About the city of Valkenaria, a ruler walks the streets as his father before him. High structures of Prints-a-Ment and Zurikan steel pierce the low, orange-tinted clouds as if the dense atmosphere had specifically impaled the puffs. Like a painter from the stars, one never having seen a forest, was commissioned with the description of the landscape.

A number of circular objects soar between the buildings. Pilots carefully navigating the skies and tribulations of the planet for either personal travel or protective detail of the Dominax below. He pays them little attention. Instead, he is painfully aware of the eight guards, ten sent-drones, and two medi-drones.

Annoyed as any soul may be when removed from privacy and silence, Simora’s agitated hand fixes the hooked device between his nostrils. Both tubes, matching the color of his flesh, flow over his cheeks and around his ears. A low hum in his ears confirms the device is active. He inhales deeply of the corrected air.

Glancing back, two sent-drones float by him as elongated orbs of black metal. Their smooth forms provide no information as to any model’s capabilities. Depending on the situation, any might leap into action at the first sign of danger to the planet’s ruler.

Since my Amelioration, there’s been nothing but the danger of angry words from the Ravagers. The citizenry have willingly disarmed, too. I’ve done more in a few years than these drones could do in a thousand. The Dominax shakes his head in discomfort as he plays with the tubes of his exolung device. Pretty bad air today. Looking to the sky creates bright lines across his protective glasses. Orange puffs caught against the gray and white trunks rise like megaflora toward a deep blue sky—a blue like a bottomless sea that dries up nearer the sandy beaches encircling the sun’s righteous aura.

Expanding far over this once great forest, the metal and Prints-a-Ment platform stands a reflective oasis. An implanted, obviously foreign, jewel in the splendor of the continent. Valkenaria exists as a fool’s realized dream. A mirage of sorts. Spanning generations until finally, in just the last few cycles, a permanent structure could rise. Simora’s shoulders tighten back as he feels a tinge of pride rise in his chest. Having tended to the seed planted by his father, he now walks the streets of the mighty city of Valkenaria…

No varabelm, nema cat, or weddletot to threaten me. Never again. The memory of a black-haired woman carrying him through this street flashes through his mind once. Just as quickly as it manifests, the Dominax thrusts it back into the recesses of his mind. No one will hurt like that again, mother.

Streets once crumbled, overgrown, and splattered with human life now stretch on and up in direct opposition to the natural order. Civilized Icarians move about the walkways of this city. Too small to be a megacity, it still remains the largest concentration of human life across the treacherous planet.

And it’s growing.

People go about their lives. Buying food or products, sharing stories and emotions, and gathering as cells forming the greater body. Simora grins at all his work has wrought, yet he knows in his heart that more can be done. As any Icarian’s faith would believe, what god could peer into his creation and not desire more? Knowing he lacks the title of “God,” the Dominax grunts and clicks his tongue in an attempt to force himself into contentedness. The numinous powers of his joined bloodlines will have to be enough.

I could… clicks of the tongue race as hands tap restlessly at the nostril clip of the exolung. No. I used the Helixer once. His finger extends to scratch beneath his eyes. I’ve enough. To conquer planet and Dark Stars. Scratching as his eye, Simora reviews the visions of the Black heads’ arrival. It’ll come to pass. I knew this would happen… but so soon?

“I want these blocks moved farther north. The main street should have more parks and recreational zones.” Simora turns toward one of the floating drones which blinks its understanding. Knowing the messages will be reviewable, as well as transmitted to the governing architects, Simora points about the area and notes the changes. “Section AC. Additional braces required. River beneath will provide for temperate displays with fountains. The Dark Stars will desire a few days rest before deliberation. Easily within walking distance, they will find this an oasis among a jungle of Prints-a-Ment.

“I then want an extension of the entertainment district from AB into this zone. Elder Matheem Nephire enjoys the operas of old. Inquire of the Regal Minstrels as to their capabilities. I’d have his ears plied with music before my dealings.

“Trails leading up into the hills should be maintained and widened. The entourage of General Obin Nephire will want to witness the surrounding landscape for themselves. Provide them an easy and naturally decorated experience. We are as safe as we are beautiful.

“Similarly,” the Dominax spins toward the south where two Discs soar overhead, “I’d have three of our finest pilots prepared to guide Planetist Finel Dornish about. She’ll want to see the other continents as well. Have our fastest vessels readied and fashioned for her use. A bottle or two of our reserved spirits will keep her entertained. Restock daily. In fact,” he taps at his nostril tubes while clicking his tongue, “make it three bottles.

“Lastly.” Simora turns on his heels and examines the streets. Though he looks at specific buildings, his attention soars beyond walls, windows, and any physical structures to encompass the entirety of Valkenaria. Every square foot of this city is locked within his mind. He tugs at the fabrics of his cloak around his neck to ensure they pull up to the base of his hair as he thinks. “Veiled Remiran Noctlin.” The name slips from him as if he’s forgotten to swallow a mouthful of water.

“I should say,” a sigh follows before the realization that every direction returns him to the same point.

Himself.

“I must entertain him myself?” The clicking tongue speeds at the thought. Entertain my cousin? I’ve not seen him since we were children! What commonality can we yet possess? He fancied board games and gambles. Snapping his fingers, the Dominax realizes he might have aid yet in this plan. “Thomat! How many hours has that man stood playing Galaxia without rest? I’d say Remiran may find a kindred spirit in my hammer! And if his interests have shifted, I have time enough to formulate a contingency.”

Feeling accomplished at the construction and planned entertainment, the Dominax proceeded down the street yet contorted to his will. Soon, various rigs and levers would begin to redesign the city as if it were a living, growing beast. Farther into and above the forest, the southern platform will rise like a towering claw of mankind’s fashioned evolution. What natural beasts could hope to endure when the sentient mind willed the titan’s hands to conquest?

Hearing the dull drone of the bots beside him, the Dominax rolled his neck, careful of his clothes, and reexamined the skies. The deep blue of the sky’s majority clashed so preciously against the jewels of amber and salmon clouds. A faint discoloration of the hue; deepening in the florescence. Though he’d never considered lifting a brush, the scene held a quality of calm that regularly entranced him in his work.

Perhaps I should paint it. At least, commission the scene. I could hang it above my lab desk. The thought fills Simora with two joys. One being the prospect of something new; perhaps, even learning a new skill should he put his mind to it. The birth of wonder and newness. Something untainted by failure since the hands realize failure comes only from practiced hands. Pleasure is derived from the learning of that skill until such a time where failure becomes possible and is realized.

Secondly, the capture of something natural and wonderful. The placing of it within his secure walls and collection. A beautiful scene plucked from the sky, something that can never be again in such sameness, and placed where only he can enjoy it.

What would they think of it? Allowing himself a singular moment of sentimental leisure, Simora gazes up to the sky many had known to fear. His heart neither races nor stops at the sights. Such clouds tell of tomorrow’s likely wrath. So much beauty comes before the inevitable fall.

As the skies turn to fields of amber resin, the morrow births a darkness. Simora considers a lesson of the captains and hunters among the Ravagers. Dark storms were coming. We’ll prepare for tomorrow. This one might be a little rougher on the equipment. Simora’s eyes scan the city as he imagines it as he’d dictated. Everything must be perfect. They’ll not accept my answers easily.

So, he walks. At the edge of the city to the south, he looks out over the lands of his father’s failed conquest. As if the land were once liquid, it pours out and over in rolling waves to swallow all between it and the seas. Water, always seeking itself at the lowest points, falls in streams and rivers from various points along the ledges to the north. From beneath the high structures of the city, the Mobana River flows out toward the sea. Ever seeking rest within the kin of its creation. It pushes through miles upon miles of winding forests, avoiding any wandering tongues of passing beasts, to fall within that restful sea.

A sea, Simora knows, needs only the slightest push of one to start the many. One movement from the individual, and the whole begins to shift and plot. An uneasiness among the many that means some manner of trouble for those unlike the family of molecules. For even the seas of Icarus Alpha spell trouble for the ignorant and fool. From high atop the expanding city of Valkenaria, Simora paces the edge as his thoughts travel to distant places and times.

Down there, spread out hunters lying in wait for the unsuspecting prey, exist all manner of plants and creatures meaning to remind humanity of their place within the food chain. The Amelioration nears completion in these lands. This truth, Simora assures himself, will solidify his rule.

To accomplish what none other has. He considers sitting at the ledge of his city to witness the closeness of beauty within the rush of mortality. Father. Mother. He steps away from the ledge and continues to pace, instead. Greens, oranges, indigos, golds… the world below stretches on like a tsunami of spilled paint. Three percent or so should remain. I’ve nearly completed. I’m nearly there. Lands as tamed as the people.

His eyes turn and compare the three distinct entities of reality.

Towering formations of pleasingly designed architecture, skies of the sea’s deepest regions reflected, and the endless forests of a world attempting to survive and evolve to spite the Dominax. Every portion of this planet intrigued the young master of all Civilized and Ravagers.

Towers of businesses, leisure, and living quarters spread out like the trees of elven nations in books lining the family library. Simora, once again, allows himself a moment of memory. A woman of dark hair sat alone in a library as father brought the young babe in to join. They’d read together of fantastical tales of worlds yet unfound but in the minds of man. Lofty trees welcoming the population into its bosom for no more than the respect of life towards life.

“Anyone can make a world.” She’d said this once. “To put a pen to paper creates something new and exciting. To write something, even copied with slightly new words or phrases, births beauty.”

Simora recalls then how her head rose to look at him. The black eyes that spread almost entirely to the edges of the lids; white nearly drowned in a sea of inky darkness. They stared into him… dark as the storms that would soon threaten every life foolish enough to leave the safety of Prints-a-Ment and steel.

“Beauty we can make reality.” Her head would press gently against the child’s. Simora recalls the brilliance and vividness of this implanted thought. An architectural temple of a land constructed in her mind. As perfectly envisioned now as when she first shared it with her child.

How lovely the smile that seemed to vanish within the eyes of black. Yanked up and spaghettified by the blackholes. All the world slipped into those orbs as the memory is thrust back into the past.

Simora stands at the edge of Valkenaria.

“Dominax?” A man, wearing the sigil of Nor-Noctlin upon his black armor, steps forward. “Are you alright?”

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“Fine.” Simora waves him off as he tugs at the Balan fabric about his neck. “Prepare the city for a dark storm.”

“We’d just had one.” The man questions him with a cocked head; eyes invisible beneath his helmet.

Simora spins with his golden eyes piercing through the visor of the helmet. This man, spawned by some mixed blood containing an ancestral Civilized, has lost the ways of reading the skies. “Then I should say we needn’t concern ourselves for any future storms? Might we finally be free of such dangers? I do not recall my works tempting the skies from their wrath! What secrets have you?”

The man steps back.

“Then prepare the city. No one is to be outside between three and eight.”

“That long?” The man’s tone is no longer of disobedience but of wonder. “We’ll let the engineers know to ready the generators and grid. The levers and limbs will be rendered inoperable.”

“Good.” Simora steps once against the edge of his city and clicks his tongue at the river which swings about far below. “No mistakes. We have to make a grand impression, and I refuse to welcome my kin to a city unable to adhere to my commands.” The golden eyes glance back over his shoulder.

“Of course,” the man turns back and hurries away from his pack. From there, he’ll issue the commands, speak with the appropriate individuals, and make sure the Dominax’s city stands resolved against the coming dark storm.

Simora; however, remains at the edge of all Valkenaria. A dangerous plummet, should he step incorrectly, would mean the city and planet await their newest leader. Who among the stars can hope to tame what Simora has bound, stitched, redesigned, and rebirthed by his own will?

Who could ever? He clicks his tongue as he stares into a forest that neither roars nor leaps toward him. He stands above the forests and rivers to take in all that rushes toward the sea.

About the city of Valkenaria, a ruler walks the streets as his father before him. High structures of Prints-a-Ment and Zurikan steel pierce the low, orange-tinted clouds as if the dense atmosphere had specifically impaled the puffs. Like a painter from the stars, one never having seen a forest, was commissioned with the description of the landscape.

A number of circular objects soar between the buildings. Pilots carefully navigating the skies and tribulations of the planet for either personal travel or protective detail of the Dominax below. He pays them little attention. Instead, he is painfully aware of the eight guards, ten sent-drones, and two medi-drones.

Annoyed as any soul may be when removed from privacy and silence, Simora’s agitated hand fixes the hooked device between his nostrils. Both tubes, matching the color of his flesh, flow over his cheeks and around his ears. A low hum in his ears confirms the device is active. He inhales deeply of the corrected air.

Glancing back, two sent-drones float by him as elongated orbs of black metal. Their smooth forms provide no information as to any model’s capabilities. Depending on the situation, any might leap into action at the first sign of danger to the planet’s ruler.

Since my Amelioration, there’s been nothing but the danger of angry words from the Ravagers. The citizenry have willingly disarmed, too. I’ve done more in a few years than these drones could do in a thousand. The Dominax shakes his head in discomfort as he plays with the tubes of his exolung device. Pretty bad air today. Looking to the sky creates bright lines across his protective glasses. Orange puffs caught against the gray and white trunks rise like megaflora toward a deep blue sky—a blue like a bottomless sea that dries up nearer the sandy beaches encircling the sun’s righteous aura.

Expanding far over this once great forest, the metal and Prints-a-Ment platform stands a reflective oasis. An implanted, obviously foreign, jewel in the splendor of the continent. Valkenaria exists as a fool’s realized dream. A mirage of sorts. Spanning generations until finally, in just the last few cycles, a permanent structure could rise. Simora’s shoulders tighten back as he feels a tinge of pride rise in his chest. Having tended to the seed planted by his father, he now walks the streets of the mighty city of Valkenaria…

No varabelm, nema cat, or weddletot to threaten me. Never again. The memory of a black-haired woman carrying him through this street flashes through his mind once. Just as quickly as it manifests, the Dominax thrusts it back into the recesses of his mind. No one will hurt like that again, mother.

Streets once crumbled, overgrown, and splattered with human life now stretch on and up in direct opposition to the natural order. Civilized Icarians move about the walkways of this city. Too small to be a megacity, it still remains the largest concentration of human life across the treacherous planet.

And it’s growing.

People go about their lives. Buying food or products, sharing stories and emotions, and gathering as cells forming the greater body. Simora grins at all his work has wrought, yet he knows in his heart that more can be done. As any Icarian’s faith would believe, what god could peer into his creation and not desire more? Knowing he lacks the title of “God,” the Dominax grunts and clicks his tongue in an attempt to force himself into contentedness. The numinous powers of his joined bloodlines will have to be enough.

I could… clicks of the tongue race as hands tap restlessly at the nostril clip of the exolung. No. I used the Helixer once. His finger extends to scratch beneath his eyes. I’ve enough. To conquer planet and Dark Stars. Scratching as his eye, Simora reviews the visions of the Black heads’ arrival. It’ll come to pass. I knew this would happen… but so soon?

“I want these blocks moved farther north. The main street should have more parks and recreational zones.” Simora turns toward one of the floating drones which blinks its understanding. Knowing the messages will be reviewable, as well as transmitted to the governing architects, Simora points about the area and notes the changes. “Section AC. Additional braces required. River beneath will provide for temperate displays with fountains. The Dark Stars will desire a few days rest before deliberation. Easily within walking distance, they will find this an oasis among a jungle of Prints-a-Ment.

“I then want an extension of the entertainment district from AB into this zone. Elder Matheem Nephire enjoys the operas of old. Inquire of the Regal Minstrels as to their capabilities. I’d have his ears plied with music before my dealings.

“Trails leading up into the hills should be maintained and widened. The entourage of General Obin Nephire will want to witness the surrounding landscape for themselves. Provide them an easy and naturally decorated experience. We are as safe as we are beautiful.

“Similarly,” the Dominax spins toward the south where two Discs soar overhead, “I’d have three of our finest pilots prepared to guide Planetist Finel Dornish about. She’ll want to see the other continents as well. Have our fastest vessels readied and fashioned for her use. A bottle or two of our reserved spirits will keep her entertained. Restock daily. In fact,” he taps at his nostril tubes while clicking his tongue, “make it three bottles.

“Lastly.” Simora turns on his heels and examines the streets. Though he looks at specific buildings, his attention soars beyond walls, windows, and any physical structures to encompass the entirety of Valkenaria. Every square foot of this city is locked within his mind. He tugs at the fabrics of his cloak around his neck to ensure they pull up to the base of his hair as he thinks. “Veiled Remiran Noctlin.” The name slips from him as if he’s forgotten to swallow a mouthful of water.

“I should say,” a sigh follows before the realization that every direction returns him to the same point.

Himself.

“I must entertain him myself?” The clicking tongue speeds at the thought. Entertain my cousin? I’ve not seen him since we were children! What commonality can we yet possess? He fancied board games and gambles. Snapping his fingers, the Dominax realizes he might have aid yet in this plan. “Thomat! How many hours has that man stood playing Galaxia without rest? I’d say Remiran may find a kindred spirit in my hammer! And if his interests have shifted, I have time enough to formulate a contingency.”

Feeling accomplished at the construction and planned entertainment, the Dominax proceeded down the street yet contorted to his will. Soon, various rigs and levers would begin to redesign the city as if it were a living, growing beast. Farther into and above the forest, the southern platform will rise like a towering claw of mankind’s fashioned evolution. What natural beasts could hope to endure when the sentient mind willed the titan’s hands to conquest?

Hearing the dull drone of the bots beside him, the Dominax rolled his neck, careful of his clothes, and reexamined the skies. The deep blue of the sky’s majority clashed so preciously against the jewels of amber and salmon clouds. A faint discoloration of the hue; deepening in the florescence. Though he’d never considered lifting a brush, the scene held a quality of calm that regularly entranced him in his work.

Perhaps I should paint it. At least, commission the scene. I could hang it above my lab desk. The thought fills Simora with two joys. One being the prospect of something new; perhaps, even learning a new skill should he put his mind to it. The birth of wonder and newness. Something untainted by failure since the hands realize failure comes only from practiced hands. Pleasure is derived from the learning of that skill until such a time where failure becomes possible and is realized.

Secondly, the capture of something natural and wonderful. The placing of it within his secure walls and collection. A beautiful scene plucked from the sky, something that can never be again in such sameness, and placed where only he can enjoy it.

What would they think of it? Allowing himself a singular moment of sentimental leisure, Simora gazes up to the sky many had known to fear. His heart neither races nor stops at the sights. Such clouds tell of tomorrow’s likely wrath. So much beauty comes before the inevitable fall.

As the skies turn to fields of amber resin, the morrow births a darkness. Simora considers a lesson of the captains and hunters among the Ravagers. Dark storms were coming. We’ll prepare for tomorrow. This one might be a little rougher on the equipment. Simora’s eyes scan the city as he imagines it as he’d dictated. Everything must be perfect. They’ll not accept my answers easily.

So, he walks. At the edge of the city to the south, he looks out over the lands of his father’s failed conquest. As if the land were once liquid, it pours out and over in rolling waves to swallow all between it and the seas. Water, always seeking itself at the lowest points, falls in streams and rivers from various points along the ledges to the north. From beneath the high structures of the city, the Mobana River flows out toward the sea. Ever seeking rest within the kin of its creation. It pushes through miles upon miles of winding forests, avoiding any wandering tongues of passing beasts, to fall within that restful sea.

A sea, Simora knows, needs only the slightest push of one to start the many. One movement from the individual, and the whole begins to shift and plot. An uneasiness among the many that means some manner of trouble for those unlike the family of molecules. For even the seas of Icarus Alpha spell trouble for the ignorant and fool. From high atop the expanding city of Valkenaria, Simora paces the edge as his thoughts travel to distant places and times.

Down there, spread out hunters lying in wait for the unsuspecting prey, exist all manner of plants and creatures meaning to remind humanity of their place within the food chain. The Amelioration nears completion in these lands. This truth, Simora assures himself, will solidify his rule.

To accomplish what none other has. He considers sitting at the ledge of his city to witness the closeness of beauty within the rush of mortality. Father. Mother. He steps away from the ledge and continues to pace, instead. Greens, oranges, indigos, golds… the world below stretches on like a tsunami of spilled paint. Three percent or so should remain. I’ve nearly completed. I’m nearly there. Lands as tamed as the people.

His eyes turn and compare the three distinct entities of reality.

Towering formations of pleasingly designed architecture, skies of the sea’s deepest regions reflected, and the endless forests of a world attempting to survive and evolve to spite the Dominax. Every portion of this planet intrigued the young master of all Civilized and Ravagers.

Towers of businesses, leisure, and living quarters spread out like the trees of elven nations in books lining the family library. Simora, once again, allows himself a moment of memory. A woman of dark hair sat alone in a library as father brought the young babe in to join. They’d read together of fantastical tales of worlds yet unfound but in the minds of man. Lofty trees welcoming the population into its bosom for no more than the respect of life towards life.

“Anyone can make a world.” She’d said this once. “To put a pen to paper creates something new and exciting. To write something, even copied with slightly new words or phrases, births beauty.”

Simora recalls then how her head rose to look at him. The black eyes that spread almost entirely to the edges of the lids; white nearly drowned in a sea of inky darkness. They stared into him… dark as the storms that would soon threaten every life foolish enough to leave the safety of Prints-a-Ment and steel.

“Beauty we can make reality.” Her head would press gently against the child’s. Simora recalls the brilliance and vividness of this implanted thought. An architectural temple of a land constructed in her mind. As perfectly envisioned now as when she first shared it with her child.

How lovely the smile that seemed to vanish within the eyes of black. Yanked up and spaghettified by the blackholes. All the world slipped into those orbs as the memory is thrust back into the past.

Simora stands at the edge of Valkenaria.

“Dominax?” A man, wearing the sigil of Nor-Noctlin upon his black armor, steps forward. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Simora waves him off as he tugs at the Balan fabric about his neck. “Prepare the city for a dark storm.”

“We’d just had one.” The man questions him with a cocked head; eyes invisible beneath his helmet.

Simora spins with his golden eyes piercing through the visor of the helmet. This man, spawned by some mixed blood containing an ancestral Civilized, has lost the ways of reading the skies. “Then I should say we needn’t concern ourselves for any future storms? Might we finally be free of such dangers? I do not recall my works tempting the skies from their wrath! What secrets have you?”

The man steps back.

“Then prepare the city. No one is to be outside between three and eight.”

“That long?” The man’s tone is no longer of disobedience but of wonder. “We’ll let the engineers know to ready the generators and grid. The levers and limbs will be rendered inoperable.”

“Good.” Simora steps once against the edge of his city and clicks his tongue at the river which swings about far below. “No mistakes. We have to make a grand impression, and I refuse to welcome my kin to a city unable to adhere to my commands.” The golden eyes glance back over his shoulder.

“Of course,” the man turns back and hurries away from his pack. From there, he’ll issue the commands, speak with the appropriate individuals, and make sure the Dominax’s city stands resolved against the coming dark storm.

Simora; however, remains at the edge of all Valkenaria. A dangerous plummet, should he step incorrectly, would mean the city and planet await their newest leader. Who among the stars can hope to tame what Simora has bound, stitched, redesigned, and rebirthed by his own will?

Who could ever? He clicks his tongue as he stares into a forest that neither roars nor leaps toward him. He stands above the forests and rivers to take in all that rushes toward the sea.