was the general jokester and medic of the group, wandered over. “Damn, Drak, they went straight through. Maybe we should start callin’ you-”
Drak’s helmet flew into Pol’s head, knocking him back a step. “I’ve told you before and I will say it again. No nicknames.” Without his helmet, Drak looked remarkably human, with a full beard of grey and a bald head. Though two things marked his race, the Mal-ach, apart from the humies. His skin was an off pallor, so vaguely different and yet so noticeable, and his eyes glowed with a faint white light.
“Fine,” said Pol, “Moving on. We won’t be able to remove those talons until the men of science de-activate the pressurization system of your suit. It’s sealed up and even we can’t pull ‘em out.”
“Then,” said Rirsh, “we should just head back to our people and Drak-”, he said with a smirk. “looks like you will be carrying the meat back for us.”
As they turned to head back to camp, Pol thought aloud, “What about ‘Take the Flak Drak‘?" He was promptly struck by a flying helmet.

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Then the prophet spake: saying “Frak this, for my faith is a shield proof against your blandishments.”
- Alem Mahat, The Book of Cain, Chapter IV, Verse XXI

Chapter 2
Mankind


All was silent up on the battlements, except for the occasional boot-scuffling of the soldiers changing posts. The commander paid them no mind. His men were trained from birth to watch the outside of the walls and did not need his constant supervision.
He looked down at the swarm of humanity below him, as safe as they ever could be within the walls. He turned, the ancient machinery of his armor whirring and clicking as he did so, and began to speak to the Administrix before him.
“With all do respect sir, we do not have enough men to mount an atta-“, she began only to be interrupted by the commander’s disturbing voice.
“I do not need vast quantities of soldiers. I need men who will follow my orders and shoot straight. My very presence on the battlefield is all that is needed to ensure victory,” his voice was like listening to many voices speaking in perfect unison, one voice for every note registered by the human ear and many not.
Still, she was stupid enough to insist, “Ancient One, we do not have the resources for such a-.“ she never finished the sentence.
In one movement the commander picked her up and threw her over the walls. “I have no care for bureaucracy,” he said.
What need he fear of mere mortals? He is an ancient, and Ascended Man. His soul has long been forfeited to power the machinery within him. Such a sacrifice left him faster, stronger, and immortal. Though blood no longer courses through his veins, raw power has replaced it.
He will go to war, and the races of the Planetoid shall once again come to fear the name, Thanou the Ancient.
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Life’s so much easier when you’ve got someone to blame.
- Gilbran Quail, Collected Essays