Laying Siege

Hello, I am DJStaIin for those who did not know; and today I am please to present a story I have been working on for nearly over a year now, set in the V Osade Alternate Universe. Of course, I would like to keep this as brief as possible; but I would greatly appreciate any feedback or comments to be made down below.

Unfortunately, the story exceeds the character limit for the first post--so I will have to drop the second half of the story below in the comments. Thank you for your understanding.


Unidentifed Alternate Universe, Destral...
The shattered coast of Destral churned the sharp stones against the grains of sand in a gut-wrenching manner; as it would make the sound of knives being sharpened. Tossing about the vast majority of the coast were a series of bacterial cysts—which were formed from the chemical output from a foreign substance known as 'Biotoxin'.

The jagged and clogged skies let no light pass through the murderous clouds, as the smell of infection was fresh in the air. Defeating his master, the sick Makuta known as Erevayx took control of Destral—alienating his brethren and laying waste to the fortress of Makuta. It was a rather peculiar situation that anyone could have ever experienced; it was hardly worth considering a threat when what was supposed to be the enemy cut itself off from the world.

But the unpredictable and rather violent behavior of Erevayx couldn't be accepted anymore, and it endangered whatever peace still existed in this abandoned universe. He produced a threat from what biochemical attacks he could initiate, transform and disfigure all innocence that remained in this universe into ravenous beasts, hungry for the hunt and kill under the command of their ill master.

The sudden sound of the motor snapped to a halt, as the blades stopped cutting; and the vessel stop moving at its maximum speed—being left to drift to the shores; slowly and peacefully. This seemed like an appropriate contrast, the majestic motion of the boat floating to beach—to the ravenous sky and deadly landscape.

As the Toa's boat hit the infected and disposed shores, she scanned the overturn shores; the dangerous air and the broken rocks. After spending hours on such a small vessel, the Toa of Psionics would have realistically been looking forward to touching natural earth once more, but the shore made her feel unwelcome—a deadly presence whispering to her.

The trees were dead, and foretold of danger and complication; the fauna, dead or starving for normality—crying in sharp pain, as they were overtaken by the poison. She ignored these cries, ignored the pain this place brought to her heart; thanked the captain of the ship—and touched the shores.

"I bid you farewell, Toa of Psionics," the Shipmaster spoke wearily, looking up to the turrets of the broken hall, "this is a place which won't be as forgiving." And with a low mutter, he added: "Mata Nui, what has he done..?"

The Toa of Psionics bowed her head, thanking the master of ships before saying: "Thank you, take care yourself; I'll be sure this," She paused, glancing over the destruction one last time, before continuing at a slower pace, "that this won't happen ever again."

"You'd best move, Toa," the master warned, "for what dangers are lurking at this islands darkest hour I cannot foretell."

"I think I know of the true danger here, Malki," the Toa of Psionics replied, "the master of the beast."

No other words were exchanged, as the Toa pushed the little vessel free of the coast and into the see; watching as the small Matoran would reactivate the motor, as the paddles would resume playing their song. The Toa turned her head, before facing inland once more—preparing herself for this hour of conflict. Her armor tugged at her senses; as she would reel her neck back, focusing her attention on the hall in the dark wilderness. And with a propelling step, the Toa of Psionics built confidence to change past the shore; and into hell.

The twisted, dark-wood trees were covered in reactive spores; dripping in chemical infection as the once alive leaves cracked and dissolved under a black spell. The native animals of Destral were nowhere to be seen, as far as the Toa of Psionics was concerned—but she couldn't bring herself to accept that they must have been dead, or they were in the slow process of being so.

Turning her concerned eyes away, she began to focus more of the maze of thorns crossing her path; twisting their jagged edges against her moving legs patterned against the ground with efficiency. They brought her closer and closer to the compound, as a clearing was made. Where grass once grew, was replaced with dust—and chilling winds brought the agitating grains against her; producing a thick, black cloud.

Her external sensors flared, and directed her through a precisely navigated course. Each turn, each stride was precise to avoid the large rocks or holes which covered the terrain—her navigation was near flawless; as distance closed between her and the Hall of the Makuta.

Her feeling of dust rushing beneath her feet soon turned to stone slabs, cracked and insecure ones at that. Her sensors pulled at her legs to stop; skidding to a near fall as she found the broken shell of one of the Makuta. She examined it cautiously, spores growing where the used-to-be Antidermis was stored. This member was gone, for sure–but what happened to its armor puzzled her.

It was cracked, and empty. Something had attacked the Makuta; intending to do harm. But what could simply hurt, let alone kill a being as mighty and as powerful as a Makuta? She ran this question through her processors a hundred times, drawing the conclusion that frightfully enough—

It had been the Makuta. The signs of infection can only come from one as ill and infectious as Erevayx; a hazard to all that come across him. The Toa of Psionics had studied the effects of this 'Biotoxin' that Makuta Erevayx is so infamous for; the insanity and the horrible mutations which came to pass if anyone were to be subjected—until eventually their irreversible demise.

And to think it was originally created by Erevayx to help his pitiful creations survive a bit longer.

Standing up from her kneel, the Toa of Psionics scanned the Hall; her external sensors picking apart all possible entrance. But that was more than obvious, since the mighty oak doors had been left open; a matter of cracks and breaks bending and twisting the entrance out of shape—sure signs of a struggle. The darkness lurked inside, as the strong, revolting odor leaked into the outside world; polluting the air.

She removed a torch from her hard-case pack; igniting the device, took paced breathes—and prepared herself to move into the dark; forsaking the dead corpse of the Makuta to be taken by the storm of dust once more.

The Toa took her confident, and triumphant steps inside—as the sound of her feet slapping moist tissue became much more heard and clear; stopping to examine the floor, she found it was covered in a thick layer of toxic mucus. She reeled back, praying that her armor would hold out as promised in order to finish her quest; and return safely home. The mucus began to move, sending chills down the Toa's spine; but she pushed on in, further and further to her objective passed the dark passages; which her torch guided her through.

The Toa of Psionics guided, rather felt her way into a large—circular chamber. It would have been a magnificent sight back in its day, as stone pillars would support a domed ceiling, which precious stone patterns being inscribed into the center of the floor. But all of that glory was gone, the mucus and thick tissue of her foe sprawled across the floor; and decorated the pillars as it ate away at the stone—fuming with venomous energy.

The crimson figure stood tall, mucus drooling from its overtaken armor; unnatural growths clogging up the gaps in the beings complex design, as its overtaken body swelled with size and strength. This thing, this cancer among light; was the being known as Erevayx—the last Makuta to haunt this place.

The Toa looked at the torch in her hands, and then towards what seemed to be the unaware Erevayx—tossing the device which let of hazardous light to the center of the room; causing it to roll and stop at the statues feet. It burned the mucus and tissue which seemed to glue the Makuta to the floor—as what should have been a nerveless growth shrieked with pain; and awoke the Makuta.

"We thought you would be deterred by present on the porch. Yet you come anyways, and disturb our meditation." Said Erevayx solemnly, turning his unhinged head many degrees to face the Toa of Psionics; as she would appear very clearly to the disturbed Makuta. "Yet what, who are you to come and disturb us—as we were thinking of time, and possibly nothing more."

The Toa stood silent, preparing her weapons of choice: her Multi-tool gauntlets which channeled her psionic energy to project any force it was capable of manipulating. She tensed, and the Makuta responded to the statue: "One who keeps its mouth shut. How very unique indeed. Perhaps we will have to pry those words out of your mouth, you oversized toy."

The Toa of Psionics shuttered as the mucus and the feelers tried to pull at her legs, probing their way past her armors. Concentrating, she summoned a powerful Psionic blast, destroying the material in a deadly flash of gold; the gauntlets covering her arms smoking with the bright energy.

The remains of this flesh pulled away, screaming in pain and agony—Erevayx shuttering from the blast as well; his eyes flashing red in anger: "We have a fighter, do we not?!"

"This is an end, Erevayx. I advise you cease your efforts, before I am forced to terminate you." The Toa proclaimed mightily, raising her palm to focus on to the standing Makuta; allowing her psionic energy to build up.

The Makuta laughed disturbingly, trailing off around the room; performing exaggerated motion with his lumbering arms. "So high and mighty, we may have to withdraw our compliments. So many before you have come, and have failed. Our wit is greater, and indefinite. We are the ends to a new beginning, Toa."

"You are end," the Toa replied wittingly, "your end is means to a beginning indeed."

"Twister of words, we foretell." Erevayx cracked, "no matter. You shall be assumed in the collection, as so many before
you."

"Depends on which number you pick, Erevayx." She replied, summoning her psionic powers. Drawing the energy, she focused securely on the ill Makuta mind; placing a matter of complicated process on what she already considered a feeble and broken mind. She found many draw backs, those taken ill by mentality or collection usually disregarded any mental tricks—and Erevayx may be no exception.

She disregarded this, and placed a mind block—hoping this would at least stall the renegade Makuta. Her move sent the ill thing dancing around, focusing on things that didn't exist; replacing his comments with cynical laughter. The Toa of Psionics would have thought that the Makuta finally lost his mind, if she wasn't the one who did this to him.

Erevayx thrashed into one of the incredible stone pillars, the Toa then focused in on the corroding material eating away at the support. This corrosion gave the domed ceiling reason to collapse.

"Such an unfair trick to play on us, Toa—but your speech is lost in all I have consumed, and they scream for mercy and vengeance. They shall only be pleased with your addition into the collective. I shall only be pleased with your addition to the collective." Erevayx scoffed, trying to regain his dizzy focus onto the Toa of Psionics.

She only looked back, raising her gauntlet; ignoring the flesh trying to consume her armor.

Focused energy, and incredible precision were the only things she could hope for as she targeted the weakest point of structure Erevayx stood under—taking concentrated breath; she prepared the psionic blast. And went flying?

She was struck in the chest, claws digging past her defenses as her artificial armor shrieked in protest. She held in a scream, allowing herself to lose breath—too dignified to show weakness to this opponent.

The Toa of Psionics hit the corrupted ground back-first, looking up to see the Makuta who took place where she once stood. Erevayx sized up, preparing to swipe down and tear further into the Toa's armor, a devious cackle swelling all noise. Readjusting her aim for her gauntlets; she aimed center-mass, and fired off a series of psionic blasts, pelting into the armor of the ill beast.

Erevayx reeled back in affect, shivering taking slow hold over the artificial frame of his body. Rolling back onto her feet; the Toa of Psionics continued the series of blasts; few hitting off center—as the Makuta was driven to scream. The Toa hadn't feel as much pain as she did now, falling to her knees—ringing in her audio receptors as they began to translate it as scratching.

The stone pillars moved and weakened, dust falling from ceiling to floor as the Makuta of maroon and lime approached the Toa. Instinct took hold of her in this much needed moment, leveling in the sensors of her armor to attune for her decision making; her suit tapped into emergency status.

And with supreme mental and physical prowess, stared down her wicked opponent—who charged her in this moment of need. Two energy bubbles took hold of the Toa of Psionics, one preparing for a Psionic Blast—the other for a means out. In one violent flash, the entire Hall of the Makuta was shaken to pieces as the screaming mess that was Erevayx was conquered by mental energies; breaching his armor and destroying his mind as the great stone pillars collapsed on the two.

A sizable portion of the ceiling was falling towards the Toa of Psionics, velocity moving the giant at incredible speeds as if to crush her entirely. And then, there was—

There was white.

The mucus-covered stone floor was replaced with the metal-coated one of a familiar place; noise slowly returning to her near destroyed audio receptors, a constant and recognizable voice returning to her rushing thoughts as if to coax her out of this odd stasis.

Familiarity was something she needed.

She relaxed and let loose her struggles to keep tense and prepared for a sudden death. She recognized this voice as someone of good and cheering acquaintance.

"Vulf, Vulf?" The voice repeated, as a being became much clearer in her field of vision, "You alright? Can you speak..? Can you move?"

It had been the voice of Crovin. Vulf's knowledge turned back to what she knew about the De-Toa. They first met in the Great Temple, after the pair had received their Toa Stones, a gift from a once mighty Toa of Magnetism. Redeeming their destiny at the Toa Suva, the two have since been united as a Toa Team.

It was then their duty to serve the Agency of Olmak. Destined by his service previously to the Agency, Crovin was promoted to a Mission Handler; and Vulf had been made an Agent. The two had a strong relationship, and sought to overcome the difficulties in other universes through leadership and through action.

"I hear you clear, Toa of Sonics." Vulf remarked, trying to support her sore body; ignoring the growing pain and sensation becoming more and more of a reality as her sensors froze completely—dug into skin.

"You are bound to give me a headache one of these days, Vulf." Crovin replied, "took quite a beating, it seems. The engineers are going to be quite upset with this damage. They don't like equipment like this being cracked, Vulf."

Crovin extended a hand to help Vulf up, who accepted this gesture. She became much more aware of the damage, as it broke past her artificial armor and nearly cut into her. She examined the damage carefully, hoping that none of this 'biotoxin' had breached her system—satisfied that it appeared her armor cleaned up the majority of the mess.

"Well then, I guess they have to accept field damage is a hazard of the occupation then; Crovin." Vulf stated, removing the protection of the Olmak-infused armor as she stood in her given blue and gold armor. She let the pieces of the damaged equipment fall to the floor, as Crovin watched the used armor being discarded—looking back up at Vulf slightly bewildered.

"I guess I can explain try my best to explain to the engineers then, Vulf." Crovin finally said to break the silence, "though very typical of you to leave me with your mess."

"I thought you could handle it," Vulf replied sarcastically, "didn't know you couldn't run a few chores of your own."

"I'm a very busy Toa." Crovin smiled, "but you deserve the rest. Go heal, Toa of Psionics. Though I expect you to keep it within reasonable time?"

"Depends," Vulf responded, "I like to keep my mind open to everything, Crovin. Something you seem to be incapable of."

"Each to their own," Crovin stated, before he waved the Toa of Psionics away; turning his attention back to the discarded armor.

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V Osade Alternate Universe, Yermo, capital of Exusia...

Yermo, by definition 'Yermo' was wild, uninhabited space—woodland, or rainforest; oblivious to the concept of modernization and industrialization. A living and unconquered system, as if it was an entire being in essence. By this, it was worth questioning why Yermo had become established land, a capital of a modernized people—with towers which touched the heavens and subsystems whose feet dug through dirt and stone. The complicated system of metal and iron had turned the beating heart of the untamed into a slaved factory, pumping plasma as its blood—breathing in and poisonous clouds night to day.

But these metal workings brought back the sense of Yermo, of foreign concept and appearance—a metal-work of a jungle; a factory built by the bones of its successors. Though foreigners stare in awe and unfamiliarity, and few see it as a disgrace to the gifts of the natural earth; the honorable praise this city, proud of their noble heritage and sacrifice. It was the honor of the Lykos Kinsman, their pride in the art of war; and their humility in pleasing their foreign gods.

The Lykos Commader, Polemistis viewed this city as his inheritance; the gift and the sacrifice given by his ancestors to unite a hateful species—and the families which competed for land and honor. And having been chosen to inherit this kingdom of strength, he walked through the large and magnificent halls of the Superstructure, capital building of Yermo, head held high—directed by the Kinsmen Honor Guards, feet treading on velvet carpet, heading through many great doors.

The guards directed the Commander to a great and spacious room, circular in design as stalls lined the curving wall ever so accurately; filled with the crowd of Lykos Kinsman Councils, watching silently the Commander. He walked to the center of the chamber—head held high with a gaze focused on a being opposite of the room. Seated in a majestic throne held mightily above the ground, was the Lykos Ultra Director—the decision maker of the Republic, and its extensive and powerful Armed Forces.

Polemistis sunk his knee on the ground; head lowered—the sign of respect for his commanding officer. The Ultra Director played the gesture of his fist below his heart, to which Polemistis replied with a fist above his heart.

"Quaint you should come this early to the hour I requested, Commander." The Ultra Director announced, the Council remaining silent, "though that is the sort of commitment I would expect from any."

"You should know my heart already, holy Ultra Director. I pause not in moment of doubt." Polemistis replied, keeping low to the ground; staring past the pair of guardian statues which protected the Ultra Director.

"A necessary tool of a Commander," the higher responded which a more light tone, amused by Polemistis' consistency to reply with reasonable responses—pondering the facts this Commander has given him. Polemistis watched him silently, as he sat there; pondering the thoughts he had given him.

"Indeed, a necessary tool for an Ultra Director; Polemistis. The one, who decides to take action early, is the one to take the first steps to counter their enemy.” He continued, before rising from his throne in a slow—relaxed motion.

This action confused the Ultra Director's Honor Guards, as they watched their leader pace to where Polemistis kneeled. The Guards at the Commander's sides tensed, questioning whether or not they should take the life of Polemistis. The Guards closest to the Ultra Director tried to fall in on him, but the elder waved them to stay in their positions.

The Council was turned to muttering, confused by the unorthodox action of the Ultra Director. He raised his hand, and the chattering silenced—before he played with mighty words: "Change, is what keeps our mighty Republic to advance, and to adapt. My action, to you may seem unusual; a foreign concept. But heed my word, Council—shall change decide to come; the Republic shall rise."

The Ultra Director turned his gaze to Polemistis, before gesturing the Commander to rise to his feet; the fresh, tactical eyes of Polemistis meeting with the aged, wise eyes of the Ultra Director. "And this instrument, is what shall decide our unions change," he continued.

Calculating the situation quickly, Polemistis was quick to reply: "I don't quite understand, my Ultra Director. How shall I change the course of our Republic's mighty time?"

"By becoming the Ultra Director, you are honored to form and to mold the time to tell the tale of future, my Commander." He responded with similar calculation, pacing the words into Polemistis' mind.

The Council was struck silent by the statement, and in awe they watched the situation play out: the words of the Ultra Director, and if Polemistis was destined to replace him—it would cause drastic change, the birth of a new era, the change of direction for their civilization. This choice, would decide the future of an entire people—but this choice they would have to respect.

The Honor Guards stood, dumbfounded by the statement; as they watched the Ultra Director shed his elegantly shaped and formed helmet, and place it neatly on the ground. "So then, warrior of my choice—you know what action our codes have called for." The Ultra Director paced with steady tone.

Polemistis was petrified, but as he was required—eventually broke free of the freeze which had seized him. Moving to remove his helmet, he drew it off carefully; and placed it to the ground as well—removing his chest plate which gave him protection and extended life; down to his gauntlet and leg plates, which with perfect formation gave him increased mobility and strength.

He felt exposed and weak outside his armor, his titanium shell removed to give light to his weaker natural shell. The marks of his family have been revealed, the fresh quills on top his head casting reflective light from the illuminating lime ceiling. He turned gaze to the Ultra Director, who had removed his last battle plate.

He ignored the time-beaten features of his leader, the rigid and rough edges of his skin—the comparatively weaker hide which protected his Ultra Director from the elements. Instead, he focused on the long blade which he wielded, cackling to life with intense plasma energy—powerful, but life taking radiance bending around the sharp blade.

The Ultra Director motioned, and Polemistis retrieved his personal blade. It felt empowering to hold such a blade, the rough metal hilt covered by the semi-spherical guard which protected the wielder, the majestic display of plasma energy which challenged its foe with intense energy. By igniting the blade from the squeeze of the hilt, plasma raptured from its output, burning a bright, but dangerous lime.

The two stood, looking over each other silently; as the Ultra Director began to step forward. Polemistis automatically took a defensive stance, his nerves biting at him—he wasn't used to challenging his superior, but in this moment, they were equals in a duel. To Polemistis, it was to kill and become victor, or die and be dishonored. He brought his blade up, watching the darting eyes of his equal scan for a place of weakness; but Polemistis didn't offer any intelligence to be gathered—using his blade to instantly challenge his Ultra Directors, frightening the aged Lykos back.

Now Polemistis was on the offensive, quickly looking towards the legs of the Ultra Director—finding them in a perfect counter-stance. The Commander couldn't help but smile, as this usually meant the challenger was unprepared for a swipe at the legs; which would take them to the ground instantly.

He took his chances, and found his opponent jumping back further—moving to parry off Polemistis' dangerous blade. However was met with instant failure, as the younger Lykos would ward the blade by rotation, twisting the older Lykos' hand to the point he couldn't go any further and had to relent.

The perfect opening, as Polemistis drew back and swiped at the Ultra Directors chest; tearing the flesh open as the plasma would burn and melt the blood and skin rushing to escape—drawing a mighty roar from his previous commander. The Council cried in disgust, horrified by the action as Polemistis drew back his free hand and curled the digits of them into a sharp fist—throwing a punch into the broken chest of the disgraced commander.

The Ultra Director remained standing, amazing enough—coughing violently as the black blood of the Lykos would drool from his wound, and a bit from his mouth. Regaining his stature quickly, the Ultra Director parried Polemistis’ offensive blade within the boundaries of luck; roaring at the Honor Guards attempting to join the field of combat, attempting to distract the Lykos Commander. He would then move to remove the arm of Polemistis with a surgical, clean cut—Polemistis however predicted this, pulling his arm free; only taking a gash from the plasma blade.

It burned, an indescribable sensation jolting through his flesh and arm as his nerves began to pull and die—screaming in sincere agony as his own blood would spit and join the floor. Polemistis roared aggressively, challenging his offensive Ultra Director—who was attempting to move and cut away Polemistis leg. This was an unacceptable move by Polemistis’ opinion, as he jumped back with impressive speed; pulling the direction of the tip of his blade towards the Ultra Director, inhaling deeply before lunging towards the Ultra Director.

This wasn’t an anticipated move, Polemistis soon learned as he cut a jagged line through the arm of the Ultra Director, as the useless limb which possessed the blade of plasma hit the floor—struggling to find reality on the floor. The Ultra Director let loose the most unsounding noise, as the Council looked away. But Polemistis most unquenchable rage couldn’t be put out there, as with the speed you would expect from lightning; he would cut loose the leg of the Ultra Director as well—who began to fall forward. Polemistis smiled twistedly on the inside, as he reached back and punched the ancient commander in the throat with an indescribable crack!

As the Ultra Director hit the floor backwards, his lungs expelled what little breath he had left—trachea nearly crushed, starving him of air. The Honor Guards were in panic, worried for the life of their Ultra Director—but could ultimately do nothing; as this was a duel between two. It would have been dishonorable to intervene and try to eliminate Polemistis
now; leaving them to stand, statues with their heads hundred low.

Polemistis stood over the disgraced Director, placing his foot onto the chest of the fallen as to claim triumph and victory. The Ultra Director looked up, before struggling to say: "My Ultra Director, you have defeated me. Make this moment quick, for the sake of my honor; and then take what belongs to you."

Polemistis looked coldly down on the disgraced, before muttering in a new-found commanding tone: "Mercy is not a tool of the Lykos." Lifting his blade into the air, he spayed the heart of the disgraced Ultra Director—the uproar of the Council being turned to silence as Polemistis withdrew the blade from the heart of the once-mighty Lykos, as the older lost all grasp on life; and departed from the scene.

The new Ultra Director disengaged the plasma whisking around the blood-stained blade, as the grounds of the Council turned dark. Polemistis walked over, the Honor Guards falling to their knees to honor their new Ultra Director—recognizing their duty to protect this newly honored commander; as the Council would stand, placing their fists above their hearts, as the new Ultra Director applied pressure to the gash in his forearm.

His injury, felt no more sting and pain—prideful energies beginning to build in his energies, taking slowly paced steps, towards his prize; the Ultra Director Armor set. More notably, towards the discarded helmet on the floor, as he passed the
Honor Guard defending the set; who was low on their knee.

Picking up the mighty piece of armor, the Ultra Director lifted the protection above his head, bringing it down as to lock it on to the top of his head; the mandible guards for his eight jaws automatically locking on as the armor spun to life, the display shining into Polemistis' receptive retina. He would then turn to the Honor Guards, gesturing to the fallen body of the disgraced—before commanding: "Remove this corpse and parade it through all the streets of Yermo. Let the people know, that they have found a new Ultra Director."

"What shall we proclaim to the nation, holiest Ultra Director?" One of the statue Honor Guards finally spoke, standing back to his feet; fist above his heart.

"Let them know there is a birth of a New Era."

Two decades later, Yermo, capital of Exusia...

It had been nearly two decades since the commencement of the New Age. It had been two decades since they celebrated the departure of their older Ultra Director. Two decades since the people rejoiced for the sake of their new found Ultra Director: Polemistis, Ultra Director of the Sixteenth Age—overseer of the Lykos Kinsman Republic. He relaxed in his throne, having been used to such a luxury for quite some time—the fine material cushions sinking him in deeper, adjusting automatically to fit the Ultra Director.

Drumming his fingers on the holographic display mounted onto the armrests of his fine seat, Polemistis watched the projection pad mounted in his Hall, which orbited every fine strand of the world his people lived. This projection offered him knowledge about every island, continent, ocean and river which ran through his inheritance—offering him all the knowledge the Lykos had gathered on the other existing worlds, outside of Lykos influence.

And how he despised the fact that what was inherited by the Lykos by their Gods, have been taken by the unworthy—a gift from their false idol. Every island northward belonged to these vermin, making his land filthy and unclean before the sight of their Gods. How the Lykos tried to warn these creatures, but they forbid the Ultra Director to instruct them the error of their ways. Two decades have stirred in an unceasing conflict, although no arms have been taken up yet—tension still brewed in the air.

The Ultra Director closed his restless eyes, taken up in the silence of his Honor Guard; his Hall abandoned with the exception of his statues of guards. He learned not to speak to them, as they are there for a singular purpose—defense and protection; any attempt to question them was answered by even deeper silence, to him they remained statues.

Suddenly, the massive and impressive doors on the other end of the Ultra Directors Grand Hall sparked to life; the impossibly decorated and perfect doors whirred in response—automatically opening to allow in Polemistis' guest, as the Honor Guards tensed, peering without moving at the subjects pacing through the grand doors. The holographic projection of the ocean world ceased to exist, as Polemistis caught glance at his loyal Verkhov Director: Spetvedka.

Spetvedka was an odd, yet perfectly formed Lykos. Spetvedka always seemed to be a head taller than the Ultra Director, an aspect of his noble birth, with a peering and cunning brilliance in his eyes. Wearing a mighty suit of armor, the immensely awing suit was a mix between art and warfare, cloaked within the black and silver details of Polemistis' Republic.

The Verkhov Director fell to his mighty knee to honor his Ultra, as he bowed his head to the ground to signify deep respect. He didn't utter a breath before the Ultra Director spoke, who greeted him with a semi-cheerful: "Verkhov Director Spetvedka, worthy subject and representative of my Republic, what brings you to my Hall?"

The Verkhov Director didn't cast his gaze up, keeping it concentrated on the floor which his feet tread upon; formulating a response within a moment’s notice: "My holiest Ultra Director, leader of our grand Republic. I have received news from my loyalist of Verkhov operatives brings news from the treacherous north."

The welcoming dropped from Polemistis' voice. He had assumed this had been part of the formulation he had created years back, in order to restore the north back to Lykos control. "And what news is this, Spetvedka?"

"Despite the protection offered by the heretic forces, our Lykos Ambassador has managed to come to a most horrible fate. The deed is done, my operative has said." Spetvedka replied.

Polemistis gestured the Verkhov to rise to his feet, which the Director automatically did. He stared straight through the armor, the flesh and bone of his operative, before calculating a response: "So it has. I assume this been brought about by our operatives hand?"

"Indeed so," Spetvedka replied, "the heretics are in a stir over this most unfortunate incident they cannot shed light to. They plead for your mercy, Ultra Director. Plead for your hand not to be stirred."

Polemistis smiled cynically, his hands brought together under his lowest set of mandibles. "Then tell them that 'Mercy is not a tool of the Lykos.' Their inability to safeguard our politics has brought about a great distress to the Lykos Kinsman Republic, an offense we do not take kindly. Tell them my anger is contempt against them, and if they hope to see a light at the end of this tunnel—they shall have to out battle our forces."

"An impossible feat," Spetvedka finished, "they shall have their mercy when their twisted hearts have been broken by our blade. That would be honorable advice, my proud Ultra Director.

"It would be honorable advice indeed."

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Huh, you finally arrived.

FireDrag?

Indeed, 'tis FireDrag.

Oh boy.

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Who is FireDrag?

@DJStaIin