“This does not compliment my physique at all.” Donatello whispers to anyone that would hear him.
Thomat, glancing over from his straightened stance in military garb and honors, smirks, “Does anything?”
“Quiet down old man.” Donatello hisses as he tries to straighten the bulkier uniform of black with blue trimmings along the shoulder and ends of the limbs.
Each Deep Root was decorated with various medals. Their uniforms depict the pride of those held aloft by the honorable Nor-Noctlin offshoot of the family tree. On the open stretch of off-white steel, Prints-a-Ment, and a dais of orange stone from local quarries, three-hundred soldiers of the Nor-Noctlin forces stand behind the favored leaders of the Maiora Aliquam family.
“Stand straight, lads.” Standing in an unusually normal black outfit, Simora tugs gently at the tight Balan fabric about his neck. Glancing back for a moment, he notes Wallace’s fabric is slipped down to the collar. “Presentable, Wallace.”
Wallace, taking note, yanks the black fabric up and over the swell of muscles. “Bit warm today.” His eyes narrow as he tries to resist the burn of the deep blue sky. Two ships have begun the landing process across the stretch of extended steel. A process which would terrify any ancient human as much as it would fill them with wonder.
These Couriers, massive upside-down pyramids stretched along one axis, set down as a plethora of defensive and safety appendages begin to retract or realign themselves. Legs twist out with magnetically connected limbs that float separate of each other. Hooked pieces then find one another, locks are engaged, and the full weight of the ship is handed from engines to physical limbs.
From somewhere high over the planet, these two Couriers were once attached to a now orbiting Jumper—the massive constructs of human engineering capable of traversing entire solar systems. Carting away entire civilizations when needed, the unseen vessels above Icarus Alpha waited for word of their delivery’s arrival before speeding off toward other destinations across the stars.
“Who’re we meeting today?” Donatello continues to play with his suit as the heat and light of the day begin to morph the Branching practitioner into a petulant child. His exolung is loose. His suit untucked and re-tucked. And now, his voice drones into a whine.
“Today, the Black Shields of White and Red Emblems arrive.” Simora glances back, again (and rather annoyed), to stare into his favored pilot. “You know their names. Now straight yourself.”
Donatello sighs before snapping his shoulders back in another childish form of overplaying his obedience. Wallace’s smile spreads as the two share in the humor to pass the stressful moments before the Couriers open their doors.
Gusts of wind, cooled for the pleasure of the passengers, rush over the Prints-a-Ment and steel to catch those on the dais in a wondrous gale. Simora can’t resist enjoying the breeze that lingers on the backs of his hands and his cheeks in direct revolt of the sun’s tyranny. Black and Red, and Black and White. I’ve not seen them since I was a child. They demand my audience now because they know something. They’ve heard of the trades, of the potential, and the unnatural success of a family meant to rot. The game of Blacks begins today.
Parties from both ships begin to exit. From the left ship, groups of black with red trims and banners begin to spread out at the bottom of the ship’s levered maw. Two devices connect and begin to unfurl a red path at the bottom. Those from the ship begin a march of displayed powers and nobility for the family. Several instruments, trumpet-like brass to announce the arrival, begin to play from the back of this arrival party.
Forty men and women in the black and red. In the center back, a figure in black robes with designs of crimson swirls, knots, and pious symbols strides with a rhythm fueled by power and pride. Elder Matheem Nephire moves like a ghost across the crimson carpet with two of his banners flapping over his head.
Seven spokes of twisted rays coming from a sun, all red, burns brightly in the Black Shield of his family crest. The men and women that lead the way, Valkyries and Exorcists, stand a formidable force to encase their preacher and leader.
Black hair, only a collection of fuzzy fields atop his aged head, fades into the heavily wrinkled face of Matheem. From his chin; however, falls a mighty beard of midnight black that floats to a point at the height of his waist. Though many would say he’d dyed it, none would say it in his company.
Peaceful Giant. What a misnomer. Simora waits patiently, back straight, for the Ceremony of the Steps to finish. The man, while slightly taller, was by no means a giant. Matheem, in fact, was shorter than many of his Exorcists and a few of the Valkyries.
When they arrived at the end of their path, the middle Exorcist marched ahead three paces and called out, “Upon Icarus Alpha, we call out to the Dominax of this planet. May your kin, Elder Matheem Nephire, enter the lands of your domain? May his forces, the Valkyries and Exorcists, his servants and attendants, his faithful and his followers enter your domain? For we come in peace, and we ask that peace be given.”
Simora steps forward for all his gathered forces to note the power in his movements. I must appear higher still. “To my kin, you are welcome. Peace be shared and sealed by your honor. The house of Nor-Noctlin accepts you.”
The Exorcist retreats and stands as the rest in his row of blacks and reds. With a swoosh of his cloak, the various tools of a trained warrior… an exorcist of all evil that lives in the hearts of men, rest patiently on his hips.
To the right ship, the party dressed in mostly black is trimmed with perfectly cleaned whites. Every individual masked with protective helmets marches in their military gear. Weapons holstered or slung over their backs. They move as a unit preparing for battle. Any would consider this an invasion of an incredibly confident nation; sending only a handful of their strongest to overtake a planet.
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There stand twenty surrounding a man carrying himself with incredible poise despite the girth of his center. Blonde hair slicks back from a clean-shaven face to leave the scar on his right cheek plain for all to see. Wearing it with more pride than any of the medal on his chest, more medals than any three in Simora’s Deep Roots combined, the healed wound forms a “V” up his cheek to the hairline.
Simora, reviewing the man, confirms the plain Signs upon him.
A perfectly chiseled jaw falls in sharp angles from General Obin Nephire. His shoulders pop up from a stiffened back, and Simora knows this isn’t from padding or armor. Though the forces wear minor armor not meant for true war, the General wore none at all.
His body shows Signs. Tempering has reshaped his bloodline well.
Upon the General’s breast and four banners at his diagonals roared a white lion lined in gold upon a Black Shield. The Black Shield White Emblem had arrived with the sound of perfectly commanded marching. Finer soldiers, there are none within the Black Families. Tested in the finest arts of honorable combat, these men march to the beat of a war drum all their own. For they are one of many, and the many of the whole.
They are the Berkara.
One soldier clicks his feet and grunts. Every man behind him comes to a halt. Obin lifts his chin high to peer over the men about him. Easily done for the goliath.
“Pious Enigma” they call him. Simora narrows his eyes and clicks his tongue. Exposing himself to any possible threat. Even here, atop an alien city and open to likelihood of sniper fire, he’s left his head out. A confident man.
“Upon Icarus Alpha, we call out to the Dominax of this planet. May your kin, General Obin Nephire, honorable servant of The Namaste, victor in the Far-Reach Conflict, conqueror of man and planet…”
This introduction goes on to the larger man’s disgust. Shaking the belly that falls from the giant’s sturdy frame, he grumbles loud enough for the soldier to hear. “May your kin enter the lands of your domain? May his forces, the Berkara, his servants and attendants, his faithful and his followers enter your domain? For we come in peace, and we ask that peace be given.”
“To my kin, you are welcome. Peace be shared and sealed by your honor. The house of Nor-Noctlin accepts you.”
Simora lifts his arms in welcome, and he hears the calls of those about the city below. A few of the higher structures might catch glimpses of this ceremony, but the broadcasting to projections about the city has enticed the populace. Their Dominax has brought down two titans of lore to share in their planet and culture.
The Ravagers won’t care. The Signs will dissuade them. The General’s are too obvious. Glancing back to Matheem, Simora nods in his findings. Nothing from a distance. He has none of the markings of the Red formed on his skin. From a distance, he seems no different than the rest. Though, I’m sure closer inspection would reveal more.
“My kin!” Simora calls, his voice echoing over the distance. “I have prepared your quarters and entertainment. Tomorrow, I expect our beloved kin, Planetist Finel Dornish shall join us. Allow me to welcome you to Icarus Alpha.” His arms swing out to show the distant horizons of deep-blue skies, orange clouds clawing back into the regions displaced by the Couriers, and the jungles threatening to wash over the edges of the city.
Elder Matheem Nephire can be seen examining the surroundings from this tower, one of many airfields, with a visible concern spreading through the wrinkles of his ancient face. He leans to one side where an attendant listens intently.
In direct opposition, General Obin presses forward, even pushing his men from his path, with a bellowing laugh. “Is tha’ little Simora?!”
This one. Simora’s lips pull just enough to shine with joy. His eyes open despite the harsh light. The eyebrows raise slightly in the centers. He wears no exolung so he might greet his guests as equals. “Obin! It has been far too long!” He calls out with hands extended; calling the man up to the dais.
Though the man’s gut seems a trapped mass of dirt preparing to tear through the fabrics of his military uniform, the General lunges up the steps without hesitation or restriction. Almost supernaturally, he flings himself forward to embrace his relative.
Floaters? Or is his Tempering that advanced?
“Damned by the gods, yer big.” Obin’s massive hand slaps at the Dominax’s shoulder.
Hearing a titter behind him, Simora suddenly shivers with a chill somehow manifesting up his spine. “You flatter from atop a mountain.”
“Ah.” Obin grabs hold of the young man and grins madly. “A fine man. Just like yer father!” Seeing no change in Simora’s expression, the General’s smile dampens with realization. “More talented than ‘im, too. I’d wager.”
“Many details and stories to be shared. I hope you find my successes surpassing his as well.”
Leaning away with a hesitant glance, Obin’s eyes narrow. “Successes? Blasted, boy. From what I hear, yer father cou’n’t be prouder.” Obin laughs again and pulls the Dominax in for a hug.
Immediately upon seeing this, several hundred soldiers, wearing the Nor-Noctlin symbols, take a stance bordering on defensive. Obin hears their stomps and grunts only to repay their vigilance with laughter. “Aye! Drop yer guard, ye silly dolts! He’s not safer with any hands but mine near ‘im!” Glancing back down to Simora, the two laugh together before Simora waves his men back to ease. “A fine force just for this showy nonsense,” Obin continues. “Their reaction was a tad slow. Mayhaps they need some instruction from someone facing threats beyond the planet.”
“They have faced the planet that would make even the Ygnalsi quiver, General.”
“The boast of a leader!” Obin narrows his eyes in a more serious fashion. “Will I be convinced? Have these savages gifted you with proper combat? Surely! You bloom in the graveyard of Icarus Alpha.”
“You walk a new world.” Simora turns to lead them back to his companions and relaxation. “You walk my reformed Icarus. You see my army; men and women I’d not separate myself from for all the planets in the Far-Reach.”
“A true leader.” Obin grunts.
“Men!” Simora calls out to all the forces—Deep Roots included.
Not one among them hesitates before snapping heels together and calling out, “Yes, Dominax!”
Simora, his grin spreading slightly at the vibration they’d cast into the atmosphere, calls, “To whom does my life belong?”
“To the people of Icarus Alpha!”
“To whom do your lives belong?”
“To the people of Icarus Alpha!”
Simora calls again, goading himself with the repetition and the echoing vibrations slipping through his spine. All the world can bleed away as the tingles in his neck remind him of his reasons and passions. He lets the pulse within the air spread over him. Spread through the patches of flesh beneath his Balan suit. “Then tell me! Tell them! Call out to the Icarians! To whom do you entrust this planet to?!”
“Dominax! Dominax! Dominax!”
Simora listens to the chants with a true smile slithering up the mask he’d donned. “They mean it.” Simora says as his golden eyes open wide for Obin to see. The General, now noticing the golden rings seems unsettled, “As do I, cousin. I would give my everything for this planet and these people. They know it, too. You will soon see what glories I have in store for this paradise. For our futures.”
Obin, staring into the sparkling gold of his (distant) cousin’s eyes, feels himself gradually cooking in the harsh light of day. Beyond the Prints-a-Ment walls exists a world fraught with dangers, and still the churning of his gut tells him the battle is much closer. “Aye. Ye’ve bonded well to people and planet.” He pulls his attention away to peer out across the jungles in all directions. Something tickles the man’s belly, and his spine quakes. “To stand above green hells and be offered men’s hearts as tribute… the Ygnalsi would fear it indeed.”