Loriel, the servant boy, the decade-and-one-fifth old son of two of the greatest warriors of the now-destroyed country of Ithrim, could feel the tension in the air. His onyx-tinted hair was nothing more than a sign of obedience, for it was cut short according to the Servant's Mandate. His eyes, a pair of cloudy purple thunderheads, peered off into the distance, at the horizon, where the vast blue ocean, the All-Consuming, kissed the equally cerulean sky, the All-Giving. But even when it was a bright summer's day, ten degrees behind high-noon, no ray of light was ever able to ease the suspense in Loriel, as much as it eased the hunger of the sea of knee-high grass about him. Every fiber in his firm, stone-grey flesh refused to move until the tension passed.

At least his master, daughter and heiress to the Empire of Ulthir, did not notice. Her fair flesh, peach from the blood's absorption of the sun, only sucked in more and more sunlight, as a child suckles from its mother. Beneath two cherry blossom petals, a pair of amber orbs were probably flying through space and time, to worlds that Loriel would never dream of. Worlds, universes, like the innumerable microcosms hidden between the slightly bending branches of auburn hair, that were just waiting to collide and intermingle with one another...

He softly held her delicate hand, and pondered upon what sort of event was about to happen.

Then, he saw it. First one, then five, then a dozen, clustered in groups of four, pierced the cerulean veil in a fiery entrance. Their appendages - stubby, rounded, like bowls - spat flames that surpassed the speeds air resistance allowed. These projectiles passed overhead the two, their noises deaf to Loriel's ears.

They had come.

Author's Note : Yeah, most of you more or less have seen this already. Editing OP now...

Refer to this post to see if you're accepted!

Requesting for more varied characters! Geo Knights, Intel Officers, whatever you think would fit best to colonizing a planet! Let your creativity fly!

Considered Characters :

None at the moment.

Accepted Characters :

-Valvius by Edolas.

-Krell by Colray.

-Blight by Atgatg.

-Cain by

I know you're a "dude", Atgx2, but please, do think of the way how a child suckles. It's not without tenderness and delicacy that the mother must handle the child, and it is not without an instinctive, child-like need to fulfill oneself. In that same way, do compare the Sun and Loriel's master like so. I don't make metaphors for naught. ^-^

(Also forgot to say : Next chapter will be posted after one more app is accepted.)

You didn't check the sign-up sheet, did you?

BEEP.

"Don't hesitate to riposte. Again."

Two pairs of feet walked equidistant from one another until they were about three yards from the center of a metal lane. Clad in a rubber-like polyster suit, the feet could get easy grip with the ergonomic design, snug as the suits were. They spun about-face, and advanced towards each other a half step.

Commencing duel in 3...

Heels lifted themselves slightly above the ground, poised for a fast takeoff.

2...

A rapier-tip rose up to about mouth level. A gloved hand rested at the base of a sleek spine, slightly closed.

1...

On the other side, two sabre tips rested on the floor.

Begin.

The rapier user began the initiative as rubber feet squeaked against the cold cobalt alloy, and the air whistled as steel ripped through it. Its aim was straight and true; its target was the heart.

A sabre attempted slap away the tip, and in doing so coldly rejected the advance. The other sabre honed in from the side, aiming to impale the hand that wielded the thin blade. With a flick of a wrist, however, the riposte was to no avail when it met the hand-guard.

Both duelists took a step back, and launched forward simultaneously. When a sabre aimed to slash at the thigh, the rapier answered back smartly with a parry, and when the rapier attempted to impale exposed rubber, it was slapped off-course by either of the two sabres. Never for a brief moment did the duelists pause, and only in the brief respite of a retreat were they able to ready themselves once more.

The blades never locked even once; the rapier amounted to only one, and the sabres had no strength alone. So they were stuck in a seemingly endless skirmish with one another, always meeting each other in earnest gravity, yet neither reaching an ultimatum.

The rapier user, clad in a blue-hued suit, always appeared to struggle with an inquiry expressed via the blade, and as for the duelist with the dual sabres, there was no question worthy of an answer.

Suddenly, the rapier began to demand a little more. Almost passionately, it pummeled away at the sabres' retorts, and inch by inch, it came closer to the cross-guard...

BEEP.

And it was over, just like that. A sabre pressed firmly into a throat, though its edge was too blunt to draw any blood.

"...what was that?"

The same voice asked this question, tinged with disappointment. Its accent implied refinement and formality to its owner, and the delicacy in it hinted that its owner was female.

"What was what?"

This voice was more masculine, though its smoothed accent carried far less formality.

"Your advance. It was...angry. Passionate. Did I ever put you in spite?"

"No, what makes you think tha-"

"I didn't teach you how to murder. I thought I taught you how to kill, soldier. Your being too passionate opened up a hole in your defense. You wanted it to be done with, didn't you? You were tired of me, weren't you?!"

The lady's foot pressed forward, a step further into an inquisition. A step further into persecution.

"We weren't getting anywhere!"

The man's foot slid backwards. Steadfast, yet just as eager to make a hasty retreat.

"Has the Order ever taught us that violence was the answer, soldier? Has the Order ever taught us that we were allowed to be emotionally involved in battle? Did you just view your acceptance into the Order as something to get over with? The teachings of which we spent OUR WHOLE LIVES learning and trying to live each day?"

"...no."

"You make it seem that way, contrary to your words. And according to the Order's dogmas, we pertain to the oath tha-"

Her voice was cut off by a loud stomp. From the shadows of the room, a pair of amethyst irises glowered in scorn.

"That'll be enough, Sergeant Vaelyn."

The old man walked into the light of the sparring room, though his facial features were still hidden by the shadow of his cap.

"...C-captain Ozlo!"

Immediately, the lady raised a hand to her brow.

"At ease. Who's the boy you're training?"

Vaelyn licked her lips, but did not let go of her salute.

"He's not important, sir. Nothing that you shou-"

Another loud stomp made the young man and Vaelyn flinch.

"Sergeant, I'm asking for his name. Answer me straight."

"Corporal Rhendon, sir. His name is Rhendon."

She spoke quickly, as though Ozlo had a rifle to her head. His eyes were enough to cause her to stutter, but to Rhendon, they softened as they turned to him.

"And Rhendon, how do you feel right now? To be lectured by an officer like a child?"

"Embarrassed, sir," replied the young Knight. Vaelyn scowled, but made no other gesture to show her disapproval.

"That's alright. It would make sense for a man of your standing to be ashamed of yourself. After all, Knights are not without prestige and honor. To deprive you of that would mean that you would be another peon. The Order does not treat its members as peons."

As Ozlo said this, he turned to Vaelyn.

"Say, Rhendon, would you like to try using a gun?"

The red-eyed man paused, and looked nervously to Ozlo, and then to Vaelyn. The sergeant only looked towards the floor in defeat.

"...yessir. A firearm would be...incredible. Sir, I haven't got my hands on one si-"

"Alright, take this."

From his coat, Ozlo procured a handheld firearm, a sort of submachine gun outfitted with a revolving chamber. To Rhendon, he handed the weapon with a warm smile.

"A-An Autogun?!"

"Run along now. Use it well. They're low in stock."

"Th-thank you sir!"

Footsteps became more distanced and muted as Rhendon walked out of the sparring chambers, leaving Captain Ozlo and Vaelyn alone.

"Vaelyn?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"You're a Lieutenant now. Training recruits isn't your thing. Some more seasoned subordinates would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"...they would be, sir..."

"...and...?"

"O-oh, thank you, Captain!"

The old Ozlo nodded, and took off his long overcoat and cap. What was underneath was not an old man, but a freakshow of sheer muscle. Tissue at an impossibly high definition bulged against the rubber, and none of it complemented his old endearing face.

"Alright, fair enough. Now, can you help me get these muscles moving again? I haven't done much sparring since the last decade..."

Ozlo opened his right hand, and at first, a hilt formed in bits of pixels. However, the flurry of pixels began to build up past just that hilt, and around it, a massive mechanical blade sprouted.

"C-captain?! You're wielding a HATCHET?!"

"And forgoing a shield for dual-wielding is more justifiable? Come at me, then, with everything you have. No electronic scoring systems. First one to submit loses."

"At your age, Captain, I cannot feel comfo-"

Ozlo's amethyst eyes sharpened as he frowned, and he solidly grabbed the bottom part of the hilt with his other hand, and heaved the massive blade on his shoulder.

"And is it not one of the Order's dogmas that we do what is necessary for Isora, regardless of how we feel? You had trained Rhendon in a skill few can be ever comfortable with; you'd be a hypocrite to refuse my commands. Now, can we fight? I've heard that on Isora, your first Morai kill was when you were 8 years of age..."

Vaelyn raised a sabre at Ozlo, and met his eyes with her own harsher indigo irises. Though Ozlo had undergone aging outside of stasis, his eyes were still sparkling, still young; Vaelyn's eyes, on the other hand, indicated she came from an age before his, an age of hardships.

"Two. My first two kills."

Check post #10 for more information!

~~~~~

As Loriel watched the sun slowly sink into the sea, he sighed out a hot, arid puff of air. It had been several hours since he had first spotted the falling objects, and though he tried to compare them to the many astrological objects he had been taught through decades-old tomes, he could relate nothing to it. They were too finely made to be considered comets, meteors, or some other object, but he failed to entertain the thought of an extraterrestrial coming here. After all, the only supposed "extraterrestrials" were the Magius; even then, they came via a mass-teleporting exodus after their lands were being burned all to hell.

So were they from the heavens? Loriel's ear twitched as he pondered upon the thought, but in all practicality...the gods would make a more grand entry than that.

The firmament burned shades of scarlet, crimson, and orchid shades as the sun sank only further into the horizon; Loriel had ran out of time.

The young boy, only about 12 years of age, gently pressed his sterling-silver lips against his Master's forehead, which had now paled, and stood up facing inland. The sky was but now a fiery crown around his obsidian hair, rays of terrible magnificence silhouetting the already-dark features of his face. The last son of the warrior-kings of Ithrim no longer was he, but as one of the Emperor's Hands, and the personal guardian of the Heiress, he was now.

Not that this fact deterred his loyalty.

His hand reached down into a patch of grass at his feet, and from it, he produced an ornate, cylindrical container. As if he was exerting something, he grunted under the strain of an unknown force, and the container itself began to shake as though it were lightning just waiting to explode from his grasp.

But rupture and break it did not.

He released his grip from the object, and it hung to the very air as though it were holstered to it. From inside, a sphere of red particles began to dance outwards, and outwards it flew until it enveloped both him and the Heiress in a sphere of light. Warm as the sun's rays, yet painfully hot to whatever stood outside it, the sphere held its position.

Loriel gave one last look at his master and friend, and walked out of its radius, into darkness.

In the name of Ulthir, he had to secure this state before it would become compromised. The medium of such a liberation would be with blood. Those who had come From the Skies could wait.

Systems online.

Routine Damage Check...

...no damage.

Loading Start-Up Program...
Loading System Functions...
Loading Wireless Communications...

Loaded.

[I'll put in more by...a few days. Expect this post to be edited frequently. Of course, if you have any suggestions or comments that isn't like Malkalack's, feel free to drop in your two cents!]