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"What is life?"
This very same question has intrigued us for thousands of years, baffling and mystifying us, never really revealing it's true purpose. Is it because aging is preached as natural that we have not conquered it? What if aging is a disease set upon the human race to wipe it out piece, by pathetic, whining piece?

What lies within fear, other than anger? What is war, other than a process of infection used by a naive virus to destroy a world, and a once glorious people? Perhaps humanity is not a people, but a gathering of parasites, a congealed cesspool of corruption and hatred?
Death is only the beginning.

-High King Yalan



Dec, 22, 3604 (Human Military Calendar)
Covenant Battle Group 'Draconian Nightmare', in high orbit around Earth.


An astonishingly beautiful, yet somewhat eccentric looking young woman stood confidently atop a landing built of solid magrite, overlooking Uzumri's bridge.
Revealing midnight black robes decorated with metallic golden runic symbols clung tightly in form-fitting caress to her curvaceous body; in truth, they left little to the imagination, perfectly showcasing a flawless figure.
And lo, how her raven black hair writhed, silken banners in a new breeze drifting majestically to perfection!
Why should vaporous, translucent mists wish to hide such things, the woman's comely ankles, shapely legs and sandal clad feet?
Such graceful movements, so regal a bearing, an aura of power and absolute ruthlessness!
Deep emerald eyes encasing scattered silver sparkles, so vibrant, so full of life, yet so utterly unforgiving, and so completely cold.

"Never waver, never falter."
She gazed resolutely at the main view-screen.

"Please!" The old man begged as each wrinkle in his ancient face seemingly deepened. "Spare this colony, you are one of us!"
A human male, age seventy or so, with eyes of sharp obsidian stared into the malevolent orbs of his current enemy, wide eyed, one could easily see.
"Destroy Earth." She taunted slyly, rather impassively.
The old man recoiled at this, his thin, sticklike arms rising in protest.
"Please!" He squealed.
The woman raised a hand, each nail perfectly manicured- black as her indecent robes, sharpened to dagger-like finesse; her skin remarkably delicate, flawless as the rest of her body.
"I beg of you, earth is the last bastion of humanity, do not annihilate us like common cannon fodder, let us live, we could benefit you greatly!"
His eyes were pleading, his look was indeed convincing.
The woman paused a moment, hands sliding to her sides, seemingly considering such a plea, reflecting on the choice she would make.
"Very well old man," The girl whispered solemnly, frowning, her expression was one of profound sorrow. "We shall not fire on earth."

"Thank you My Lady!" He cried, his own look that of a man who has won his catch, that of a sniveling, greedy merchant.
The view-screen flickered off.
"Arms Master."

"Yes My Lady?" Queried a particularly strong looking elite swordsman to her right.
He had the look of a marble statue, expressionless and unblinking.
"Instruct the Freedom's Reign and the Shadow Kiss to glass the... insult."
"It shall be done as you say My Lady." Several spines on the top of his head flexed.

The view-screen snapped to color... again.
"We had an agreement!" Shrieked the old man.
"I lied." The Revancer retorted innocently.
Instantly their communications link sliced itself in two, static piercing her ears before a Scientist cut it loose.
She didn't care much for ships, they were useful devices designed to benefit any given civilization instructed in their uses; be it peace or war, but they stole the elements away; those sacred things such as water, air, and soil.
These too being valued greatly by her order, sent chills down the spine of any to behold them. No matter where it lie- no matter whom it belong, it was sacred ground, and must be respected.
Once, the young woman could recall, a lowly Hari-key, or grunt in human terms, had asked what a Revancer was. This particular explanation was lengthy, in order the domesticated mind of the simplistic little beast thoroughly understand the term.
Quite simply a play on words; 'Rev' meaning 'Reaver', a feared and ruthless warrior, and an aspect of sorcery belonging to several schools of magic. Regularly, it seemed that none of the initiates actually passed the first series of tests, thus only one or two Revancers ever existed for extended periods.
They specialize in warping the elements at their disposal to do their bidding. Say for example, a Revancer had a- great many energy fields or mineral deposits in the immediate vicinity, their powers would differ if certain other materials were present, like air and water. One or the other, orbs of blue plasma, or great shafts of sharpened ice?

"My Queen, the Shadow Kiss is hailing us." Weilan, an Intejii, was a bulging mass of flesh and obtrusive tentacles. His wily, pulsating eyes eased from their ropelike sockets, bloodshot and slimy. Grotesque purple skin slithered across his oddly mutated body, like some freak of nature. It described 'flaked tanned hide' perfectly. Packing in a quivering, ever changing evenly paced voice, Weilan sounded a demented flute with each word spoken.

"Tell them to glass that planet, Intejii."
She turned then, stepping silently from her elevated position and walking through a set of sliding doors.
Dimly lit corridors, each branching away from one another, greeted her with open arms, violet walls shining purposefully. Many covenant, belonging to various species and castes, saluted her, placing their right hand in the general area of their face, relaxed, fingers spread, palm facing inwards, and clasped their right wrist with their left hand.
Every gesture was acknowledged by issuing forth a barely perceptible nod.
Covenant customs dictated that a salute was a sign of respect, and it must be recognized and returned unless the creature receiving it had no hands, no matter the position within the hierarchy. Though each salute was different according to caste (by whatever minimal margin), they all meant the same things, either respect, or the acknowledgement of a superior within any given society.
Too though, it was only polite, when respect is shown, a gesture appreciative of such a thing is performed, one should show gratefulness.

From the bridge there were three identical corridors, the centermost was the "Sara-vadau", or "Gate to all". Flanked by the "Sara-Iludios", "Gate of Peace", and the "Sara-Preyos", "Gate of War."
How appropriate these titles seemed, the Revancer mused. One led to sleeping quarters, eating grounds, laboratories and other things, whilst the other led to armories, torpedo tubes, and imprisonment chambers.
Sara-vadau of course, spread through the very center, moving off to anything, heaven or hell, north or south, east or west.

A small Jackal warrior, called a Quizal, stumbled into her, knocking itself off balance and sprawling over, casting it's impenetrable shield away.
"Forgive me My Lady, forgive me!" It rasped.
She kicked it, obviously none too gently, and kept walking.
The fault was not hers, but rather the Quizal's. It should have seen her coming and immediately hugged itself to the corridor wall, the fact that her lack of attention probably caused it was irrelevant, as the Quizal had failed to do its duty.
Its worth was nothing compared to her own, it did not deserve mercy.

The Quizal peered after, golden eyes shining in suppressed discontent. "Waste of food." It muttered once she was well out of her acute little earshot. Setting itself on clawed feet once more, she flicked the small satchel at her waist, checking its contents for her assigned message, which was to be delivered to one Tras'Lok within five minutes written time. Grimacing as she glanced at her wrist Chronometer, ringing in at three minutes having passed, she sprinted for the tripod doors and nearly fell head over heels as they shot open before her with a quiet exhale of compressed air.
"Message for Arms Master Tras'Lok, honored ones!" She sputtered, having been greeted by an imposing nine foot Torra, silver-black armor ripping away every trace of light directed at it. A gauntlet shod with wicked looking curved spikes rested on her shoulder. "Stand easy, Quizal. Let's see this message you've brought to me."

Tras stretched his hand out to receive the slim creature's message. Ironically enough, it looked much like the Jackal that humanity had seen fit to call it. As expected, the small scroll of rough parchment was passed into his hand. Breaking the wax seal, he began to read its contents, barely legible, seemingly written by some random infant picked by drawing names out of a headpiece. He only knew one Torra capable of such a mockery, unintentional as it was.


Scorn me not my dear dark maiden,
Like wings to water,
Surface shaven, be naught a Haven; Forever Alter, doomed to falter.

My coveted treasure,
My perfect warrior,
My flawless creation,
Daughter of Covenant

Blessed be life, my shadowed maiden, show naught mercy
For there is hatred,
Show naught kindness,
For there is coldness

Cruel eye,
Forever lie,
In lands of shadows,
Death is Nye.

Show me your power,
Show me your weakness,
Give my your strength,
Show me your courage.

Hard they fall,
Thousands tall,
Show no mercy,
Kill them all.

Cruel Eye,
Forever lye,
In lands of shadows,
Shade doeth lie.


Frowning, he turned to the Quizal, startled when he found that it wasn't there. Apparently she saw this from her position on the floor, kneeling to his left, lips nearly touching his boots. "My Lord." She pressed a small vial of translucent liquid into his hand. Examining the peculiar substance, he couldn't help but wonder whether or not it was something familiar to him. The nasty concoction not only smelled awful, but tiny, nutty looking chunks swirled around inside it. "Unnamed says that Lord Tras'Lok must pour vial's contents about his poem." He looked down on the small Quizal, whose overall demeanor had belied its ignorance.
"Why do you kneel before me, Quizal? You are a warrior, an assassin. Not some decadent courtyard apprentice." Most Covenants he'd seen would merely salute him and be done with any social interaction, this one was abnormal to him. She acted as if she was slave-born, plundered as booty.
"I am in presence of nobility, my Lord."
Tras simply laughed, allowing his will to set down one gentle reproof. "Far from it, Assassin. Have you a name by which you are called?" The Quizal nodded hesitantly, fingers spreading among their brethren, scanning better holds. "Urien, my Lord." She replied.
Debilitating his jaw to approximate smiling, he spoke two kind words. "Arise, Urien." The Quizal gripped his waiting hand, vial in all, and pulled itself up. "Thank you my Lord."

Doing as instructed, he poured the vial's contents onto the letter, and watched the wording fluctuate into something more, something puzzling, with clearly defined paragraphs, a date, and various other components which were necessary to the creation of a letter. He read.


Alas, my friend. That time is upon us again, whence we must rise to greet the coming tides of the times. Although, in this incarnation the enemy lies not without, but within our very grasp... This time, we can strike hard and fast, deliver the deathblow.
There seems to be a dearth of truth in the one, which I speak. You know whom I detail, and you know what must be done. For a thousand years and more the Lannaan have protected Doomharrow interests. Have ferreted out weak links and traitors. As it's leading figurehead you must see to your duty. As the debonair Arms Master you will carry out your duty.
If not, there is always the option of finding one better suited to the task. You know the enemy within, and sometimes the rules must be broken to protect our monarchy. The times call to you. Do you accept and heed that warning, that omen of unwavering chance to succeed those in the past?

The self-centered bitch Queen must be brought under control, else she drives our race to its last breath, and into eternal sleep never to wake again. You must quell the internal rebellion of Shade, the means to that end I leave to you.

With full confidence,
-Kreled, Arch-Spire of Pegasi grid twenty three thirty two


Unconsciously, he rolled up Kreled's scroll and stuffed it into his pocket, turning to Urien and nodding. "Thank you, Urien. That will be all." She seemed to be slouching in dismay now, mayhap expecting to stay.
"My Lord if I may, an Assassin humbly requests that she be allowed to remain present for the glassing of the human planet earth." Interesting. She clearly thought that Tras was about to carry out mass murder on the single word of a Queen sworn to destroy humanity.
"Request is denied, Urien. We are not going to destroy Earth."
The Assassin now looked bemused. He fancied thoughts within her head pertaining to thinks like 'what?' and 'What in every conceivable hell is this Torra thinking?' He would have liked to learn the dutiful creature was capable of such thoughts, as this would likely ease his own conscience, although he was fairly certain self-doubt was irrelevant in this plight.
"Why?" The Quizal queried.
"The Queen gave a direct statement in a negotiation, which need I remind you takes all statements into account, and ensures that they are followed accordingly. Weilan." Tras turned to face the ever-pulsing Intejii Scientist, who was busily flapping his tentacles around a large holographic panel. "Power down weapons, shift fleet orbit ninety degrees Sol star Northward, homebound."
Urien shook her canine head in disagreement. He knew she had come a long way to grasp a well-earned prize, though a prize that would have to be denied under weight of pressing matters. He felt her pain keenly, but did not submit to impulse. "I am... sorry, Urien."
The Quizal shook her head, black, leathery skin perfect contrast to some parts of his armor.
"Do not fear for me, my Lord. I fear for your own safety, come time the Lady discovers your lack of obedience." With that, she turned heel and left, solemn atmosphere trailing in her wake.
Weilan drifted to his side, breath easygoing, muscles relaxed and in perfect control, his eye co-ordination obviously superior to Tras'Lok's own by many thousands of large numbers. "Do you think she's gone off to tell on us?"

Tras resisted an urge to tense his muscles, turning to face his comrade, hand grasping the hilt of his extinguished plasma sword, unmindful of the muscled tentacle that pushed it away. "Merely hope, we can." He said. "Belay last command and set course for Pluto, the furthest planetoid from what humanity calls sun."
Weilan bobbed once, representing an Intejii nod. "I hear and obey, Arms Master."

There likely wouldn't be much time once the first act of what would probably be perceived, as an act of mutiny, betrayal, or assassination was committed. He would have to act quickly, and most importantly create an illusion so elaborate that it could only be known that he'd acted alone. He couldn't walk up and politely ask 'My Lady, come and partake in a surgical procedure that's going to render you defenseless!'
She did not seem one to allow free speech easily; he would need to confront her in private, preferably with a crack squad of riflemen at his back.
Such tormented thoughts, he might have considered himself ready for seven consecutive large-scale battles, locked in an inescapable mental conflict, shielding himself from the labyrinthine recesses which meant his escape. Denying the very thing capable of saving him. How could he approach this dilemma with clear mind in heart when hairsbreadth movement meant death?
He turned to the main view screen, which was currently overlaying a bird's eye view of the ship's corridors on flat-out scale. That changed to a view of Sol's star, Sun, a burning crimson yellow flux, graying resonance shining like six billion lanterns set on placid lake. Solar flares lanced in desperate corona, seething hatred boiling to nature's raw, primal dominance. Tras enjoyed this view, despite whatever slight risk of his sight leaving him. Blindness was small among many prices to pay.
In all his more than goodly life, he'd never known any predicament that bothered him so... why!
His answer was taunting him, smacking his face and he could do nothing. Because you don't know how to solve it... That nagging mental voice jeered. Ha, ha, Warrior. Curse his birth for having no aptitude with scholarly art!

Weilan intruding, bulging mass floating to his side, puss-crusted, marble eyes in all. "Enjoying the view, Arms Master?" The Intejii reviled.
Eyes quiet and understanding, Tras'Lok nodded. "Yes, my Lord Weilan, I enjoy this view greatly."
"Good, then you can explain why there are no speeding asteroids to enhance its picture." Weilan was chuckling, eyes concealing well mirth hidden within.
Tras whipped his hand out, stopping it inches from contacting the scientist's face with brutal force, slight as the strength administered was, he could still collapse his friend's face in unintentionally.
Turning smartly, he faced the bridge's doors and put on the proudest, most uncaring physique he could muster. Deceptive, unworthy ret. His conscience scolded him.

The black clad maiden of darkness strode briskly onward, as if she owned the entire room, which she did. Anyone to dispute that fact was meticulously roasted into a fine powder. Her seductive emerald eyes flaked with silver sparkle, hammered into Tras's resolve as well as any chisel. She was looking at him with emotionless, calculating stone cold indifference. That gaze softened as he started to seek a deeper foothold, dragging him into the pit-
No! Anyone foolish enough to partake in that had never drawn breath again. Both of his amber tinted orbs suddenly found the patterns on the ceiling rather interesting. "My Lady." He greeted with soft submission, eyes spiking down to gaze at her black footwear. "Why have we turned course, Arms Master?" Shade demanded, fair-toned melodic voice singing.
"Earth has been destroyed, my Queen. We've directed our path toward the human planetoid of Pluto for celebrations." He replied stubbornly, without conspicuous mode.

"Do not think to play games with me, Arms Master!" The Queen insisted, eyes scanning, screening, slipping up and down his body, through his armor, passed his corded muscles, ears piercing with myriad pithy, smell more acute than a human dog's scouting, daring his mistakes to reveal their purpose!
He'd almost opened his mouth to speak, when Shade spoke again. "Very well, Arms Master, Notify the fleet, we will... celebrate our victory shortly."
Tras nodded, in vain as this was, since Shade merely turned and walked back through the bridge doors from which she'd come. Unknown to her, both Tras and Weilan let out the breath they'd been holding.
After some time, Tras spoke again. "You've heard what has been spoken, moderate our speed, maintain course. We will land on Pluto, and it's moon of Charon."
"Steady as she goes, my Lord." Weilan assured.

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