But, only when God, the zenith of arbitration, is made into an afterthought for everyone involved. When He is labeled as a Fool, any narrative can be justified with enough foundations.
With but a single utterance by “Rathaph”, I understood that these Peqans were underneath a scheme of such magnitude. For why else would they be amicable to the Beel, the Eggmen, the Dyraqhi, and the Monitor when Garruz and his band despise them inherently?
The Excazajor is another man of steel, one whose vices stretch to every single inch of wickedness his people enact. And he could play it off so easily, so casually; the ignorance of his own people marked the scale of his success.
He would recite Gatsby just to mock me. To make me believe there is no hope against the tide. That this endeavor I am supposed to believe, that I am supposed to follow, will only result in me being lost eternally in the dark. To him, my trek on the greater path is a waste of time. Frivolous. Meaningless. For he believes that the difficult road leads to nothing beneficial, amidst what he believes is constant darkness. He rejects that, fully, and his lies have already penetrated my eyes. Where are the lights if I cannot see? What pyres for warmth do I desire when I am dragged down, headfirst, into that maw of frozen gore?
Why not dive in further? He would beguile me this way, to lure me in further so that I may join the scheme instead of destroying the Godless altar, as Gideon had done with Baal. He all but requests that I cast aside nobility and respect for the mere semblance of immortality. I would be chasing Ponce de León’s shadow, and the dictator would pretend to offer a way for me to catch it. The Fountain of Youth, eternal life in happiness and prosperity, would be mine to drink from.
Drink of the wine pulsing from the fountain! You are already here, you have already tasted sin! You have already strayed from God by your very living acts. What use is there in attempting to turn back? You are within the corridor of the serpent. Let its blessed aroma kiss you, and its hallowed aqua regia course within you. Drink. Drink. Drink.
Dissolve the Image, as the rest of us did when the Albino Serpent invited us into his throng.
The allure of evil prospers when one believes that salvation and deliverance are gone. Despair was the first sin, and it drowns everyone underneath the possibility of wickedness. Anything to avoid sorrow. Even in anger. Even in deception. Even in damnation.
The Devil’s path lay before me, and I had already started walking down it. As Cain had done. As Saul had done. As Judas had done.
Mockery. Utter mockery. He knew I was dancing in his palm. What could I do to stop that?
At least, that is what we were all permitted to believe. For we were all blind.
Beyond the ship's ambiance, the deck was silent. Balyeahn and Xanthum piloted the and set its course for Rathaph. Garruz sat in the captain’s seat, seemingly writing reports for his superior; his brow furrowed with frustration over bureaucratic particulars. Ahrius and Buchalan swiveled the head-cannons outside; Ahrius controlled the two jutting out of the closer eye sockets, while Buchalan commanded the two emanating from the nostrils. Each five-hundred-foot-tall head was observable from the command deck, high above the three-mile-long vessel. After further observation, I realized that this spaceship was once a skull. Specifically, of a gigantic, draconic creature, with additions, such as the Peqan-headed turrets and the various pale blue and green lights illuminating the otherwise grotesque bone and gore skin of the muted blue, gray, and pale yellow skull. One whose color was once rust and blood.
While I was admiring the ship, eight titanic, bristle-like legs rose from the snout of the ship. Each of their hooves began to beat upon the space before them. Every layer of abuse added greater and larger cracks into the crystalline space. After half a minute, the legs broke through, as the ship began to growl violently towards the breach.
“Fahllicle breach successful, beginning splicing of spacetime… Successful. Pruceeding with transpahrt to Ahriahn System,” Xanthum uttered bluntly as a dull hammer.
Suddenly, after the spacetime behind us was repaired, the jolted forward through the follicle, as the hoof-bristles swayed backward like thistles in the boreal winds. Hundreds of light-years passed us by in mere instants, as we flowed through spacetime’s iridescent lightshow. The follicle pulsed and flashed with all colors I was able to see at the time, while cylindrical and spherical splotches stretched into a spaghettified kaleidoscope. I admired this display of faster-than-light travel for what felt like days; before I knew it, the ship stopped, as did the spectacle outside. The hooves repeated their beating of the spacetime, and after another half minute, the space in front of us shattered again. On the other side was the dull irradiance of a humiliating pale-yellow star, alongside a planet covered in a chartreuse ocean, charcoal-gray and blue foliage, and burning lakes of irradiant blue magma.
As we passed through the follicle, returning to the vacuum of space, Garruz announced, “Welcahme tu Rathaph, Maghnus, the land where we shall hahne yuu tu yur finest shape.”
There was a certain beauty to this young Venus-like planet, like admiring a pyre before it burns a forest. Even before entering the atmosphere of this volcanic planet, there was no mistaking it: this planet is no home, nor is it a haven. It is a cruel testing ground, where survival of the fittest reigns supreme. The perfect excuse for the Peqan’s hatred of waste.
Still, like Venus before, so too shall Rathaph suffocate under its own sins.
“Transpahrt cahmplete, splicing of exit fahllicle cahmplete. Pruceeding tu the capital,” Xanthum once again stated with disdainful boredom.
We began our descent through the thick atmosphere of Rathaph in stages. Curious about why, I asked, “Why are we descending sah slahwly?”
Xanthum scoffed, while Buchalan responded with crassness, “Is yur kind sah primitive that yu dahn’t even have space travel?”
“Buchalan,” Garruz barked, which made his subordinate timid in mere moments, as he continued while explaining to me, “The skies ahv Euzahth du naht chahke as Rathaph dahes. Think ahv it like descending intu the abyss. Descend tuu quickly, and we wuld implahde. Ascend tuu quickly, and we wuld explahde.”
While this did answer my question, how could a species handle such barometric differences? I doubted I would find that answer through lectures, so I stayed silent as we descended further. About thirty minutes later, our bodies had fully adjusted to the pressure of the troposphere of Rathaph, and we could fully observe the lands of Grasun, alongside the distant Eye of Rathaph, the capital. We hovered about a few miles above the surface as we glided towards the city. I observed the outside, finding much of the landscape surprisingly preserved from urbanization. I expected a civilization like this to strip all plants along the skin of any world they resided on, yet here were jungles of charcoal trees piercing the skies, alongside vast swathes of what appeared to be grasslands.
Ahrius interrupted the silence, as he read my mind, “Surprised? We aren’t fuuls, unlike sah many ahv yu sheep-kin. We knahw we need them, sah we leave them be.”
Perplexed, I questioned him further, “Sah where du yu live? Where the trees and grass dahn’t tahche?”
Ahrius chuckled, “‘Grass’? Nah, thahse are tahrrals.”
“Tahrrals?”
“Think they are similar tu what yur kind call ‘cahrrahls’. They are jagged, swaying hairs of bone. Just them brushing yur skin makes yu bleed. That’s what they want. Make the animals bleed sah they can harvest the bluud.”
“Vampire grass… Fascinating…” To think a species like that would exist is remarkable.
“What’s ‘vampire’?” Ahrius boomed.
I answered, “Bluudsuckers ahv the night. Immahrtal, almahst always evil, massive canines…”
Ahrius and Buchalan chuffed in disappointment, as the latter suggested, “Sheep-myths are awfully uninspired, aren’t they?”
Ahrius huffed in approval, “We will need to tell yu sahme ahve ahur stahries. Much more ahriginal, I wuld say.” He noticed my silence for annoyance, and returned to the topic, “Peqans are naht allahwed tu harm plant life. It wuld be wasteful to du sah, given that the gray wahnes prahvide guud air, while the blue wahnes eat the bad air. We leave them tu du their thing. We can survive where they cannaht. Desserts. Cliffs. Shahrelines.”
Combining all this, the formation of this society was no accident. Perhaps due to the cruel situation they were stuck with on Rathaph, they were forced into a global ideology of sorts. Every other one of them died on this planet, or never existed to begin with. Waste is their greatest sin, and biomechanisms are the continuous remedies for it. Yet, there was still something not adding up: why do they still call this their home when they can colonize another world? Is it because this is all they know? Maybe due to this being their homeworld they hold it to some kind of sacred reverence? Or was it because this ideology would be proven wrong everywhere else?
We continued to gradually descend through the sulfuric yellow-green clouds above the capital, as the shipping docks drew closer and closer. After several minutes, the half-mile-tall walls of the city were behind us, as we hovered far above the outer structures, many of which appeared like giant spleens, livers, intestines, or brains carved into homes, businesses, and factories. In time, we approached a massive maw-like station, easily seven miles wide and four miles tall; the own docking center. The vessel hovered for a few minutes, awaiting eight colossal femurs to hold the entirety of the ship in place. Eventually, the docking was complete, with a green-blue light emanating from the central platform. After this, the engines were shut off. We had landed.
“Let’s gah. They need to clean this place of the rust and hemlahck,” Garruz ordered. The others nodded and quickly gathered their things as I swiftly followed suit.
We retraced our way past the bed chambers as we approached another long hallway, which ended in a breach door. When we arrived in front of it, the door appeared like two gigantic molars locked in place. Garruz chuffed to Xanthum, and he entered another code into the nearby keypad, presumably the same one he had used with the deck before. As soon as he did so, the molars grumbled in noise and movement, before they opened horizontally to reveal a pressure chamber, whose color and texture were like the dried, pale yellow of a bloodless bladder. The door behind us shut, as a decadent steam began to roll in, which smelled of dark urine.
I began to look around sheepishly, unsure of what to make of the gas, which Garruz noticed, “Relax. It’s just a cleansing ritual. Kills the raht ahv rust and hemlahck.” This somewhat eased my mind, but not by much, given how much I had wandered in the dark already.
After a couple minutes, the air stagnated as the molars before us opened wide, permitting the heavy and dense air of Rathaph to rush inside. The smell was like eggs and burnt sugar, as the sting of hot peppers glided against my throat. This air is not life, yet here we were. Life amidst this doomed world.
From the outside, a striped, verdant Peqan around the same size as Ahrius approached Garruz and shook his hand. He surveyed the rest of us, disappointed, “There are ahnly six ahv yu, Garruz? What a waste…”
Garrus admitted, “Indeed, Futram. Hersheus’s hemlahck was a plague to all but six ahv us, including the dimyahnaut.” He pointed at me, as the green Peqan’s black eyes followed; his glare an intense resignation of disapproval. He whispered something to Garruz, which the golden Peqan responded in kind with mutual vexation.
Some moments of silence passed before Futram suggested, “Yu shahld all muve quickly, then. We’ll escahrt the ahthers. Dahn’t fahrget yu have tu be inducted, .”
Garruz sighed in exasperation as he beckoned me, while the others began following Futram. Garruz whispered, “Dahn’t say anything until yu get to my estate. Understand?” His tone was not that of an order, but a request. I tried to whisper another question, but he shut it down immediately, “?” I nodded, and he gave a tired smile, “Guud, nahw gah. We have much wahrk tu du.” He stayed behind as I briskly caught up with the herd.
In front of us, Futram and two larger gray-and-dappled horselions escorted us; the three of them formed a wedge, with Futram at the front and center, while his guards flanked him. I took in the shuttle's spectacle in the meantime. Most of the horror was underneath us. The deck and much of the quarters we resided within were within the horns of whatever behemoth dragon this once belonged to. The rest of the ship was an entire non-sentient organism, as the jaw, teeth, sinew, and membranous engines pulsed with sangreline and tanterline in its resting state. Maintenance for a ship that, if fed, would last into eternity.
The shuttle-maw that contained the was, effectively, the inside of a colossal, ape-like beast’s mouth. Above me were the hard and soft palates of the mouth, while the gums rimmed the lining of the exterior towards Rathaph. A dried, tongue-floor stretched the entire breadth of the deck, as various organic equipment began to be transported by Peqans far below us on the lower walkways or the muscular floor itself. The ramparts were chiseled layers of enamel, each floor scaffolding like catwalks up and down each of the upper and lower teeth. Beyond us, the entrance to the throat lay underneath a massive uvula, which itself was a crystalline, bioluminescent lightball that pulsed a false, gray light.
What felt like a little over an hour passed by as we finally reached the chambers beyond the throat. We progressed through a black wishbone archway, then through the esophageal hallway, which itself contained complexes of research & development, manufacturing, maintenance, custodianship, and, along with many others, weapons development. Soon after, Futram entered a code into another set of incisor doors. The doors swung out as we began to hike by the dozens of miles of outdoor military establishments within the northern quarter of the capital.
I couldn’t truly tell you how many things I witnessed, amidst our silence on that trail. Thousands of structures were splattered along the massive complex, and each one was shaped like all kinds of different calcified, yet still beating organs. Long mazes of intestinal factories, training yards with osseous fencing and equipment, clerical offices that soared high above as vertically aligned brain hemispheres, and sleeping quarters entirely made up of giant hippocampuses. Amongst so, so many others. Especially those barns. So many barns… The sound alone. That was the near-constant ambiance of that entire complex: the rewards for those who serve the vile will of the Excazajor well.
A chance to be usurped. A self-destructive ideology.
Though I suppose all evil is self-destructive, in a way.
We spent several hours on that trail of ground-down bone and enamel gravel before a massive mansion shaped as a rib cage lay before us. The fencing around the estate of that grotesque Versailles was a series of interlocking talons and leg bones, each ending in a golden and gray, drill-tipped spear. The gates opened wide to us after Futram unlocked the door with a finger-bone key. Afterwards, he gave the key to Buchalan, and the three of them departed. The rest of us followed Buchalan through.
Buchalan locked the gate and brought up his hand, commanding us to wait. He waited several minutes for Futram and his formation to depart from our view. He sighed mightily once they did, “Finally, we can speak! What a dreadful silence that was!”
The others snorted in varying levels of agreement, and Ahrius sensed my confusion. He elaborated, “Futram is a ciefan. He dahs naht entertain cahnversatiahn frum any belahw his statiahn. With Garruz as a Reyengre, and thus his superiahr, that liricahn shuld be ahusted suun.” A sense of doubt curled from his lips.
Xanthum chimed in, “I persahnally dahubt it, given his age. Even as a Guerche, Futram has had a massive influence on the military since befahre Garruz was even bahrn. He’s tuu useful, even if he does misappropriate the law, the fuul.” Caustic venom flowed from his tongue.
Buchalan remarked, eyeing me deliberately as if sensing my thoughts, “Enahgh, yu tew. Garruz will fix all ahv this. We have ahur jahbs; get dimyahnaut and turn him into a prahper Peqan befahre the lakes ahv his eyes congeal.” He pointed at me with his tilted right hand as he commanded the others to their assignments. They each climbed the dozens of parched gum-layered stairs to the mansion proper and passed through the shimmering chitin doorways, the inside obscured by the glimmer of the yellow star behind us. Buchalan stayed behind and began to fill me in.
“Here’s what will happen. Each ahv us will train yu tu be a Peqan. Cahmbat from Ahrius, language from Xanthum, etiquette from Balyeahn, and stahries from myself,” he wrapped his arm around my neck, like a mentor to his student, “But first, I knahw yuu want tu ask. Gah.”
So he had indeed sensed it, so I did, after some consideration, “Yes… Why du sah many Peqans seem… Ahff? Like they are fahrcing everything? As if all ahv this is… A house of cards…”
I had expected confusion, so I was surprised when he answered, “I’ll be as blunt as a femur club, Mustang: I agree. Sahmething is rotten within the Cahncil. Yu saw Hersheus’s cahrruptiahn. And ahnce we expahse it, it will cahllapse, as yur castle ahv cards wuld du.” He shook his head and muttered to me, “Luuk, Mustang. Yu are ahur key tu ahur salvatiahn frum thahse hemlackians. We saved yu frum the Beel. We expect yu tu pay us back fur that.” Before I can even muster up an objection to such a twisted knot of indentured gratitude, he declared, “Fur nahw, cahme with me. I’ll shahw yu tu yur quarters.”
We journeyed through the doors into the massive atrium of the mansion, which was gray, blue, and gold. A gloriously decorated palace with all manner of ossified statues of conquered beasts, fellow Peqans, and other organisms from beyond the Ahrion System scattered throughout. Thousands of bone weapons, from spears & tridents to rifles & grenade launchers, stuck to the walls like flies to feces. We ventured to the right, as we passed by several rooms. The belches of Ahrius emanated from one of the doors to my left, while the enamel clacking of a keyboard rumbled from another door to my right. We veered left at the junction of the hallway and passed another couple of rooms. Buchalan turned and directed his hand towards another room.
“Yurs, dimyahnaut. Eighty-tew,” he tapped my shoulder as he began to depart, as he left me with, “yurself.” His chuckling clacked down the hallway as he entered another door on the right side of the junction.
Passing through the skin-tiled door, whose knob was a collection of interlocking finger bones, revealed the scale of my accommodations. It was a massive suite, decorated with gray, blue, and yellow leather furniture, black wool carpet, planks of bonewood, and all sorts of other furnishings along the walls. Ossified antlers dominated the wall above the patio deck in front of me, whose doors were chitinous glass shells of a muted blue irradiance, as the setting sun began to tint the view of the gardens with increasingly darker yellows.
I sat upon the spotted sofa and, for once, was given time to reflect since I was banished to the wastes of that desert world. Respite and reflection, for once.
Peace. Uneasy as it was, this was exactly what I needed.
I spent the next couple Rathaphian days, themselves around eighty Earth-hours each, collecting my thoughts on everything that had happened. There was a desk, which was a whale-like sternum with pantherian femurs as its legs, whose drawers contained a journal whose gray leather binding contained pulped osseous pages, alongside a ribbon bookmark that was a laminated series of loose green feathers. I didn’t question why I would be provided with such a thing, for it allowed me some semblance of documentation for the first time in Hazgaia. I brushed my hand upon the journal and opened it. I skimmed the pages with my thumb, noticing their emptiness. So I scavenged for some kind of writing utensil. Eventually, I discovered several finger-like pencils within a filing cabinet of keratin, alongside what seemed to be a pencil sharpener if it were a pouch of skin containing sharpened shark teeth. I grabbed a few of the pencils, alongside a long chair that was also a sternum with femurs, and began to write.
Despite how much time passed, I still wrote much of what I experienced in those months and long, long days.
As I wrote, harrowing thoughts coursed through my head. What was I becoming? What else would I be forced to do? What else I would… Have to make myself do? I was already a cannibal. A killer. A betrayer. A monster. But a part of me initially was still horrified by all this. As if it were my lingering sense of connection to humanity.
One that the Peqans wanted me to devour.
Once my respite period ended, Ahrius knocked on my door, yelling, “Mustang! It’s time. Let’s see what yu can du.” I took a few breaths, intensely nervous of what was to come. After hiding my journal, I mustered myself and arose to meet my compatriot on the other side of the door. I squinted at him as I opened it, which he immediately noticed, stating, “What? Did Buchalan naht indulge yu?”
I briefly shook my head, “He tahld me that yu were tu teach me hahw tu fight.”
He waved his arms about dismissively, clarifying, “Nah, nah, nah… If that’s what he fed yah, then that is naht true at all.” He punched my chest lightly a few times, “Martial arts, Mustang. Cahmbat training. We need tu see what suits yah best. But first, we gaht tu get yu in shape” I raised my eyebrow at him. He brushed it off, “Yu’ll see, Mustang. Fahllahw me. We’re gahing tu the yard. We’ll be there fur a lahng while.”
“Hahw lahng, exactly?”
He huffed and gave a light chuckle, “Until bahth ahv us knahw what yu are. Prepare yurself, Mustang. Yu may have Maghnus’s bahdy, but if yu dahn’t knahw hahw tu use it, yu are just a famar. Impahsing, perhaps, but useless tu thahse whu have sense.” I sighed with that, not able to deny that in any logical way. “Bare yur teeth, Mustang. Yu’ll du fine sah lahng as yu listen and watch.” Encouragement? This was unfamiliar. A living testament to someone who actually cares? What does it matter that they saw me as a vessel for some utilitarian purpose? At the time, there was a slight warmth with that. The kindling of something that had long been absent since that cold November rain. Connection.
There was a similar feeling I felt on the . However, with Garruz, I could tell it was manipulation. This? This felt at least somewhat genuine. But perhaps this was the reason Ahrius was teaching me first. Buchalan and Garruz might have sensed my doubts and wanted him to ease them. All to make this transition easier. So that they would have their dimyonaut dancing in their palms.
Doubts such as these coursed through my mind. Who was victim? Who was foe? Who should I believe?
Slowly, one voice began to drag me under.
I followed Ahrius outside, through the aortic hallways of the mansion and the chitinous doorway, before we descended the steps into the training yards. These were filled with various military obstacles and exercise equipment. Massive walls of condensed bone and skin to climb, horse tail lassos to traverse or sway as battle ropes, stout rib cage barbed wire to crawl under, and various strength training adornments constructed of hyper-condensed chitin and bone. We approached an empty clearing between all these, as he pulled a checklist from a pocket in his mantle.
“Alright, listen. We have drills tu see what yu can du. I’ll shahw yu hahw tu du them, and yu repeat. We du this fur everything here until yu master them. Understand?” Ahrius echoed in the otherwise creeping stillness of the yard.
Everything? I observed every single horrible contraption. How the Hell was I supposed to do any of this? I never trained with weights, I never learned to fight, and Hell, I hadn’t been active since the days gone by. I was a louse and nothing more!
Ahrius sensed my fear, slapped me in the face with his left hand, and bluntly reminded me, “Yu will rise. We will du everything we must tu fahrce yu thrugh…” This did little to reassure me, but then Ahrius softly noted, “Suppahse yu were alahne, Mustang. Nah water. Nah fuud. Lahst in the dark. Sleepless. Exhausted. There is wan calling that must be dahne: survive. Fur dying wuld end any chance ahv glahry here and nahw. Fur as lahng as yu live, the binds ahv yur fate are yurs. Yank upahn them, Mustang. Yu will be glahrius.”
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I knew he was right, but… No. Enough with the excuses. There was only one way out of this. So, I focused and began the various training regimens over the next several days. At first, my entire body ached with the alien sensations reverberating through. Ancient bones and muscles had to be reconfigured by my human soul to function, which caused unimaginable exhaustion. Ahrius was frustrated with my lack of progress at first. Constant recitations of:
“Bare yur teeth.”
“Stiffen yur spine, fuul!”
“Keep yur chest up!”
“Yur stronger than this! Dahn’t pretend tu have the weakness ahv a fabincilla!”
“Muve, muve! Yur slahwer than a famar in mating seasahn!”
Yet as the days rolled on, and the abuse and exhaustion began to wither away, slowly my mind grew more and more used to the brutal regime. My strength grew exponentially, my speed became next to none, my jump height was proportionally that of an olympic pole vaulter, and my pain resistance was enough to ignore Antarctic air piercing through my wounded skin.
In just a matter of several weeks, Ahrius alone had transfigured me into my peak shape. Maghnus’s muscle memory resurrected within me. Knowledge and experience were being gradually fed into my mind. Fighting styles, evasive techniques, and weapon etiquette crept in. I was practically gaining the collective experience of a dead warrior who lived for tens of thousands of years. Yet, all that glory was not mine. It was unearned. I was awash in these familiarities, and I grew arrogant with them. My personality began to calcify as well. Much of my previous cowardice had faded into an exterior of facetious hubris. I conquered this, after all. What else could I do with this body? I have to give him credit for that. He was a hard-ass bastard, but he did what had to.
While admiring myself in the reflection of the chitin glass one day, Ahrius's voice once again boomed through the door, “Mustang! Let’s gah!” I eagerly pranced to the door, awaiting what sort of training awaited me next. This time, he wore leather armor and a helmet that was once a reptilian skull.
“Ahrius, what are yu wearing? Yu luuk ridiculahs,” I commented.
Scorn furrowed on his face as he pointed out, “Damnable toralen. Yur arrahgance is unearned, Mustang. We haven’t even truly started yet… Guud tu see yu aren’t a caballahn anymahre, at least.” He paused briefly before he returned to the topic, “Yu have finally mastered the caurse. Nahw, I can teach yu hahw tu spar.”
I interrupted, “Fighting? Finally. Cahldn’t yu have dahne that frum the start?”
“Mustang…” Ahrius sighed with vexation, though he only decided to state afterwards, “Fahllahw me.” A hint of tempered rage radiated. A portion of my anxiety returned, but not enough to sway me away at the moment. We journeyed to the outside again, but we continued past the yard to a massive shed that was a hollowed-out vertebral column with a flap of skin as a roof. We glided through the chitin doors and entered the dark chamber. “Wait here. Du naht muve,” I did as he told me, curious about what sort of sparring lay before me.
After many moments, the clopping of Ahrius burst forth from the dark of the other side of the complex. Before I could react, Ahrius ravaged my head with the blunt force of a club. Disoriented, I could not discern where he was before he continued to beat me senseless with the club. Another Peqan wielding a club… My arrogance evaporated as that flame of trauma burned my soul with cold embers. Little actual damage was done, but this was complete humiliation.
As I curled on the ground, Ahrius crouched down to me and coldly barked, “Mustang… Yu think that cahnquering a few ahbstacles makes yu a Peqan? What a fuul yu are. There is sah much mahre tu learn. Being stupid is wasteful. We will hahne yu intu the sharpest spear we can. And yu are still sah very dull.” He arose, “Get up. You will earn yur glahry prahperly, understand?”
I obeyed, still terrified of the memory, and meekly stated, “Yes, sir…”
Ahrius scoffed, “'Sir?' What sahrt ahv term is that, Mustang? We are all cahlleagues equal in ahur purpahse. What use is hierarchy here? Just du as we teach, and yu will prahsper as yu were always meant tu. Nahw, fahrget yur idiahcy. Watch.”
I did so and observed his specific movements, miming them to the best of my abilities. Certain angles of punches or kicks, stabilization of my upper and lower cores, and defensive postures. Despite Ahrius’s previous claims, Maghnus’s muscle memory flowed through me, guiding me near perfectly. Though I had learned not to take this to heart as proper tutelage. After all, there was still the weapon training for the latter days. Still, unlike with the training yard, Ahrius was much more amicable, congratulating me on every improvement I would make, and he even applauded my later use of moves that ultimately won me many sparring matches against him. The phrase that looped in my head often was:
“Yu survive, yu thrive. That is what matters mahst. Never fahrget that.”
As we neared my final training days with Ahrius, we had become more and more friendly with each other, boasting and challenging each other to various ideas, both from Earth and from the Peqani. I rapidly mastered the use of my spear and cannon, as Maghnus’s muscle memory once more permitted rapid progress. The spear’s heft was lighter than a fly swatter, while the skull cannon’s blast was enough to blow a hole through several tons of gallblood steel. I wielded other weapons as well. Maces, axes, claymores, rifles, and hammers. But the drill-tipped spear and skull cannon were my callings. They were so much fun to use! I loved it.
On the last training day with Ahrius, the midnight Peqan patted my back like a coach to his player, “That’s it, then! Guud wahrk, Maghnus. In my eyes, yu have earned the right. After tuday, Xanthum will be guiding yu thrugh Peqani, which shuldn’t take as lahng.” He poked my chest and joked, “I wuldn’t want tu be arahnd Xanthum lahng. Man’s a skin tablet withaht wrinkles. Mahst bahring and legalist Peqan I had ever met… I hahnestly dahn’t understand why he is still with us, given hahw different he is. Garruz’s call, thahgh, naht mine.”
His openness was something I had noticed ever since I met him on the , but this was different. This was admission through trust, earned through trials borne. One singular thought coursed through as he admitted all this, a part of me that had been bothering me.
“What did Garruz whisper to yu in the shahwers?”
Ahrius’s tone shifted into apprehension, as he carefully worded himself, “Yu are with us nahw. We die as brahthers if we fail. Thahgh I dahn’t knahw much,” he admitted, gruffly, “But frum what Garruz tahld me? The Peqani will change greatly suun, if Garruz succeeds.”
“What dahes he want tu du?”
Ahrius sighed within his own doubt, “Guessing is wasteful. There are many things I am unsure ahv nahw. Sah much isn’t making sense…”
“What makes yu say that, Ahrius?”
He grunted slightly, and countered, “Were yu never curiahs as tu why I seemed sah willing tu talk with yu, while the ahthers were mahre… Distant?”
“I assumed yur yuth had sahmething tu du with that, but it’s naht the full truth…”
Ahrius nodded, elaborating, “I was named by my father after ahur star, Ahriahn. Sahme ancient tale ahv a beast that escaped confinement back on Euzahth. Earth, as yur kind calls it… We are suppahsed tu call yu humans sheep-spawn, sheep, ahr sahme ahther mahrsel arising frum that degradatiahn. We call yu wasteful, and yu ahften are… But naht always.”
This admission made little sense given his prior actions. Had he not abused me and pushed me past my limits over and over again so that I could become more like a Peqan? I was perplexed, “I thaught humans were nahthing but chattel tu Peqans. Yet, here yu are, admitting this… Is this wise fur yu?”
There was a silence between us for a few moments, before he avoided answering my question, “I never gaht the chance tu usurp my father, a priviledge stahlen frum me by what I thahght was his cahwardice. But nah. The truth ahv what my father fahnd… It has made me wahnder away frum what I have been tahld is the right way.”
“What did he find?” I was careless of what such a thing would entail, though Ahrius didn’t seem to mind.
Ahrius sat on the floor, “Maghnus… Nah, yu are naht him. Never were. Yu were gifted his bahdy, Mustang… What Ringal discahvered was a fallacy. Yur eyes wandered while yu were ahn the , and I understuud why. Ahur wahrld is a wretched waste, where ahur culture demands efficiency, fur tu disgrace that is tu waste away that which is necessary.”
I sat with him, and I took a guess, “Peqans avahid waste as much as pahssible. It is the axiahm which yur beliefs circle arahnd.”
“Yes, yur human axiahms are justified, as is ahurs. But, why is ahurs justified? Wahld it be this way elsewhere? That is what my father asked, and suun he discahvered that the answer was nah. Buchalan tahld me sahmething yu said… What was it, a hahse ahv cards? I am wahndering, why are we here ahn Rathaph, when we can live ahn better wahrlds? Ringal, fuul as he was, died lahng befahre that answer cahld be fahnd.” Disillusionment drowned his voice.
“When did yu realize this?”
“Thirty-tew hahurs agah. Garruz's agent fahnd it, buried within Hersheus’s belongings. Hersheus was a correspondent ahv Ringal, befahre he sahld him ahut. Garruz and Ringal were ahnce bahnd brahthers, thahgh they grew strained due tu differences ahv ahpiniahn. Garruz was traditiahnal, Ringal was a thinker. As I am, partially. His executiahn. I never saw it. I was but a caballahn when it happened. He was naht knahwn tu me. But I was rahbbed. I was tahld he went against the Peqans, and I believed it fur a lahng time.” He pulled ahut a scrap ahv paper, “This? Garruz tahld me it was his, thahgh he didn’t read it. He cahldn't, nur did he want tu.”
He handed me the note, which I of course could not read given its alien calligraphy, "Yu knahw I can’t read this, Ahrius…”
“It wahn’t take yu tuu lahng tu figure it ahut. Keep it. Yu’ll discahver why suun,” he concluded, before he stood up and walked away, out of my sight. It was like he vanished entirely after that day. I heard a few whispers here and there, but nothing concrete. His fate is uncertain. At least, not without going through what the others have sent me. I am the orator, after all.
When I arrived back in my room, I carefully hid the note within the empty spaces of my deep blue, leather bed-couch. A couple of days passed, and as I was exercising, Xanthum knocked on my door twice with a methodical softness. I opened the door and saw the yellow Peqan holding a series of textbooks, each wrapped in fine leather of various colors, yet laminated with a chitinous shine. He handed me the hoard of books and simply stated with the dull edge of a molar, “Mahve, dimyahnaut… We have nah time tu waste.” I missed Ahrius already. At least his existence didn’t bore me.
I followed him through the corridors and descended several steps into the basement of the mansion. The claustrophobic walls of the basement were a perfect series of pearlescent bones, all of which were illuminated by blue-green lights. The doors were skin-wood applyments of layered distortions; every wrinkle a different species, every follicle a sin. We entered one of the leftward doors into what was seemingly a classroom. Inside were multiple, elongated student desks, which appeared to be chiseled from colossal, beige horns or antlers. There was a chalkboard that was effectively an abyssal skin graft stretched so thin as to permit the wall’s yellow scales to be observable. Most odd of all was that we were not alone. Balyeahn was also there.
“Wait, why is he here? I thahght…” I began to question.
Xanthum shut me down with his monotonous voice, “I tahld yu, dimyahnaut. We dahn’t have the time. Have a seat. We will teach yu everything. I expect perfectiahn." He leaned in close and whispered, "Listen, yu wretch. This is fur yur ahwn guud. Nahw sit and learn.” Even in his voice of arid personality, there was a hint of anxiety.
Balyeahn was strangely silent. Completely still, like an anatomy class mannequin. He did flick an ear or brush his eyes occasionally. But he never once blinked. Nor did he speak at all. He just stood there, watching, as Xanthum uttered his drab twaddle of language and etiquette. It was fortunate that much of it was somewhat logical. And even though all these lessons seemed egregiously anticlimactic, at the very least, it was familiar.
Like those days of isolation in school. School wasn’t terribly difficult, and even college wasn’t so arduous. At least, the academic side of it. Back in those days, universities were a good investment to make. Degrees often implied job success. It kind of did for me. That ain’t so much the case anymore. No doubt you know of the scale of the meaningless debt, Dear Reader.
Xanthum himself was focused on the actual teaching, unlike other professors in today’s world. He just made the experience the mental equivalent of ripping out my appendix with a spoon. But he did teach me, at least. That was true.
Most of his lessons supported the Peqani philosophy I had seen before. Hatred of waste as the prime axiom, the Words of Rathaph, their fleshcrafting, and Peqani as a language. There was one discussion that was particularly notable, even if Xanthum was still acting like the personification of neutrality. It was pure propaganda, and the monotony was assuredly deliberate. Methodically, every two hours of each agonizing lecture, he would utter a single phrase:
"Peqans devahur tu thrive. There shall be nah dahbt ahv this truth. Per the Excazajur's Wahrd, we shall feast and thrive ahn eternal cahnflict. His will is truth, and we dahminate because of it. Listen and watch, as I cahntinue tu grant yu insight. Devahur. Devahur. Devahur."
Like Big Brother, if Oceania were always at war with East Asia and Eurasia. Pure indoctrination. The repetition of this, along with the boredom of the lessons themselves and the omniscient observance of Balyeahn, rendered me susceptible. Mentally, I was being drained. The propaganda slowly began to warp my being.
The cuscuta vines welcomed this new arrival of coca leaves to the garden. Let their scents, their manipulations, stray me further into the empty, dark woods, whose canopy is a sunless tapestry of icterine vines. Let the wind howl in laughter, as I stumble again and again.
The subject of spoken language was brought up, and I only then began to wonder why I could understand the Peqans in the first place.
Per Peqani etiquette, I knocked on my desk three times to ask a question. Xanthum stopped his beige vocalizations and permitted me to speak, “Why can I understand yu nahw? Befahre, I cahldn’t du sah at all. Yu all sahnd like yu are speaking English nahw, thahgh. Why?”
Xanthum rolled his eyes, unamused by what he saw as a stupid question, “Dimyahnaut, du yu knahw where Peqans came frum?”
“Nahw… Yu haven’t tahld me that yet.”
“Hahw much the Fuul hides frum yu insignificant sheep is like plaster ahn skin…” Vitriol spilled like water through flood gates at his disdain. He explained, with distaste, “The histahry ahv mankind gahes further back than what yur ‘scriptures’ describe. The first empire of man, the Ahtahlans, dahminated Euzahth fur a little ahver three thahsand years after the Fluud. That Empire’s capital is wan yu shuld have heard ahv befahre in yur wahrthless life.”
“And that was?” I asked in impatience.
“Babel, the City of Gahds,” he revealed with contempt.
“Wait, like the Tahwer ahv Babel? That same wahn where all people shared a single language?” The pieces then clicked into place, “Du yu all share that language? That ahriginal language?”
He shrugged and shook his head, “Naht truly. The Ahtahlan language was Adamic, the first tahngue ahv mankind, which itself was derivative ahv Aravatian, the tahngue ahv the Fuul. During the Banishment, when Ahtahlan fell, the entirety ahv the ahther six tribes, their slaves ahv the seventh, and mahst ahv their cities were transpahrted ahver tu Hazgaia, which is this realm. Ran’Stiig, ahur fahrmer capital, was included, as were ahur ancestahrs. Maghnus was wan ahv the ahld wans whu were present in thahse days. Ahur Adamic tahngue, as a result, fractured in dialect and in writing. But, in speaking, it is the same, as that is due tu Mazhivada’s influence ahver this realm.”
There were so many questions I wanted to ask. Why was Ran’Stiig the former capital? What was the Banishment? How did Adamic work? And most of all, there was a name again. That “Mazhivada”. Who the Hell is he? Unfortunately, Xanthum indicated that he was not going to elaborate further on any of this, so he continued his lectures, draining me more and more of my sanity due to that dull mustard ass of a horselion and his mannequin companion, who remained statuesque despite dozens of hours passing by.
After hundreds of hours of constant, tedious study, I became relatively fluent in Peqani writing. Idioms and phrases locked into place, while definitions gave disturbing clarity to prior discussions… Especially to the fabincillas.
Several days passed before my final lessons with Buchalan were to be ordained. In this empty time, with me now understanding the language, I took the note Ahrius gave me and tried to read it. Shamefully, many of the letters were encrypted by a form of Peqani that I was not taught. I verified what form this could have been through the few books I had access to. I could read all of them. Whatever form of Peqani the note had, it was probably older. Much older. Several revisions have passed through Peqani, as I learned. Writing styles, diction, aphorisms, and the like change often, even for a species as socially conservative as the Peqani. The note was more elegant, like a mix of Latin, horse hooves, and Japanese, compared to the more primal hoof-dominated form of modern Peqani. There was no way of knowing what this meant without further study. It took some time of cross-examination in the free time I had over the next few months to verify what had driven Ahrius to depart from us. As soon as the idea crossed my mind, an even greater question formed:
Why could Ahrius read this?
He didn’t tell me everything. Probably to keep his tracks clean.
A loud singular thud boomed from the other side of my door. From it, I could tell who was on the other side. His face said everything. “Buchalan. What’s gahing ahn?”
He drifted his head from side to side and leaned in close to mutter, “Where is Ahrius? I haven’t seen him in days. Fuul shall be kindled as brittle cinder suun…”
“I dahn’t knahw. He left as suun as his part in this was dahne.” It wasn’t the full truth, but I wasn’t lying either.
He squinted his eyes carefully, “Du yu knahw ?” The tone was a suggestion, not a command.
I preserved the facade, “Nah. I du naht.”
Buchalan smirked and gave a single approving nod, “I see… Enahgh ahv that. Cahme ahn. I have a stahry tu tell amahngst a grand feast.”
It was a short walk to the dining hall, a grand mausoleum of gray and blue scales, with golden, hairless skin and charcoal gray bone tables. Cutlery, dishware, and glasses molded from melted chitin sand or painted gallblood metal were arrayed across the table every day, tended to by ornately decorated butlers and chefs. I had realized already that Garruz, the lord of this entire ventricular sanctuary, was mighty and immensely wealthy. But to this degree of opulence? It was simply stunning, even amidst all the gore.
Buchalan and I were the only ones to be seated while the staff treated us like saints once again. This was not my first time here, but it was the first time with Buchalan, specifically.
Buchalan began, as he chowed on a massive hind leg of a cow-like animal with talons for feet, “Sah, where du I begin… Ah, Garruz. Sah many stahries abaht him. Bahtahmless as the sea, I wuld say. Wahn ahv the best Peqans we have ever seen, despite his relative yuth.”
He certainly seemed older to me, though. After I swallowed the chud of hearts down my throat, I uttered, “He certainly dahsn’t seem yung. Ahlder than the rest ahv yu, surely.”
“Yu wahld think, but nah. He is ahnly a few years ahlder than me. Xanthum and Balyeahn are ahlder than him. And Ahrius is the runt, being ahnly a tew centuries.”
“Hahw lahng du Peqans live? Seems they dahn’t truly age…”
“Rathaph is tu thank fur that. We thrive in the challenges he prahvides, we live tu cahntinue ahn. Military members are ahften the wahns whu live the lahngest because ahv that. As we age, we grahw in strength. Centuries, millennia, and in a few select cases, tens ahv thahsands ahv years ahr mahre. Cahmes at a cahst…” He grabbed another leg from amongst the bounty of meat before us, “A laht ahv fuud.”
I recalled the again, naturally curious as to the ceaseless hunger following my conversion, “Is that why we were able tu eat sah many ahv ahur brethren during the Sata Prahtacahl?”
“Yur half right. Bluud cahngeals the mahst when rust ahr hemlahck breeches the skin. The traitahrs under Hersheus degraded their value. It was naht a feast, as yu wuld think. The greater the challenge, the hungrier we get. Mahre fuud,” He gripped a massive bird breast and cut it into pieces. “If we face nah challenges, we du naht hunger at all, despite needing tu eat. Eating in peace is a sickness tu us. Cahnstant cahnflict is ahur sahlutiahn. We fight, we cahnquer, we eat. Peace wuld be starvatiahn fur us. The Sata Prahtahcal was a feast ahv necessity. A ritual that is permitted. Ahur bahdies are extensiahns ahv ritual. The value gahes elsewhere.”
“Then hahw du yu explain all this? Dahsn’t seem like we are in cahnflict nahw…” Certain pieces were not adding up.
“Yur training was yur trial. Yu eat. My wurk is my trial. I eat. Garruz’s wurk within the Cahncil is his trial. He eats. Cahnflict is naht just war, but effahrt placed within what yu du. Yu earn yur place, even if that effahrt is ahnly seen by yu.”
He says this, but his society places a high value on the external perception of waste. Was this his belief, or was this something he was passing down as tradition? Or was he watching his words amidst these butlers and chefs, whose tongues may be bought?
I caught on then, and redirected the subject, “Garruz, then. Hahw did he rise?”
Buchalan raised his hand slightly to indicate to me to wait. A few seconds went by after he finished chewing on morsels, and he answered, “Ah, yes! Garruz! What a legendary man! Discahvered alahne in the Thamajorens of Pajares, taken in by a surrahgate whu was but a lahw ranking scahut. Climbed higher and faster than any Peqan befahre him. His might, his wit, his craftsmanship, and his cunning were all unmatched. Usurped Montera with ease and inherited the spear. He became the perfectly raised Peqan. It was as if he was bahrne tu represent us…” I could tell he wanted to say something else, but he stopped himself. He was not taking any risks. Neither was I.
“Hahw lahng agaw was that?”
“I believe it was…” He grabbed a bundle of various small organs arranged like plucked grapes and chucked them into his mouth. “I think twelve thahsand years agaw. Abaht a century after the rumahrs ahv that wretched fabincilla, the Deviled Witch, started tu fester. She is cunning, fur certain. But we will find her eventually. We must.”
This script was suffocating, and the chokehold on his throat was greater than my own. He wasn’t being honest. But without proof, how could they convict? Even in a militaristic dictatorship like this one, honor and law mattered greatly. Procedures were efficient. To execute haphazardly is wasteful.
Facades of perfection saved your life in those kinds of governments. Russia knows this. Germany knows this. China knows this. America knows this, too. It is cowardice underneath a veil of hypocrisy. One that our worlds have been corrupted by. The veil of appearing perfect while being rotten on the inside. White-washed tombs.
Ahrius’s absence was an inverted Trojan horse. Buchalan and Garruz were now working to prove that.
Our meal finished, and silence consumed us.
We would repeat this process for the next month. Sometimes we would have a feast, occasionally joined by the mute Balyeahn and/or mundane Xanthum, while other times we would be training and competing against each other in the yard. He won many of those competitions due to his experience, but gold hung from my neck for any that was pure strength or speed. So many stories were regurgitated from his lips. Every single one was choreographed, staged, and dishonest.
Except one. The last one.
The rain that day was especially acidic. The smell of sulfur and iron blistered the air. Yet for us, we treated it as a spice upon our food. The pattering of the rain imprisoned the usual ambient, pulsing silence of the mansion. Another knock, softer this time. Buchalan was there, “May I?”
I nodded and allowed him in. I locked the door, and he immediately observed the external windows; he carried the blackened skin-blinds to cover them, and I turned on a light. The tone was tense. What the Hell was going on?
“Garruz will be here tahmarrahw. Yur training is essentially finished. The Caldrahn awaits yu. Yu knahw enahgh. Yu have trained enahgh. Yu are ready tu start paying us back. And I can finally stahp with this facade. At least, partially,” the white-maned Peqan admitted.
I immediately asked the prudent question regarding all this from our mute compatriot, “What happened tu Balyeahn?”
He swayed his head like a zephyr, “Naht a thing. He was trying tu sniff us ahut. After Ahrius left withahut reasahn, Balyeahn has been suspiciahs ahv all ahv us. Xanthum, especially.”
“Xanthum? I thahght he was the wan…”
Buchalan deflected, exposing his light blue eyes, “Nah, Xanthum is a buuk. He is certain ahv his place. He’ll gah where the law is. Balyeahn targeted him first. His silence when he was suppahsed tu teach yu was his time tu analyze yu. He wanted tu see if yu wuld cahmply with the bureaucrats ahr naht. They have him in their pahckets, frum what we believe.”
“What pieces ahv silver did they prahvide?” I mused.
He scrunched his brow in slight confusion, but he understood my intent, “I am naht certain, but it must have been a gahlden astrahdahn if he tuuk the bait. He has always analyzed risk, an excuse tu avahyd waste, in his eyes. He cannaht hide his truth. His spirit is rahtten fully by hemlahck, betraying Garruz’s previahs faith in him. We need tu be careful, ahtherwise all this will be ruined.”
Having spent the last two months on Rathaph, I had grown accustomed to these Peqans. Buchalan, especially, given Ahrius’s absence, Xanthum’s beige personality, and Balyeahn’s mannequin improvisation. The stories he told were very similar to some back on Earth. It reminded me of home, even if I did see it as a complete and utter wasteland of hope. I was blind then.
And here I was being blinded again.
“What du yu want me tu du, then?”
Buchalan coldly stated, “Gah intu the Caldrahn, and be glahrius. Garruz and I will handle the internals. Yu must becahme wan ahv us. Yu are naht yet, Mustang. Yur eyes are still blue, even if they du appear mahre like Maghnus's as time has went ahn. Train and rest. Garruz will arrive tahmarrahw fur transpahrt. Yu will spend the next three mahnths there. After that, assuming yu are glahriahs, yu shall be shahwered in bahnties aplenty. And we shall be brahthers.”
He jolted up and left without a second for me to think. I was left alone again, with my thoughts of what horrors lay within that pit.
I had little besides the note, the hat still upon my head, spear, skull cannon, and the journal. I decided to hide the note within my spear, alongside with all the pages I had written in the journal. I borrowed a talon-chisel to cut out a hole within the hilt. I placed the note and the several folded pages of the journal within it, sealed it with several layers of glue and resin, and then I wrapped it several times with green, woven silk. After that, I considered how to dispose of the journal. Because everything in Peqan artisanry is organic, I decided to devour the journal entirely. Surprisingly, its taste and texture were more like actual food than anything in the dining hall.
As if... It wasn't originally from Rathaph at all.
The next day arrived, and five slaps rapped against my chamber door. Garruz was there, his appearance exhausted and wilted from his prior confidence and motivation.
I bluntly stated, “Yu luuk like shit, Garruz.”
Garruz, unamused, gazed into my eyes, “Let’s gah. Nahw.” His voice was weary, aged by tens of thousands of years in mere months. Buchalan soon joined us as the three of us departed the mansion. Outside was a horrid sight, for certain. Despite the glooming familiarity of the gore and bones, that vehicle before me was a hollowed-out abomination; a giant bat-like creature, one that had its wings reconfigured into helicopter blades, and the rib cage and bowels scooped out to transport infantry and supplies. Its eyes were partially scalped to permit visibility for the pilots inside its skull. It was clear that this poor animal was transfigured into this vehicle alive, given the screaming maw and never-ending ravines that were its wrinkles.
We took our seats, Garruz in the middle seat on the head side, while Buchalan and I took the back side seats, me on the left and he on the right.
“Take us tu the Caldrahn. Almost time tu see what yu can du, Maghnus,” Garruz stated with a hint of enthusiasm, yet with a weary heart.
I didn’t know what to think of it at the time. All this training and knowledge, what use would it be within a pit facing a foe that had the desire to kill? Not like me, I thought. Then again, Hersheus’s blood is on my hands. I devoured so many Peqans. Demons and violators as they were… What was the intent? Survival or hatred?
Was I a victim or was I a foe?
What was I then? What was I to become?
What did I have to be to survive this?
A monster. So be it. I, hesitantly, accepted this fact and bowed my head as the bat-copter spun its wings with a deep resonance akin to molars chewing on tendons. We rose into the sky and flew south towards the Caldron at the center of the city.
Mistress of dulosis, make me mistake survival for relinquishment.
You are the sin at the base layer of Gehenna, before any would dive deep into the boil at the center of abomination. Let the abyss at the center of the lake of fire make me into what this world calls me to be.
A fool.
- All semblance of floral peoples is to be gorified or restored as quickly as possible.
- No tool shall be made of the floral cowardice; all crafts are to be created only with the products of animals or animal-like lifeforms.
- Bile is waste and is a complete affront to Rathaph. It must never stain the ground.
- Animals or animal-like lifeforms smaller than a Velosac exist only to be gorified into paste to be fed to fabincillas.
- Peqans born smaller than a Velosac shall be forcibly grown to full size, then scraped for parts.
- You may only gorify holdings beyond Peqan territory with the express permission of the War Council or the Excazajor himself.
- To defy the Excazajor's direct command is to sentence yourself to whatever punishment he decides.
- All conquered races made cowards by hemlockian or rusted crafts are to be scraped for parts, and their technology burned as the abominations to Rathaph that they are.
- Restoration rituals shall be enacted to remake wounded Peqans or to turn non-Peqan races into Peqans.
- Those unfit for restoration are to be food for the gorehounds, for they dishonor Rathaph.
- Upon death, Peqan bodies shall be recycled.
- Those whose bodies are unable to be recycled dishonor Rathaph and are denied reincarnation.
- Those whose bodies can be recycled are to reincarnate into whatever form is appropriate, given their works.
- Only eat animals or animal-like lifeforms. Floral consumption is high apostasy to Rathaph, for plants are better suited for cleansing toxic air or providing pure air.
- Food may not be cooked. To do so is to sway the state of the dead. If one cooks a coward’s body, then they are no longer the corpse of that coward. You must eat the dead as they are.
- All parts of our quarries can be used in any way, so long as it is not wasteful nor made as an affront to Rathaph.
- Peace is hemlock. There shall be no end to the bloodshed, lest we become seduced into weakness and starved.
- Reproduction is a ritual of strength and pleasure, not love. Love is a floral lie.
- Ra’chis, upon being born, are to be kept in the barns where all foals are born. They are to be trained from birth to become the most effective fabincillas. If mares produce enough viable offspring (strong and large enough colts) during their life, then they are guaranteed male reincarnation.
- Fabincillas that reject this process or are infertile are failures, and are to be fed to the gorehounds. They dishonor Rathaph.
- Fabincillas exist to create strong sons and fertile daughters, alongside being used for the pleasure of any male Peqans granted passage to them.
- Caballons, upon being born, are to join their fathers as their understudies until they reach adulthood, when they are to challenge them to ritualistic combat. If they die, the young Peqan is to be scrapped. If the young one succeeds in killing his father, he usurps the position, whatever it may be.
- Fathers are given plentiful opportunities to bear children until they die, assuming they earn the rights through their grand works. However, if they only produce ra’chis by the time they do, they dishonor Rathaph and reincarnate into fabincillas.
- Mercy is heresy on the battlefield. Kill all foes you meet.
- Forgiveness is treason to Rathaph. Grudges empower us all into our most noble forms.
- The War Council consists of the most noble and savage Peqans under Rathaph’s own glory, the Reyengres. To ascend to this point requires multiple successive reincarnations, where you hold to the laws absolutely. There are to be twenty-nine Reyengres on the Council at any time, all serving directly under the Excazajor himself.
- The most holy of all missions is the capture, restoration, and delivery of a dimyonaut, which will be the first steps to Lehitadam, the greatest glory of Rathaph.
- Attempts to hide a dimyonaut from restoration and delivery shall be met with flaying, public defilement, and becoming food in all subsequent reincarnations.
- Fabincillas and ra’chis are the lowest level Peqans. They obey all.
- Colts, caballons, must yield to all stallions.
- Non-combative stallions, cabillos, must yield to combative stallions.
- Combative stallions, cabulles, must yield to their military superiors.
- Military leaders, Guerches (of various ranks), must yield to those of the War Council above them.
- The War Council, the Reyengres, yields to the Chilliarch and the Excazajor, Rathaph.
- The Chilliarch works with Rathaph, but does not rule over him.
- Rathaph yields to NO ONE. Doubt of this holy maxim is punished with complete public defilement.
- There are sub-ranks present within each caste, based on merit and your faith in the law.
- Male outsiders, including male wayfarers, are to be considered lower than caballons until restoration.
- Female outsiders, including female wayfarers, are restored into fabincillas and sent to the nearest barn. This is unless a female dimyonaut is provided, which is given a special privilege of “inversion”, an evolution of Zarkhani’s Experiment Class MF-96-64-23.
- Hiding bodies from recycling is punished by scraping. The dead will be recycled as they are supposed to be.
- The process of recycling biomass, especially Peqani biomass, is a stringent procedure to ensure effective physiological, emotional, and psychological alignment. To not do so is wasteful, a dishonor to Rathaph.
- If a Peqan is caught wasting biomass, they are to be devoured by toralens. You shall be reincarnated as food.
- To be permanently crippled is nonsense. We shall replace your "disabled" limbs through restoration. As long as you are alive, you WILL be restored.
- You can fight for any reason, should ritual combat permit it in your sector. Otherwise, unsanctioned violence wastes biomass. You become food.
- All challenges must be accepted immediately. Time must not be wasted.
- To reject a challenge is a high dishonor, warranting immediate dismemberment.
- Slavery weakens the value of your work, for it is the Hingeman's lasting cowardice and an example of his abundant rust.
- Slavers are exiled to Pajares and treated as wild beasts.
- Those who accept slavery are weak-minded imbeciles. They are to be devoured by the gorehounds and reincarnated into ra’chis.
- Rejecting enslavement is honorable. The soul will ascend after death.
- Those who reject enslavement and live are given additional rights to fabincillas for a month.
- Peqans are entitled to their own conquests, assuming their station allows it.
- The properties of the castes are as follows. Fabincillas: less than nothing. Caballons: food, drink, weapons. Cabillos: homes and earned goods. Cabulles: small territories. Guerches: larger territories. Reyengres: continents to planets, depending on their merit. Excazajor: everything.
- To challenge the ownership of property requires ritualistic combat.
- Unconquered races are judged case by case. Some will be for trade, others must be gorified, and others still will be avoided.
- Trade is not floral rot. It feeds our conquests and war.
- Cannibalism is encouraged under the presumed conditions of war or ritualistic combat. After all, the most efficient use of biomass is as food.
- Feces is to be collected and turned into tanterline for fuel.
- Use Velosacs and all other organic appliances as they are supposed to be used.
- To misuse tools is an insult to Rathaph. Continual misuse warrants transformation into a tool, a process known as devolution.
- Devolution is to strip sentience and be bodily morphed into whatever tool is appropriate. You become lower than even the Fabincillas.
- There is no rejection of devolution. To attempt such a thing would only devolve you further.
- Gorification is the total conversion of a planet into a colossal farm of flesh, bone, and blood. The core of the planet shall become a gall-blood asteroid, a hemoglobe of immense value to artisan races like the Kalteans.
- To waste territory is to waste biomass. You become food.
- If a male outsider kills a Peqan through ritualistic combat, then they must be restored into a Peqan to replace their station.
- Female outsiders are incapable of killing Peqans. To suggest such a thing is grounds for public ridicule, and further suggestion of its possibility is grounds for public defilement.
- Fleeing from combat is equal to spitting upon the hooves of Rathaph. You will be flayed and dismembered.
- Stallions can only die through combat. Their bodies are made for war, perfect machines for death. To die otherwise is deserving of being fed to gorehounds, for you were a defective, untrue Peqan.
- Fabincillas are disposed of once they lose the ability to commit to their function, transforming into scrap or food.
- Higher-stationed Peqans decay more slowly due to their ascended souls, thus arguments regarding "wastefulness" are blasphemy worthy of public defilement.
- Peqans born with defects are to be force-grown and scraped for what can be used, for they are unworthy of being called Peqans.
- Parts with defects are to be fed to the gorehounds, as is the case with all the body parts of outsiders that are replaced through restoration.
- Every animal has a purpose, whether as food, weapons, or for cleaning. None of them are purely for company.
- A useless animal is fed to useful ones.
- Attempts to shield a useless beast mark you as one. You will both be devoured.
- Challenges can be done against those equal to, higher than, or lower than your current station.
- Fabincillas are unable to give challenges, as should be evident by their station.
- To preach to the benefit of the floral sacrilege is grounds for immediate devolution. To listen to such apostasy without complete condemnation is grounds for scraping due to a defective mind.
- In times of scarcity, those of higher stations are guaranteed their fill as much as possible.
- In times of scarcity, mass gore hunts are enacted on the closest planets with life. They are entirely gorified and turned into food.
- In times of scarcity, trade deals are irrelevant.
- If resources are too scarce at certain levels, regardless of our conquests, mass ritualistic cannibalism will be required.
- Ritualistic cannibalism begins from the lowest level and up.
- If ritualistic cannibalism is not enough to feed us without completely wasting away our race, Rathaph must call upon the Dyraqhi to aid us. A necessary submission to their serpentine abundance will be necessary.
- Do not ever call upon the Dyraqhi under any circumstance. To do so is to sell your soul to them. You are beyond our reach if you do so.
- Cycles for fabincillas vary depending on age, ancestry, and climate. Typically, stallions are given a month of access to fabincillas. Depending on their station, they may sire as many offspring as they are permitted to.
- Stallions may only have one of their sons as an understudy at a time. To hoard sons is a waste of biomass. They are all food.
- Any other sons born during that period are to carve out their own place.
- If a son fails to usurp his father, then the next son born will become an understudy.
- If a son is born after their father is slain by one of his older brothers or he dies otherwise, then they are to carve out their own place.
- Challenges between cabulles and/or Guerches can be treated as wars between factions if, and only if, their respective higher station finds their lessers too valuable to lose.
- Cabulle Wars are for provinces, and are overseen and permitted by their respective Guerche.
- Guerche Wars are for entire regions, and are overseen and permitted by their respective Reyengre.
- If their superiors reject the war, then the cabulles and Guerches will participate in ritualistic combat as normal. If unauthorized wars are done, they are devolved.
- Theft is hemlockian. Obtaining property without one's own work, either through toil or combat, is grounds for immediate exile.
- If meat tools are present beyond their place of function, they can be used as food if they end up dying. However, you cannot use them beyond their intended purpose otherwise. Doing so is a strike of misuse.
- Outsiders that are restored are genetically Peqans, thus hybrids are impossible. If they did exist, they would be treated as defects.
- You may only worship Rathaph through the icon of his Spear or an image/depiction of him.
- You may only call him Rathaph, Ray-theph, and his title of the Excazajor, ex-cazh-ah-yor. Never mispronounce either, for it is grounds for public humiliation.
- False idols and impersonators of Rathaph are to be destroyed and recycled, if they are objects, and devolved, if they are Peqans.
- Followers of these defilers or those who refuse to obey the law are to be scrapped.
- You primarily worship Rathaph through battle and honoring his laws.
- Prayers are not permitted, for it is a floral logic to ask for something that makes your tasks easier. That is weakness.
- Chants or war cries to glorify Rathaph are permitted, for they honor his name.
- Worshipping him beyond this is to exalt him as God of War.
- Any Peqan caught using hemlockian or rusted technology is burned alive for their heresy.
- Before Peqans can return from deployments, they must completely devour or use up all gore on the battlefield from their fallen brethren who cannot be restored or recycled. Due to decay, this is often done by converting biomass into sangreline or tanterline for fuel.
- Rebellions are treated as unsanctioned acts of violence, for they inherently reject ritualistic combat.
- Rebellions whose objective is to defile Rathaph's holy name are to be treated as the highest apostasy and must be quashed entirely.
- Those apostate rebels are fed to the beasts of the pits.
- Our relationship with the Eggmen is a tenuous one. If at all possible, reject their advances and hold to the laws. However, never hand them a dimyonaut, no matter what threats they make. It is the highest cowardice to reject the holiest of missions.
- Never, under any circumstances, assault or kill an Eggman. We have no jurisdiction over what they will do to you.
- If a Peqan reports that hemlockian or rusted Peqans are disrupting the highest mission, they are to report this heresy to Rathaph immediately. The Excazajor will ascend your soul for your faith, directly making you a Reyengre so that you may uphold the laws absolutely. This is known as the Sata Protocol.
- Above all else, Rathaph’s Words are law. If he tells you to do something, then you do it, regardless of what the Words on parchment are.