QuiteTheSlacker
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Chapter 53: Under Arid Skies
🕑 Added 2024-06-26 05:21:18 +0000 UTC“Far, far out into the arid plains of the east, there lies a great and vast stretch of land. It is a harsh land, one barren of the forests scattered aplenty in the western territories, and instead of blossoming flowers or colorful vegetation, only grass flourishes atop the dry soil.
“Flat lowlands, open plateaus, and a blazing clear sky: This is a region known since time immemorial as the Steppe, and to the people that call it home, every day is a constant battle for survival—struggling against the heat, the inhospitable environment, the sparse rainfalls, the rare grazing beast, and all other challenges that make living here an undeniably difficult endeavor. And yet, endeavor they do, leading to a unique culture of nomadism. The people there never remain in one place for too long, choosing to travel wherever there is water or fresh pasture.”
“But this tradition has been wrenched away by a man claiming to be the ruler of the nomadic tribes. He stakes his territory in the very heart of the plain, sends a horde of warriors to subjugate all those who dissent against his will, and constructs a countless array of camps to put his unwilling subjects to work. He is a terrible, terrible fiend, but unfortunately my knowledge is limited only to his exploits. I know not even of his true name or appearance—only a moniker. A title he claims as the Overlord.”
A History of the Steppe: Penned by Arch Magus Faust, Ruler of the Augurium Thaumaturgy
———
Xeros
If there is one word to describe the climate of Caelum’s heartland, then that word would be cold. No matter the season’s change, no matter the time of day - whether it be the short daytime or the evening moon reigning free - there shall always come a frigid wind of frost and rime. It pesters away at the mountaintops, forming snowy peaks, and it eats away at the cities’ infrastructure, leading man to a never-ending battle against the whims of nature.
It is a thankless battle, but humanity is a stubborn race—one that grows in the face of adversity. They evolve, they invent new methods of survival, and they become more resilient. Long have the people of Caelum weathered the countless winters, the prolonged nights without sun or shine, and they have become a grizzled folk as a result. Hardened. Thick-skinned.
But acclimation, despite its necessity, is also a curse. It enfeebles the mind and body when one is taken away from the familiar, and there is no better example of such weakness than now: here, in the unfamiliar land of the Steppe.
An endless field of grass and wheat stretches out far into the orange-hued horizon, stalks scorched into a dense palette of faded yellow, and the celestial ball of flame up high blazes unimpeded by neither cloud nor blanket of smog. But above all else is a sweltering, inescapable heat. It beats down on the desiccated air, and it bends the light, creating shifting waves before the eyes whilst casting the world in a tottering mirage of blurs: swaying, just like the wind. With every lick and lash, it dries up the skin. It parches the throat. And it seizes the heart until naught is left but a shriveled carcass—blood boiling into a steam.
And yet, despite the hostile atmosphere, there is a sense of tranquility here. The only noise is the rustling grass and a faint sizzle from the dirt roasting under the sun. Rather, that is how it should be, but a new noise makes its presence known to the lowlands—an unnatural one, a hiss only possible by human intervention.
There, trampling the wheat into a pulverized grain, is a guzzling war machine of grease and treading tire. Its exterior is covered in a grimy metallic frame, embellished with the symbol of the corvid, and a sickly grey smoke escapes from the exhaust pipes on top—leaving behind a haze of fumes to follow along its trail. And all the while, an unearthly mechanical reverberation rings through the air as the mechanical apparatus is propelled forward by an ever-creaking system of gears and pistons.
It is at the very top of this machine that a lone man gazes out to the Steppe. He is dressed heavily in a long, dark cloak despite the heat, yet his creased face shows not a sign of perspiration. The man is unbothered, no, relishing in the change of environment; the same cannot be said about the soldiers guarding the machine from below. They march pathetically through the torrid drought, breaths panting and steps slow, and soon: They begin to collapse in exhaustion. Perhaps it is inevitable, for their mechanical suits are not suited for such high temperatures. The Grand General designed them with the cold in mind, but out in the great plains, they bring more harm than good—trapping the heat and serving as nothing more than a death trap.
That is why he has deigned to allow them travel armorless, yet still they display such frailty. It is a miserable sight, and the man can only let out a tut of disapproval as the soldiers are replaced by others from inside the machine. There, the withered shall be chilled by the Astrologians, but such accommodation will not always be availed out in the battlefield. If I am to ever invade these lands, then attention must be directed towards dealing with this abominable blaze. Perhaps adjusting the exosuit into a more lightweight design? No, the tubes circulating the performance-enhancing drugs are too large. They will only become vulnerable if I lessen the protection, but choosing to decrease the tube size instead will diminish the drug’s effectiveness. Mayhaps a temporary cooling artifact? But such preparation will require much of the Astrologians, and I will not have the time nor resources to outfit every common suit. Hm, a conundrum, indeed…
He shakes his head. There is no need to think of such matters now; Polus must first fall, and he will worry of conquering the Steppe once the winged kingdom is within his grasp. All in due time.
A knock taps from below, and thus does his aide climb out from the machine’s underbelly. Unlike the others, she remains armored: good. Enduring the heat shall serve her well in her training.
“You are here, Luxanne,” he says, eyes still cast out towards the horizon. “Report: How much longer until we reach the Overlord’s domain?”
“According to the messenger’s map, we are half-way there,” she replies. “However, we will soon enter the territory of a rival tribe protesting his rule. We could pass straight through, but there’s a high chance we’ll be attacked, and with the current state of our troops—”
Xeros clicks his tongue and turns to face his still-foolish disciple. “I do not see the problem. We will proceed as planned.”
Luxanne stiffens, and her body begins to tremble ever so slightly. It is almost indiscernible, but the Grand General knows. He always does. “… If I may, there is no need for such risks. There is another path we can take, and though it would delay our excursion by a few days, surely it would be more advantageous for us to reduce excess casualties—”
“Luxanne,” he interrupts with a clear, direct warning. “This is the Overlord’s desired route for us, is it not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Think, girl. He knows this land much more than we do, so why would he willingly set us on a course through enemy lines knowing the danger it would pose?”
She pauses, and he begins to see the gears turning in that rusty mind of hers. Still young. Still so naive. But Xeros knows she has the capacity to be much greater; all Luxanne requires is a little bit of polishing.
“This… is a test,” the girl eventually musters. “He wants to use us.”
“Hoh, very good,” he says, slowly walking forward and then patting her shoulder. She recoils at his touch, but the man pays her rudeness no heed. “The Overlord does not tolerate weakness. If we are to avoid those savages, then we will be seen as cowards amidst his eyes upon our arrival.
“Know this: Blood must be shed for this covenant to bear fruit. While I do not intend to be a puppet of his schemes, it is true we require assistance, and regrettably the upper hand is not in our favor. But that is life. Sometimes, we must make sacrifices, and it is the duty of a ruler to know when to take the advantage… and when to swallow one’s pride.
“But it shall not be like that forever. We may comply now, but in doing so we shall also watch. Study their fortifications. Familiarize ourselves with their forces. And when the time is right, then shall our fangs be turned, and the Overlord will regret ever disgracing us with this menial trial. Do you understand?”
“I-I do,” she says whilst clearly not understanding.
“Is that so? But I see differently, Luxanne. You still hesitate. Why?”
She doesn’t reply, but Xerox knows very well the cause of her behavior. Luxanne has grown much since he took her in all those years ago, but she is still being hindered by the words of another—words he has sought to remove for a very long time.
He sighs and raises his hand up to his eyes, rubbing them until the bridge of his nose is sore, and then leans directly next to her ear.
“Do not be like your mother,” he utters. “She was a fool for a reason—always seeking a peaceful solution where there was none. Conflict is unavoidable if we are to build a better world: Remember that, Luxanne.”
“I…” she grunts, and the sound of a clenching fist can be heard clearly. “I shall inform the operators to continue moving forward.”
“Very good, very good. I trust that I need not be involved in the coming skirmish?”
“Of course, sir. You may leave everything to me.”
“Excellent, now go.”
Luxanne bids him a hesitant, parting salute before descending back down into the main control sector of the machine. Meanwhile, Xeros lingers on the deck, ruminating over his next course of action upon their return.
Once the Overlord draws the Arch Magus’s ire, there shall be none left to serve as Polus’s protector. Lorelai, the hero, the great bulwark, the winged beacon of hope, is dead, and though Gravitas’s death is a significant loss, the Grand General does not worry. There are many willing to take his place—many eager to prove their worthiness. The same cannot be said about Lorelai. None can match her strength and experience amongst the Polus’s elite: not even the other two Thrones, so it is only a matter of time before that coward of a King, Ascalon, is forced into a corner. His ability is rather troublesome, but there are ways around it. No one is truly invulnerable, and once that man is gone, Xeros shall finally move onto the next step of his plan.
… Hm? The man detects something strange in the distance: bloodlust. It spreads quickly, proliferating from every direction until the machine and the soldiers on guard are completely surrounded, yet he sees not a single soul out on the plateau. There is no stirring of Creation. He cannot sense any sorceries or incantations in the vicinity, so where exactly are the enemies hiding? He does not know, nor is he in a rush to. Dealing with such dregs are beneath him; besides, it has been a while since Luxanne’s last extermination. This experience shall be a fine opportunity to evaluate her progress.
“All personnel,” he commands with a calm, strict rumble. “Prepare for battle. The enemy is here.”
With a flip of his cloak, he turns around and then descends into the heart of the machine. A cool blast of air greets him as he emerges out into the central command room, and a great wave of soldiers quickly pass by as they prepare themselves for the coming attack. Luxanne is among them, and Xeros stops her - forcefully grabbing onto her arm and jolting her back - before she can depart.
“Heed my words: Do not panic. Do not falter. Assess the battlefield with a cold gaze and a steady head, no matter the situation. That is how you shall prevail.”
She winces, but grunts a response all the same. “Thank you for your words, Grand General. I won’t let you down.”
“As is expected. I do not want to be disappointed in you, Luxanne. Do not fail me.”
And with that, she jerks her hand away and then steps outside into the blistering heat. Xeros, meanwhile, slowly strides towards a lone room at the very back of the construct. The door is plated in a dull steel, and as he turns the handle, a simplistic abode is revealed in full: small, compact, and containing only a bed and a mirror. He lowers himself onto the bed, and he stares at his reflection—grimacing as a weary old man stares back. He does not enjoy much being reminded of his ailing age, but he does not run from it. His scars, his sunken cheeks, his darkened eyes… they are proof of his survival. Of all he has toiled for these countless years. They are a reminder that he must keep pushing, persisting, struggling against the world’s tribulation, or else everything will have been for naught. It is too late to stop now.
However, something strange begins to occur. The man in his reflection begins to warp, twisting and bending in a gruesome manner as a creeping shadow envelops the mirror image in a sudden splurge of squirming tendrils—smothering the face and plunging its dripping ooze into every last orifice. Soon, there is naught left of the Grand General in the reflection: only a malformed mockery, a hideous creature of nonsensical proportion and ever-shifting, pulsating, mass. That creature stares at him now with all its layers of metaphysical madness, and it decides it is no longer satisfied with remaining in the reflective plane.
It reaches out an undulating hand, and so is its vile figure brought out into the world of the physical. Into reality. And all the while Creation screams in abject terror, for the thing before it does not belong in this world. Its very existence is being rejected, abhorred by mankind’s divinity, but the thing is undeterred despite its rapidly fading form. It looks at Xeros, and it opens a repulsive maw of spit and dribbling bile. Then another. And another. Until its entire body is covered in mouths, and all those mouths cry in unison for the sake of a single word.
“Remember.”
It disappears. No forewarning. Not a trace is left behind. A single blink is all it takes for it to be repelled from this dimension, leaving a haggard Xeros to be left alone in his room.
He has signed a pact long ago, and he must uphold his side of the bargain. But the thing will not manipulate him for long: He is the master of his own destiny. Nothing shall use him as a puppet.
However, now is not the time. The Grand General still is in need of its abnormal power, and he will take full advantage of it before the day comes when he must break free from its shackles. For now, he has more pressing matters to attend to.
Xeros raises his hand and manifests a crackling dark red energy at his fingertips. It screeches and howls before being unleashed upon his own frame, and soon the Corvid’s Eye is manifested—surveying the world below as Luxanne and the rest of her soldiers are exposed in full. They form a defensive array around the construct, tensions high as they await their foes to make the first move.
“Now,” he mutters under his breath. “Let us bear witness to the Steppe’s might.”
