Hyperpunk Virgo 1: Dreams of Oblivion

Aodháns teeth chattered loud enough that one could think that the skulls that lined the walls of the corridors were laughing. That they could feel their own goose bumps against the fabric of their Necromantic garb, the sleeve of their prosthesis or the eyepatch over their right eye didn’t improve their mood either.

Though it was within their power, they refrained from using magic to warm themselves.

Aether was a rare resource on Earth. The absence of a living Crann-Beathadh having long since cut off Gaia from the Lifestream. From the vast rivers of aether that flowed from the Astral Realms and across all of reality.

The Aether caught in the Earth’s atmosphere now was either that which was left over from such a time when Yggdrasils of various variations bloomed across the Earth- or ambient particles that drifted through space with much the same wayward movement as hydrogen, just as servile to the laws of physics as it drifted into the gravity well of planets and suns.

They knew it would be a waste of Aether when a hearth was not far from reach.

Necromancers needed hearths. They needed places of gathering and warmth.

The Mutagenic influence of Necromantic magic making the Adepts of the Tech Duinn more susceptible to clinical depression. To introverted behaviours that would only result in loneliness.

To Despair.

“Despair is the Enemy. The blight upon the soul that precedes the destruction of the self. It is the fog that suffocates the fire within. The gale that shall bury the golden path beyond our sight. We shall endure and confront our despair. We will resist and defy the silence it wills us to. When the despair is gone, we will reclaim the path. If the path is lost, the one that we have made shall lead us forth”

The words of the Forgelady Prime, of Virnagoth the Godslayer, echoed in Aodháns mind.

Words that had since morphed into a mantra of the Zxenjenta as they created their Imperium from the corpse of the Primavita Empire. A collection of Allied Republics that stretched from the depths of Erebus’s Desolation to the edges of Asherah’s Embrace.

Words that Aodhán had read and reread in the Book of the People. The Books of the Zxenjenta, the Osidiné and the Listened and relistened to in the Achieved footage taken during the War for Shango, the War of the Javelin.

In the hope that somehow they could find strength in such words as so many before them did.

But the depression they were infected with endured, and they knew not how to grow the strength within that would let them grow beyond it.

With a huff, Aodhán refocused on the here and now as Xenia held open the thick wooden door that lead into the Sanctum; and they may well have thanked her in habitual politeness had she and her Drones not all but waterboarded them with chilled water in the communal sauna.

But as a body of warm air washed over them from hearth in the centre of the room, they leaned back and held the door open with their prosthetic left hand in kind.

They let the esteemed Canonite and her cohort lead the way into one of the many rotundas in the Tech Duinn. The one that most preferred to hold council within given that it was the chamber closest to the surface and the one with the most pleasant atmosphere.

Stone bridges connected the doorway with a raised island in the centre of the chamber, around which a river flowed gently around from an underground waterfall.

Upon it was a large stone table, where the Elders were seated.

Réaltineris sat at its head, one leg crossed over the other, a gloved hand under her jaw and watching Aodhán glaringly.

Xenia took her place at the opposite end, her Drones naturally and submissively kneeling by her left and right sides after setting down the flask of rot, the silver knife and the rifle upon the table.

Like they were pieces of evidence.

On the riverside of the table were other 5 elders. 5 living legends of the Werakin.

Beside Xenia was Fafnir to Aodháns amusement. Garbed in a woollen shirt and fur pants. He appeared to be a Goblin- having golden eyes with black slitted pupils, dark green skin, sharp little teeth and a head of unkempt black hair from which pointed ears shot out from under; and the more ignorant of so many other worlds may have simply wrote him off as a very tall Goblin. Being around 4’5 when most Goblins were around 3 foot tall.

On Earth, under the disguise of a glimmer- he simply looked like a Dwarf outta one of the many fantasy stories that permeated within human literature and mythology.

But had one noticed the patches of scales across his body or listened to his voice closely enough to hear the slight warble and echo, they would realise he was a Dragon.

The result of a Mycelium of Succoria absorbing thousands of corpse given unto the Gravemind until it all that collected genetic material and grey matter allowed a crystalline egg to form in a secluded Genesis Chamber in some hidden corner of the world.

Aodhán knew that in Fafnirs case, he was born of Goblinkind. Formed from the Mycelium that had spread from the Succorian Javelin in the arctic north to creep under the crust of Bane, the motherworld of the Goblins.

He spent a few centuries masquerading as a Goblin- probably having as much success passing for a Goblin as any other Dragon with their respective progenitors- and working in the financial institutions of Bane. The noble fortresses that produced and regulated the Cryst-Dollar. The currency of the Zxenjenta Allied Republic.

Hence he was the foremost financial expert in the Werakin, the biggest pusher for universal basic income on the planet and the one who was most definitely beyond the far horizon of done with human capitalism.

Beside him was another woman. Severin, a half-Novari, half-Orc with deathly grey skin, monochorome black and silver hair that was strangely well-kept and black eyes that appeared fully dilated.

Wearing a dark purple blouse and a long black skirt, she seemed to be the one most awake in the room and also the one most interested. Though that was likely a product of her own eccentricity.

She was one of the returned, Aodhán had been told. A Revenent of Succoria. She had been laid to rest, having died gloriously during the War of the Javelin, her body recovered and given a Burial of Darkness as she desired- her body submerged and consumed by the Ichor of Succoria.

Becoming one with the collective consciousness of the Gravemind… yet somehow, without even meaning to, she came back. Emerging from a pool of Ichor. Changed of course, no one comes back from the dead unchanged. But she had returned.

To Severins left, looming over her, was an 8 foot tall Lycanmorph. Lobo Toothspliter. Powerfully built and bare-chested, with his skin covered in white fur contrasting against his piercing blue eyes. He seemed to be repressing a snarl, or maybe a yawn. Either way he was not what most expected the Chief Chronicler of the Tech Duinn to be like. He was anything but bookish.

Between Lobo and Réaltineris were Tunrida and Raquel. An Exodite Demon and a Fallen Angel.

Tunrida, like most exodites from the Underworld, bore a conjured form not unlike any other Anthropoidal species in the universe. It wasn’t entirely Human, Zxenjenta Novari, Orc, Faerie or Ogriotan. But more an amalgam of them all.

She lacked hair, instead having a full head of dark grey quills and a crown of 6 horns. Her skin was a light red under her gown, with veins that glowed a volcanic orange to match the colour of her eyes. Her face was an unreadable mask as they glared at Aodhán… despite having Raquel’s head against her left shoulder.

The fallen angel, her being not much dissimilar to her demonic lovers, had a head of curly brown hair and a crown of metallic horns. A shattered Halo. Her dark skin covered in fading scars from so many punishments dealt unto her by the High Heavens and seemed to be mere moments away from drifting back into sleep within a large fur coat that seeming to make an adequate substitute for a blanket- only to be roused back into awaking as Tunrida turned to press her lips against her lovers head. Her eyes opening to reveal a constellation of green as she regained awareness of her surroundings.

“I see you were able to find Fafnir!”; Aodhán remarked as they moved to stand by the open fire rather then sit at the table, “Where’d they end up finding you old man?”.

“Up yer’ arse ya wee gobshite!”; Fafnir growled, baring his teeth.

Beside him Severin pointed to both Fafnir and Lobo with her long spindly fingers, then while sticking her tongue between her teeth in a mischievous smile she made a circle with her left hand, with her index finger and thumb. Then she repetitively inserted and pulled out her right index finger from within the hole.

Its meaning was lost on Aodhán but not to Lobo- who dipped his snout to glare directly at Severin, who felt his cool gaze upon her and immediately stopped… only to then spurt out; “They were fuckin’!”

“Enough” ; Réaltineris declared firmly and tiredly,”…Not that such gossip isn’t delightful but right now we have more pressing concerns”.

“We need not be reminded”; Lobo stated, returning his attentions to Aodhán.

The feeling of so many eyes on them left Aodhán ill at ease until Réaltineris closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“First things first… where did you go and what did you see and do?”; Réaltineris asked as her right foot started tapping the ground.

Aodhán hung their head and started from the beginning. They spoke of emerging on the edge of the Morbid Swamps and their long journey into the Desert which ended with them encountering a Baalgarog at the Shadowed Plunge- which peaked Tunrida’s interest; and then on asking for a description an expression of recognition dawned upon her.

“Shagoath”; she said, “The Prince of Rust and Mud”.

“What do you know of him?”; asked Aodhán.

“That he is a shadow of his former self and of all the Baalgarogs, he is the weakest through no ones fault but his own. The Baalgarogs may be forged by the Silent Devil and conditioned to be loyal to it, but they are not subservient to it. They must serve two masters after all:”; Tunrida spoke, “And one cannot serve two masters without growing to despise one in growing devotion of the other”.

“So the Silent Devil grew malcontent with Shagoath’s allegiance to the Arch-Devil of Plagues and punished him for it?”; Aodhán pressed on.

“More or less. He was sent with the invasion forces that struck Hulk Fleet Hadel and Helheim during the War of the Javelin. Sent right into the oncoming path of Zóuělróu while he was still conjuring a physical form. The extent of his injuries matches your description of his augmentation”; Tunrida stated, “What became of him?”.

“Flew off a cliff on a floating island above the Metal Hell”; stated Aodhán, “Is it too much to hope that the Burning Lakes claimed him?”.

Tunrida stopped to think for a moment, her eyes lowering to the table before rising once again; “No… but if he didn’t, he will stop at nothing to hunt you down should you ever return to the Astral Realm”

Réaltineris glared at Tunrida on merely acknowledging such a possibility and inevitability.

But Aodhán instead continued. Speaking of their displacement and emergence into Vihralaza-Icyadar. Of narrowly evading detection by Fiarcheon and their escape into Nilōrangzil. Into the Plutian Temples.

“A place of horror, isn’t it”; Raquel said grimly, “It is there that they begin the production of the Blessed Lira. By soaking the leaves of the Hahayyim in the blood of repentant tax evaders, debtors, fraudsters, bankrupt citizens and the homeless from across all of the Halidom. Both here in Mortalis and in the beyond”.

“I dread to ask, but why exactly?”; Aodhán asked with morbid curiosity, “The coins were already irradiated with tainted Emphyreal essence. And the leaves of the Hahayyim don’t absorb water. At least they don’t look like they did. What purpose does such horror serve?’.

Raquel looked away from Aodhán, drawing deep from painful memories and holding them in a kinder present before answering candidly.

“None at all… for them it is the proportional means of absolution for committing the sin of overindulgence”; stated Raquel mournfully, “But it is merely excuse for barbarism. Death as an act of devotion. Rationalised by casuistry. They believe if they feed enough souls into the Emphyrean they can grant Zóuělróu the power needed to conjure himself a new meta-physical body”.

“That’s… That’s impossible though right?”; asked Aodhán in concern, “Right?”.

Raquel’s eyes cast down to the table, unable to meet Aodháns gaze.

“I… I know now that Zóuělróu is nowhere near as omnipotent as he wants the entire universe to believe he is”; Raquel answered truthfully but with a shaky voice, “I cannot tell you what he is capable of. Only that those infected by the memetic presence and those indoctrinated by the Halidom and the Heavens believe he is capable of the impossible… and will destroy entire worlds in sacrament to him just to prove their devotion to him”.

With that, Aodhán acknowledged that Raquel wanted the debrief to continue with haste. They didn’t want to make her dig up the past any further than she already had.

Aodhán understood that all too well.

Aodhán then spoke of the Saobhadh. The Otherworld between extremes. Falling through it only to encounter the Dominion of Muspell’hel. Leaving all eyes in the room widening with interest, concern and confusion.

“Jus’ the one ship?”; Fafnir asked gruffly, “It did’ne have a fleet of frigates an’ cruisers?”

“Nah, was just the one vessel”; repeated Aodhán.

“They weren’t… like… fighting a Titan or something?”; asked Xenia with squinting eyes, “A big ass Space Octopus or… something?”.

“No, they were just cruising”; repeated Aodhán before something dawned on them, “But they didn’t have any void fighters in formation around the ship. They may have just warped into the Saobhadh or were about to warp out of it when their visual sensors picked me up”.

“Must have been the ’Keisarinnan Raivo’ then. The Flagship of the Forgelady’s Crimson Armada. Perhaps they were running a test upon its Warp Engine?”; Severin mused to herself, “Sounds exciting! It has been such a long time since the Zxenjenta last encountered them in any meaningful way”.

“I’m still trying to figure out why they tried to recover you”; brooded Réaltineris.

“They saw someone falling through the Saobhadh. They attempted to provide aid. It’s not beyond the far horizon for them to be altruistic if they’ve seen fit to ally themselves with the Zxenjenta many times before”; stated Aodhán, “As I understand it. The Muspell’heli were just as much the precursors of the Zxenjenta as the Orcs were”.

“Before the Forgelady vanished perhaps. Ever since the War of the Javelin ended they have been increasingly more withdrawn from the universe. Save for the reports of them glassing Citadel Worlds or destroying some Ultra-Corporate Moons, This is the first I’ve heard of them actually doing something in well over a century:”; stated Réaltineris, “Wariness is warranted, if only to limit the need to bring a few cats back from the dead”.

On saying that, a black cat hopped onto the table beside Réaltineris. A zombified husk of a being with rotting skin and fur just barely clinging to its degenerating body. Half of its little face was missing, revealing a skull that was empty save for the blue glow of dark energy in place of its eye.

Noticing it in the corner of her vision Réaltineris’ face became blank and unreadable as she turned to regard it.

It let out a sickly meow in greeting and Réaltineris, after several difficult moments, decided that the appropriate response to this reanimated creature was to be disgusted. Which had Severin cackling with laughter, her entire being engulfed in a blue aura of potent dark energy.

“Neither the time nor place Severin!”; hissed Réaltineris in irritation.

“Anytime is a good time to learn about Idioms darling!”; Severin stated jovially, “How else is the Youngblood meant to learn them”.

“…Do you not know the difference between an Idiom and a Proverb?”; Lobo asked with some concern, “D-Do you think that ‘Curiosity killed the Cat’ is referring to Necromancy?”

“Is it not?; Severin asked innocently.

Aodhán then continued on topic before the Elders council dissolved into discordant malarkey. Not making any mention of the Assault Cannon. It wasn’t in their hands on waking but they felt its presence within a mental subspace and they felt no desire to part with it when their weapons were likely to be confiscated from them. Special case though they were.

They then spoke of falling into the Phantasmal Labyrinth, navigating its winding corridors only to encounter Red Riders. The Warriors of the Wild Hunt.

At that the room feel silent, once again. Even the dead cat seemed to sit still and pay attention.

Aodhán continued, speaking of the encounter with an Aberration of Gyot-Mhoghuloth, then of Shagoath’s return, the Red Riders escape and finally their own escape into the Metal Hell before they were returned to Mortalis.

For all too many dire moments the council sat silent.

Réaltineris sitting deep in thought, her hearts full of complex emotions. Aodhán could feel such emotions within her better than they could feel their own.

“I assume you told them of our continued existence?”; Xenia asked flatly.

“I did”; Aodhán confirmed, “I believe the warrior I spoke to, Hector O’Krieg, will pass it onto the Overlord”.

There were some murmurs from the others. Aodhán couldn’t focus on any of overlapping words but it felt positive.

“Do they know that the Flamdwyn bloodline endures?”; Tunrida asked with squinting eyes.

“Yes. Its not like I could hide that fact. My residual self-image has Fomóri features. Hector… seemed to be a veteran of the Javelin War. He remembered what the Fomórians looked like. He probably knows why they left. Knew who had remained behind following their exodus”; Aodhán stated, gritting their teeth at their own tactlessness.

“Did he think you were the Promised One?”; Severin asked with a dramatic flair.

Aodhán cringed at the statement, but with a shrug answered; “He certainly found reasons to hope so”.

Until that point Réaltineris had been steepling against the stone table. Stoic in her thoughts, until her eyes drifted towards Aodhán again.

“…Do they know you are an Eligitur?”; Réaltineris asked grimly.

Aodhán remained silent, before taking a long shaky breath, and answering; “Yes”.

Réaltineris then closed her eyes and hung her head up, rubbing her forehead in discomfort.

The council however was less silent.

For the first time in a long time, Tunrida actually looked shocked. Frightened even. Raquel was more expressive, gripping Tunrida’s arm only to find herself in her demonic lovers embrace.

To make Raquel feel safe or so Tunrida could ground herself? Aodhán concluded it was likely both.

“Fuck!”; barked Lobo, “Fucking FUCK!”, rising from his seat fast enough to have it falling over backwards, stomping away towards the edge of the island, reaching into his trousers and taking out a pipe, filling it with some herbs and lighting from underneath with a zippo lighter. From the smell of it, it was undoubtedly Cannabis.

“Oh dear… yep! Not good! Noooot good!”; Severin stated energetically, tapping the table rapidly before closing her eyes and controlling her breathing… only to open her eyes, grab her newly reanimated cat and pull them into a hug before jabbering out; “Nope! Not working! Any one else suddenly feeling a heightened sense of dread!?”.

“Nah, not at all”; Xenia stated laxly, leaning back and throwing her hands around the back of her head, “Shit’s fucked. Always has been. This doesn’t fuck us any more than being stuck on this shithole world has already fucked us”.

“Speak fer yerself! Are ye’ fuckin’ kiddin’ me!?”; Fafnir rasped out in anger, “Why no’ jus’ go righ’ up inta orbit and hol’ up a sign sayin’ ‘Come on an’ shove an N-Bomb up our arse please!’”.

“It wasn’t in my control!”; stated Aodhán defensively, “Once Shagoath found me, he exposed me”.

“Nothing you could do to contain the spread of such knowledge?”; Tunrida asked coldly, her implication clear.

“…Nothing I could live with”; Aodhán answered regretfully.

Raquel, her features hardening in a growing sense of focus, turned to Réaltineris.

“You fought alongside the Wild Hunt before, correct?”; she asked with a quiet voice.

“No, I fought alongside Fenris Soladach after they left the Wild Hunt, before they became the Praetor”; Réaltineris stated, sorrow infiltrating into their words at the memory of her old friend, “And as I know what you’re going to ask, I shall answer candidly Darling. I have no idea what Helheim will do with this knowledge”.

“Can you make an educated guess then?”; Raquel pressed.

Réaltineris stopped, her eyes lifting up to the ceiling, before looking down and meeting Raquel’s gaze again.

“Without a working Hyper-Chronal Transceiver there’s no way to know what’s happening out there in Universal Politics. We know the Virgo Protectorate has quarantined Sol following its reversion to Kardashiev 0.5 status, that much is certain. Otherwise Helheim and the rest of the Zxenjenta would have come for us and brought the hammer down on the Zacharian Empire a long time ago. Beyond that it’s a crapshoot. The Allied Republic could be at war with the Emphyreal Halidom, or the Interstellar Federal Trade Coalition could have been fully corporatized by the Ultra-Corps”; Réaltineris mused cynically.

“By the Sovereigns that’s not a comforting thing to consider”; muttered Xenia.

“But therein lies the kicker”; said Réaltineris, holding up a finger, “If its still as chaotic now as it was back then, it’s not beyond the far horizon to assume the Helreign has bigger immediate problems to worry about than an Eligitur contained on a backwater planet in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the supercluster”.

“So I haven’t doomed us to being the lucky recipients of a Neutronium Missile?”; asked Aodhán.

“If you have, it will take years before anything comes of it”; Réaltineris affirmed, “But I doubt it. The Overlord won’t risk it. Not if it means annihilating the Flamdwyn Bloodline. The Primordial Flames are too logistically important for that… her personal stake not withstanding”.

On saying that, the Elders fell silent. Reassured somewhat by Réaltineris words. But the air was still heavy with wariness. All of it focused on Aodhán.

“This is the last time this happens Aodhán”; scowled Réaltineris, “If you want to Astral Dive, you do it through guided meditation with Tunrida and Raquel! You do not purge yourself of your meds and bleed yourself dry in a bathtub!”.

“…Understood”; answered Aodhán shamefully. There was no way for them to ignore the pain they heard in her voice, “I intended for this to be my last dive anyway. My last deliberate dive at least. I wasn’t able to find what I was looking for”.

“Oblivion?”; Tunrida questioned, “You still cling to that myth?”.

“I did… I do… I think I’ve seen it before?”, Aodhán said with uncertainty. The vision of that iridescent island they had seen so long ago still present in their mind.

The memory of the Dark Knight and the purple flames that had engulfed their being.

“It’s jus’ a product of Bánásúile’s madness when she wen’ nuclear”; Fafnir huffed sceptically. He was never one to take the words of an Oracle as absolute truth. Nor that of the Blind Oracle.

“A madness that revealed much about the Astral Realm that turned out to be true. Even before the Interpenetration Events that allowed us to validate her words”; argued Aodhán, before their mood deflated and in their hearts arose a restlessness, “Not that it matters anymore. Oblivion is beyond my reach. I must find another way to escape my destiny”.

“No! This stops now!”; Réaltineris declared sternly, “Your condition will remain stable so long as you keep taking the serum and regularly cycle nanites. That will buy the Werakin the time we need to guide Humanity towards getting Sol to Kardashiev 2 status again. Once that’s done we can find a way to remove the Parasitoid that doesn’t involve killing you one way or another”.

In the back of Aodhán’s mind they felt flashes of memory. Things they had buried to save their own sanity. Of being cut open, of country and western music playing so loudly it they couldn’t hear themselves scream their throat bloody and raw.

“You’ll understand that after the choices you made for me in the past, I choose to take your attempts at correction under advisement”; snarled Aodhán coldly.

Réaltineris reacted with barely contained outrage, yet a bitter guilt had her unable to find the words to argue.

“And if my fate involves trusting humanity to act in their own best interests I may as well just look for my own exit strategy”; Aodhán brooded in frustration, “You’ve been at it a century and even in my seclusion I know the Werakins influence over this world has waned”.

The sound of the wooden doors being swung open had everyone looking to the entrance watching as the tall, lean figure of Claudius Nero stalked in.

Draped in his long coat, crimson shirt and black kevlar pants. Even now he was a vision of self-confidence, baring a face with strong features under shaggy magenta hair and against a perpetual stubble. His eyes keen and gold against black sclera. Against the darkness he was shrouded in.

“That is why, my dear, we have re-evaluated our strategies. Accepted some harsh and bitter truths”; Claudius stated in his near condescendingly civil baritone, “This planet has long since become the equivalent of a Corporate World by humanities own hand. The ruling class have created a beast that is no longer within their control and the working masses are at the mercy of it. It requires correction for the good of all rather than the comfort a ruling few”.

“How the fuck do you always know what people are talking about before you enter the room?”; asked Xenia acerbically, her drones scanning the room as she ducked down and looked under the table, “Did you bug this place!?”.

“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. We shall never know”; said Claudius with a smile before continuing, “Chu’mana has confirmed the Oceanasian Coven has voted in our favour. The time has come for the establishment of a new Coven in Los Arcángeles, and for the creation of a new battalion of Rymi-Sjävar. They have arranged for a Trail of the Dragon this coming Duskseed- The month the Humans know as August- to precede a gathering of all covens in the United Celtic Republic. Assuming the prospect prevails, she will become the Battalions Captain”.

“Ah, finally! I’ve heard many horrific and exciting things about that gigalopolis”; exclaimed Severin jubilantly, “If I may ask, who is the prospect?”.

“Electra Winterdottir”; stated Claudius proudly.

“I know of her. Roanjal and Makino’s eldest daughter. Their Little Firehawk”; mused Réaltineris with a small affectionate smile.

Aodhán knew of her too.

Electra Ulfhildagard Winterdottir, known by the Orcs as M’Zurga Rhaeva and by the Osidine as Takus Ano-tangi. The stories of her growing strength as a Zxenjentan warrior had reached even the depths of the Icelandic Tech Duinn.

Visions of her had reached Aodhán too. Visions of her wrapping her hands around their throat and tearing their head off with her bare hands.

Visions of her plunging a carbyne blade through their chest. Into their heart. Twisting and pulling it out to leave them bleeding out upon a black sand beach.

Visions of her looking down at them with… affection, Aodhán thinks? Taking their face in her hands, brushing away the black strands of their fringe behind their pointed ears.

In such a vision, Aodhán couldn’t look anywhere else but into her crimson eyes. At lips darkened by black lipstick, parted slightly revealing shark-like teeth.

They could feel the coldness of her breath. Hear her heart beat in her chest. See the shimmer of the armoured Phantom standing in her wake, donned in Cybergothic armour, her face hidden behind a mask, her silver hair flowing from under a hood, her skeletal wings outstretched behind her before Electra’s features contorted in derangement, her grip on them growing forceful as she plunged her thumbs into their eye sockets.

Then Aodhán would wake up from those nightmares in a cold sweat. Hearing laughter from the peripheral.

It went without saying they were wary of her.

“She is not little anymore. She has grown into a fine warrior and quite the handsome lady. The Formado of the Oceanasian Tech Duinn have granted her a black belt in Brazilian Ju-jitsu and Kick-Boxing. The Hassani claim her to be an outstanding infiltrator and her performance working with Kusanagi Counter-Intel reflects this”; stated Claudius with a smirk, before turning to Xenia, “I believe you and her will have much to discuss. She went behind all our backs and obtained the rank of Pain-Exchanger from the Hierolancers in Nimbin”, the comment having Xenia huff in amusement, “She is also set to graduate from the University of Brisbane with a Bachelorette’s Degree in Mechanical and Voidnaval Engineering this Rain’s Reach… this April I should say”.

“Ye’ sure seem to be singin’ ’er praises a wee bit too highly lad”; stated Fafnir sceptically, “Sounds te me like yer just blowing smoke up our arses?!”.

Claudius grinned menacingly, “No offense my friend. Bet against her at your own peril. You will find yourself choking upon your own cynicism. She’s a Paragade on the path of glory, whether she realises it or not”.

“Paragade?”; Aodhán asked curiously.

“A Paragon-Renegade… old slang term for a badass. Like you, Youngblood”; Claudius complimented.

“Okay, what exactly does any of this have to do with me though?”; Aodhán asked anxiously.

“If Electra completes the trail, she has the right to form a new Battalion. Her choices will not be limited to other Rymi-Sjävar. She may choose anyone she wants. That said, every Captain requires a capable Lancer. One that can compliment her… and you fit the order quite well”; Claudius stated, “How have your studies been going?”.

Aodhán could not have turned their nose up to the idea faster, turning away from his gaze and turning to look back into the fire.

“They have refined their affinity for Fire magic with exceptional growth and through Fireskull Adept”; stated Xenia

They’re set to graduate with a 2nd in Multi-Disiplinary Science in July”; Réaltineris answered in their stead, before clearly speaking to Aodhán, “It is an honourable station. One with clear purpose. Something I think you know you need”.

Aodhán let the idea mull in their head for a few moments, huffing out a laugh after letting it settle.

“You recognise the dissonance, yes? You want me to keep living, yet suggest I volunteer to fight in a militia where I will undoubtedly be exposed to mortal peril”; Aodhán remarked in amusement.

“A little bit of adrenaline and violence can do wonders for the spirit and nothing nurtures growth beyond trauma quite as well as confrontation”; Réaltineris stated confidently, “Besides, we are Zxenjenta. We do not fight to live, we live to fight”.

“That would be inspiring if I actually had something worth fighting for”; Aodhán snarked bitterly, “Whether I fight or not, I’m still waiting for my body to fail or my mind to break. For me to actually die in a way that matters, so whatever replaces me can send the whole world screaming into the Abyss!”.

A silence fell in the rotunda once more. Anything more would just be a repeat of something said once before. They had explored other options over the years. Everything from using Cognitive Impression Moulding to turn Aodhán into a Mechamorph until they had the means to create a synthetic body- or having their body broken down and rebuilt by the Ichor of Succoria. Failing that, the Ichor of Kherlutog.

And while all were hopeful, none were viable for one critical reason or another.

The silence was broken however by the rhythmic humming of a vibrator followed by the low roaring rifts of a guitar. The ringtone of Claudius’ v̇Droid.

He waited for a moment, listening to the rifts of what was obviously one of the thousands of his favourite songs- then answered it. Listening to whatever the person on the other side had to say and then hanging up.

“Satellites have picked up 5 hostiles emerging from the North-Western Shoreline. Scans confirm they’re hellspawn. ETA 20 minutes until they reach the Tech Duinn”; Claudius stated, returning the military smart phone to a pocket somewhere inside his coat and then pulling out a Maoilriaghain Taiga Falcon from the holster under his shoulder.

He was about to turn to leave, until he caught sight of Aodhán turning and walking right over to the stone table, reaching for the Séamus-Faoláin only for Fafnir to spring up and hold the weapon down.

Aodhán looked up and glared at him, meeting the Dragonic Goblin’s large glowering eyes- smoke beginning to puff out from his nostrils and the sides of his snarling mouth.

But Aodhán didn’t back down.

“They were born of my blood. They will die by my hand!”; they snarled, “You want me to fight. So let me fight!”

Fafnir held his gaze until he glanced over to Réaltineris- who gave a small nod after a moment. Then to Claudius, who sighed in disappointment and returned the heavy iron to a holster under his right shoulder with a stylish twirl.

Fafnir let go of the rifle with a reluctant growl, letting Aodhán pick it up- pulling the bolt to eject the spent shell and rack in another silver bullet.

Slinging it over their shoulder they then reached for their knife. Pausing for a moment as they watched for any reaction from the Elders before flipping it into a reverse grip, lifting their hip and leg up in a swift motion mid-turn and returning the blade to its sheath.

They then moved to collect the glass jar of demonic poison, only for Xenia to plant her glossy hand on top of the jar before them, keeping it where it was on the table.

“I need to study that!”; Aodhán stated cholerically.

“No you don’t”; Xenia responded coldly, “You don’t know what you need. You have no knowledge of your own desires beyond obtaining a swift Eightfold Death. We are Necromancers. We command, protect and honour the dead. But we are alive. We live… but what you are doing. This. Isn’t. Living!... You do not get to study this until you learn how to do so!”.

At that, Aodhán had no response. There was an impulse of anger. Not in an effort now wasted. But the anger of being utterly seen though. Of being wrong and refusing to accept it.

With a scowl, Aodhán fixed the strap over their shoulder and made for the door, stopping part the way beside Claudius.

“If Winterdottir deems me adequate, I won’t refuse… But I cannot promise I shall be good company”; Aodhán answered, before stalking off and out of the rotunda, “I attract doom like shit attracts flies”.

They walked through cold tunnels, the darkness fading into monochrome as they navigated their way to the spiralling stair case, stomping their way upward with barely contained anger simmering in their veins.

The air grew colder as they rose, until they reached the summit. The mouth of a cave turned into a modest foyer. A partition of wood and thatch acted as a windbreak, but they could hear the wind wail against it on approach.

Opening the wooden door, they marched onward through a barrier of light. A volumetric display depicting a solid cave wall. A dead end to ward off interlopers.

Following a path of worn earth and sown gravel and ash, they emerged from a cave onto a flat grassy plateau at the foot of a rocky hill. The winter snows having begun to melt, though mounds of white yet endured atop the green of the grass and the dark grey of the rocks.

Looking up at the night sky, Aodhán felt strangely calmed by the sight of the Northern Lights and the billions of stars shining from beyond them until the feeling of insignificance struck deep within them. An aching feeling that in a universe so large and in a reality so unfathomably larger than that, they didn’t matter. Not even in the slightest. The world didn’t need them. The universe didn’t need them.

It was in total conflict with the weight they felt upon them. A possibility they had no idea how to even begin to come to terms with.

Within them just may be the spark that would bear forth the Primordial Flames of Creation unto the universe once more. The Grace of the Dagda. Of Lucifer the Irredeemed.

A force of eldritch magic that had the power to cure the sick, heal the wounded and dying, and revive those with even a sliver of life left in them. The flames that could breath life back into worlds that were dead, polluted and barren. The power to heal that rivalled the universal power to kill.

And the idea of it was like poison in Aodhán’s mind. The arrogance of it distasteful to them as much as it scared them. All the same they didn’t know what felt worse. Not being needed or being needed and unable to step up.

They looked down and to the distance to look upon the dim lights of Reykjavik many miles away. The LED lights of a city that remained mostly untouched by the aggressive technological advances of the world shining through the darkness of the early morning.

And their feelings of insignificance did not grow any weaker.

Blowing out a hard and heavy breath before kneeling down, they closed their eyes- both the one they had left and their phantom one- and silenced their thoughts with practised discipline.

There they would stay for those minutes of waiting. Honing in all their hatred as their bloodlust grew and grew, threatening to leave them restless.

There they would stay until their blood returned to them changed, seeking to rend their flesh and feast on their innards.

There they would wait and let their prey come to them.