Behold the 20th Century

Welcome to a whole new Earth: where the wind carries the howls of the dead, where gods and daemons wage a secret war, and where Mankind will be tested to its very limits in a conflict that will determine the birth of a new civilization.


The Rain has changed everything. What remains of Humanity now live separated, a shattered race that is nothing but a shadow of its former glory. Even in such a dire state, the fires of war have begun to burn once more.


The call to arms tolls for the brave, and there may be no return from the war that will ensue. Who will you stand for? The Technocracy and its mastery of science and technology? The Magi and their mastery of arcane magicks? Or the Host and their fanatical belief in a unifying New Religion?


Or perhaps you serve a power still higher?


Whoever you side with, expect anything: Death may only be a corner from where you stand. It is not a world of peace and harmony that you knew. The heroes of the past are long dead; heroism itself seems to be nothing but a dream. Your friends may turn into enemies, and your enemies may make good allies. But how long can you trust any of them?


Earth is now an unforgiving place to call home. It would seem as if the Void itself had poured its malice into the mortal plane after the Rain. But if it weren't for the dark secrets that lie buried deep in its crust, even the gods would think twice to tread upon this world.


I'm beginning a new series of short sci-fi stories set in this chaotic new Earth. Think of it as... the Warhammer Universe meets Fallout meets (some slight elements of) Lovecraft.

Haven't thought up of a title as of yet. Any ideas?

And no, the title of this post is not the title of the series. It's just... part of the tag line.

And of course, correct me if there are any mistakes.

Cheers all.

Stories

"I must admit that it is an honor to receive a legend such as yourself," the Qol'vandav-tal said to Lord Dronos, as the two of them walked along the hallways of the magnificent Qol'rah Palace. Close to them, the Qol'ahrar stayed close to their leader, their blade-pikes ever ready. Lord Dronos wondered just how ready the guards were should an attack really occur.

"I never expected my reputation to precede me this far out in the Multiverse," he replied with a warm smile, hoping that his warmth may diffuse the tension the Qol'vandav-tal felt in his presence. Honestly, he never did want to leave such a godly impression over the Qol'rash-nai. Besides, how did he become so hero-worshipped by a race that never had revealed itself for the past thousand years or so?

The Qol'rash-nai were a big mystery. He had only recently discovered their existence as they were passing through the so-called empty Mren'datha Universe, and even so it was by sheer chance the ship detected bio-signatures on the surface of the barren world of Qol'nar. It came as to a surprise that they would find a race living here when everyone - the Technolords included - claimed that an entire Universe held no life within it. Unless they feared the Qol'rash-nai? Feared them? A race no one even knew existed? It was just like fearing the non-existent "boogeyman" of old Terran lore.

But he gave the Qol'rash-nai credit: they really SHOULD be feared. While these bipedal humanoids did not possess the technological might of the Technolords, they were still a force to be reckoned with - simply because they were a race born for the sake of war.

War flowed through their veins. War is their sole master, the one they dedicate themselves to. They were based on a culture of death, destruction and suffering - a lifetime of their history filled with countless battles between rival clans vying for control over the planet they call home. According to the Qol'vandav-tal's custodians, it was because of these long, bloody crusades that had caused their planet to fall into such a state - barely capable of supporting any life on it. The atmosphere was clouded with toxic gases that will continue to poison the air for many more generations. The soil and the oceans suffered a similar fate. Despite the wretched state of their world, the Qol'rash-nai nevertheless went on with their life of war.

Lord Dronos was still puzzled over their war-like nature. Why do they still continue? Though the Qol'vandav-tal now leads his people as a united race, there are still a small group of dissidents - the Qol'rakh-nai - that continue to adhere to the old ways. Perhaps the Qol'rash-nai will never know the meaning of true peace.

"Though we live in seclusion, Lord Dronos," the Qol'vandav-tal replied, "we still keep our ears out to the Great Beyond. Your legendary feats have indeed made yourself a name among the ranks of many - including my own men."

Lord Dronos noticed. The Qol'rash-nai looked up to him much higher than they probably revered their great leader. This idolatry, while humbling, is giving him the creeps.

"To have a legend walk among our people is indeed an honor," he added, as they stood to pause at a balcony facing the palace gardens, a beautiful little paradise on a barren rock.

Lord Dronos smiled disarmingly. "Please now," he remarked, "I am just a mere mortal in the end. You and I are not much different in any way."

"We have our differences, Lord Dronos," came the warmaster's nonchalant reply. "The principles that define me are incomparable to yours. You are an aristocrat, a man of peace, one who would not take up his sword unless the situation demands it. I, however, am born of war. The glory of battle runs through my veins, and nothing can satiate my thirst for it."

Lord Dronos nodded in understanding.

"But what if," he decided to ask, "at the end of the Armageddon, when it does come, peace and order are finally restored to the Multiverse, what of your people? They cannot continue to live as a culture of war in that era."

The Qol'vandav-tal nodded, his eyes gazing distantly into the horizon. "I do not believe that my people will live to enjoy such a time."

The Savior of the Multiverse was taken aback. "Why?" was all he could ask.

The Qol'vandav-tal looked back at him, hands on the balcony rails. "When the End of Days dawns, my people are prophesied to be the very first to charge into the Great Battle. Our fates have been sealed to sacrifice ourselves for the greater good, and so shall it be."

"I do not believe that the end of your race would be destined as such," Lord Dronos answered, still unsure of the warlord's words.

The Qol'vandav-tal laughed, heartily. "For the mightiest man the Multiverse has seen, you are indeed a skeptic yourself!"

Lord Dronos laughed as well, scratching his head.

"Mere mortals have reason to question the scales of fate, do we not?" he replied.

"Even if it has already been set?"

"I do not believe that Fate's hand would have already dealt the cards; only point us to where we may be headed."

The warlord shook his head.

"Do you really think so, Lord Dronos? And would you say that you becoming the Savior has already been destined?"

Lord Dronos opened his mouth to reply, but he couldn't. That very question made him remember that it was never his choice. He never wanted to become the Savior of the Multiverse in the first place. Though the responsibility has grown into him, he cannot help but wonder if Fate had already signed him up for all this.

The Qol'vandav-tal stood up and walked towards Lord Dronos. Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, the Qol'vandav-tal looked him in the eyes.

"You are still young, Lord Dronos," he began, "and I can tell you that this Multiverse we inhabit possesses secrets we may never fathom in the long run. Fate is unkind. Fate is unjust. It is true we are the masters of our own fate. But ultimately, is it our choice? Or has it already been fated? Even I, who have lived over five centuries, cannot find a real answer. Or are we destined to find it after all?

"Heed my advice, Savior: there is yet a long road ahead of you. Just because you command one of the finest armies the Mutliverse has ever seen does not make you a capable leader. Just because you are a gifted psyker does not make you the master of all Life. Just because you banished the Darksun into an eternity of imprisonment does not make you a hero. In the end, we are still the victims of Fate. Any day, you may lose command of your glorious army, or admit defeat to another psyker, or fail to see the return of the Darksun - if it is such.

"Do not stop here, Lord Dronos. The journey is not over yet."

The Qol'vandav-tal patted Lord Dronos' shoulder and began to walk off, his guards keeping close to him.

Lord Dronos stood there and began to ponder the words of the Qol'vandav-tal, wondering if he would ever finally understand its secrets after all.

* * *

Being the only one to have visited the Qol'rash-nai homeworld, Lord Dronos compiled all that he has seen and heard in his journal - which is now missing after the recent Fall of DRONOS Ultima. After he departed from their homeworld, no one had ever set foot again on the barren world of Qol'nar ever again. However, there have been a number of sightings of Qol'rash-nai mercenaries out in the Multiverse, though not much else is known of them.

Shorts

Lord Savior Hayson stood there, his eyes firmly gazing at the tombstone in front of him. It was the final resting place of Reverend Father Isaiah Carver, one of the greatest heroes of the Kraymir Army of Excellion.

It might just be the last time he would come here.

He knelt in front of the tombstone, his sword firmly planted in the ground in front of him.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

“Reverend Father,” he began. “I have come before you to bid you farewell.

“There has been a call for help from the world of Isserand in the nearby Faramir System. An innumerable host of tyranid scum, a tendril of the Hive Fleet Kraken, has invaded the peaceful, verdant world. Their only mission is to feast, nothing more, draining the planet of its life till nothing is left but a barren rock. And if they are not stopped here, then many other shrine worlds will fall in their eternal thirst for all life.

“I have been chosen to lead our glorious forces there – comprising Ninth, Seventeenth, Twenty-Five, Twenty Eight, Thirty-First and Fortieth Regiments; elements of the Champion and Patriarch Fleets, led by my flagship, the Dawn of His Light; and supported by our auxiliary forces from Querom, Nagath and Baryntyr as well as our allies from near and far.

“But, despite the Church’s faith in the success of our crusade with the aid of our allies, I fear this would not be a simple task.

“We have been very fortunate that, in all recorded history, no other shrine world Multiversal wide has ever been invaded by the tyranids. Still, our brethren from our Church and of the others have faced them in battle countless times on many of our crusades, most recently being the Rhymvari Liberation Campaign that yet rages on. And they are indeed unlike our other foes.”

Hayson exhaled sharply.

“The tyranids are faithless,” he continued, “as they are fearless. They are not bound to the beliefs of a deity, a holy figurehead, or even a principle. They are not bound to the mortal emotion that is fear, as they are truly fear incarnate. I would not be surprised if they may be some manifestation of a long forgotten evil from the deepest regions of Hell, or perhaps they originate from the cold miasma of the Void itself. I do not know.

“How can it be that this race can even come into existence? Much like the Necrontyr would see the Multiverse cleansed of all life, the tyranids only exist to consume. And when nothing is left for them to devour, what then? While the necrons would return to their slumber and wait for life to begin anew, where else would the tyranids go if they have to wait millions of years, while planets have all been drained of their resources? Would their purpose end there and then? Would they resort to devouring their own?

“In hindsight, I see that their purpose will only lead them to a dead end.

“I must confess that I fear them. In fact, many of my finest warriors fear them as well. But fear is merely human emotion. Only in the faith we have in the Martyr that we may yet stand strong against this relentless tide of xenos filth.

“They are without number. But even while we number only in the thousands compared to their untold billions, there is still hope that we will emerge the victors. Many times have we proven to be their superior: Galatea, Macragge, Tellari, Khanbrad IV, Lusitania, Belrod. Though they have proven to be a worthy foe, with their adaptability, their willingness to embrace change and their sheer cunning, we can still best them even against all odds.

“The revered Grandmaster of the Holy Synod of His Most Glorious Will, Saint Jermaine Gautet; Lord Champion Bernenstein of Ankor; Lord High Savior Hugh McCraig of Judia; Lord Militant Supreme Kharnassus of Ichnoia and Verdas – these are a few names of great heroes who have triumphed over the tyranid scourge. If they can prove that the tyranid are still mortal beings, then we can do the same.

“Father, I pray that you will guide my sword and gun into the very heart of the battles to come. I pray you give me your wisdom and your fortitude to see through the most tumultuous of times, and I pray you will give the men the courage to face this fear and overcome it despite the odds. Let us prove that Humanity is indeed a superior race even with all our shortcomings. Only in adversity can we change.”

Hayson stood up and pulled his sword out. Sheathing it, he gave a formal salute before he quietly whispered.

“And as I forge through the fires of war, I pray that I may finally avenge your death, Father. I will find the Swarmlord, and I will bring its head back to you or die trying.”

He brought his hand down and strode away, hoping for the day he would meet the Swarmlord face-to-face.

And then he would kill it.

* * *

The War for Isserand saw the Kraymir Army of Excellion joining forces with the 11^th Cadian and 223^rd Death Korp of Krieg; the Dark Angels' Sixth Company; Titans of the Legio Gloriam; DRONOS’ Twentieth and Thirty-Fifth Legions; auxiliary forces from Querom, Nagath and Baryntyr; as well as a detachment of the Imperial Battlefleet Castille.

The war lasted close to twelve years with both sides at a stalemate. Ultimately, thanks to the aid of a unit of Magos Biologis led by Archmagos Vittorin and Ordo Xenos Inquisitor Orland, the tyranid tide was pushed back to the death world of Chalom. The Swarmlord of Hive Fleet Kraken made its appearance there twice: the first in the initial tyranid counterattack on the coalition’s first landing forces; the second in the final push against the tyranids’ final stronghold in what is now known as Scourge Canyon. After the fall of the stronghold, the splinter fleet was split asunder. Unfortunately, the splinter fleet broke into smaller hive fleets that have spread into the nearby systems. Currently, Imperial and DRONOS forces are still heavily involved in removing the tyranid presence within the region.

Lord Savior Donald Hayson was killed in action in the final stages of the Battle of Corralion’s Pass, the final decisive battle on Isserand. He was slain by the Hive Tyrant as he was leading his men into the fray, but his sacrifice brought the beast down and allowed the coalition to break through the tyranid line.

The head of the Swarmlord, unfortunately, was never brought back to Reverend Father Isaiah’s grave. No trace of the Swarmlord’s corpse was found, leading many to hypothesize that the tyranids reused its organic matter in resurrecting fallen Swarmlords.

Shorts

"My Lord," Counselor Markio De Szayne whispered to Planetary Governor Harrian Drovast. "I'm afraid the Warlord is not keen in any re-negotiations."

Drovast gave the meek counselor a cold stare, barely containing his rage at what he just heard.

"I am not going to allow those damned greenskins ruin anything," the Governor hissed in De Szayne's ear, his eyes seemingly close to falling out of their sockets.

"Tell him that our little deal is off - permanently," he added, before he walked away hurriedly to his office.

"But my Lord-" the adjutant began.

The Governor waved angrily, implying he didn't want to hear no more of it.

De Szayne gulped. He'd never thought this would come to happen. They'd been supplying the orks for a while now, but it seems this is the last straw for both parties.

Who in their right mind would try to smuggle out Leman Russ battle tanks to a hidden ork flagship hiding out in the nearby Rimenian Asteroid Field? And not just a few tanks, but an entire battalion's worth!

De Szayne started walking to his chambers, and he couldn't help but feel nervous. Extremely nervous. Emperor forgive him for getting involved in this fiasco. Maybe if he had reported this to the Administratum officials - and perhaps, even to the Ordo Xenos - none of this would happen.

Would the orks actually attack them? This would mean trouble, especially when the Administratum people start digging around into internal affairs.

But then again, if he didn't do something they would lose out to the orks.

De Szayne cursed under his breath. He decided he should report it NOW. Damn the old Governor for his damned foolishness.

Better late than never, after all.

As he set off with renewed determination, the entire world around him exploded.

* * *

It wasn't hard to see the bright explosive flash from the surface.

Warlord Krangorv Bludtank grinned sadistically, taking pride at his farsighted plan to plant a thermonuclear bomb in the Governor's Palace. Seems like he owes Shorgrab and his Kommandos another round of roo'lakoo - Krangorv's favorite alcoholic brew.

Next to him, Chief Mek Tantakoria of Da Noize was grinning too. His invention worked brilliantly.

"So, I guess we'ze gonna crump da pinky-fleshies now?" the Mek asked, his bionic eye still gazing at the fading explosion.

"In a bit, Tant," the Warlord replied, twirling his mighty blade in his right hand. "Da battle ain't gonna start so fazt, not untilz I getz wot I wan'."

The Mek nodded and walked away. "I'ze gonna be fixin' up da Fort, boss."

Krangorv didn't reply. He was too engrossed in thinking of how his victory here would resound across the stars. And by Gork and Mork, he felt damn excited about it.

A Draft Of Sorts: The Prequel to Terminator Retribution

Doing a little sci-fi writing again. This time I'm doing bits and pieces of a Terminator-based story, set several years after Terminator Salvation. Do comment on my work. Thanks. =)

PROLOGUE

Captain Matthew Deckard cursed the blasted machines as he reloaded his rifle behind a wall, laser beams flying non-stop over his head. Slamming the fresh magazine home, he cocked his weapon and offered a small prayer to God in his heart. The one thing he doesn't want to happen would be his men bringing him back to HQ in a body bag.

He stood out from cover and fired a burst of 5.56 bullets into the nearest T-800's head. The ominous cyborg skeleton stopped firing its T-65C Laser Rifle, its head rearing to face the Captain, red eyes burning bright in the night. Matthew's bullets pinged off its head harmlessly, and the T-800 brought its weapon to bear. But a split second before it could do so, the Captain armed his underslung grenade launcher and fired it at the hulking exoskeleton.

The 20mm grenade detonated with a loud thud, lifting the T-800 off its feet and crashed down in a pile of debris behind it. Matthew seized this chance and vaulted over the wall, dodging laser blasts that seemed to be directed at him, and ran over to the fallen machine. He saw it pulling itself up, trying to get its bearings, and without a moment to waste he loaded another grenade into his launcher and fired it almost immediately at the Terminator's face.

Another explosion, and the T-800 smashed into the pile of junk again. The Captain slid over to the machine, an unpinned frag grenade in his hand, and placed it on the T-800's neck. He made a quick leap away from the thing, seconds before the grenade blew up and blew its head into millions of pieces. Metal pieces flew all over the place, some of it raining down on him. He cursed again, but he cursed out of the joy he got from blowing that motherfucker up.

He quickly unloaded his current clip, just as another T-800 smashed through the concrete block in front of him. As it saw Matthew lying prone on the ground, it raised its ominous weapon at the Captain. This time Matthew cursed his bad luck.

Just as the machine was about to press the trigger, an RPG slammed into its head and detonated violently, forcing him to cover his head as metal fragments scattered all over the immediate area. As the smoke cleared, he saw the T-800 was missing its head - split wires sparking from the stump of its neck. Slowly it collapsed to the ground with a noisy smash, the gun falling out from its hand. The Captain cursed again and thanked God he was still alive. Damn, it felt good to stay alive.

The sounds of battle were beginning to die down. He heard a few more explosions, before he heard footsteps approaching, and in a couple of moments Private Sergei appeared before him, a smoking RPG launcher in his grip. The soldier was grinning from ear to ear.

"Guess you owe me a beer, sir," he said unapologetically.

Matthew returned the smile and shook his head. "That I do, Private," he replied, giving the trooper a light punch in the shoulder.

His earpiece began to crackle. Looks like someone was trying to reach him. The damn static was making it hard to hear who it was. He adjusted the frequency here and there before he finally got the reception.

"....hew, come in Captain," he heard the gruff voice in his ear. No doubt it was Lieutenant Kade informing him the other bots have been dealt with.

"This is Captain Matthew," he said into the mouthpiece, as he stood up and loaded a new clip into his weapon. The Private holstered his launcher behind him and took up his Uzi hanging from his belt. "Report."

"All hostiles neutralized, sir," the Lieutenant replied curtly. "Area is secured."

He nodded to himself. "Good," he replied, surveying the scene around him.

It was a mess. Everywhere around him was nothing but debris. The blackened shells of cars all around, pieces of rubble lying on the ground, dirt all over - sometimes he wondered what exactly he was fighting for when there's nothing left to be claimed. The machines were to blame for all this.

But then again...

"And we have some unexpected company, sir," the Lieutenant's voice crackled through the earpiece.

Matthew raised an eyebrow. Could it be more bad news? He sure hoped not.

"What, Collective?" he asked.

There was a moment of silence over the comms. Then, "Resistance, sir."

This was surprising. Apart from Unit 13, there weren't any other Resistance forces defending the area. Could they be runners? Well, if they were then that would be good news. They'd probably have some intel or some shit to give.

"Alright, I'm coming over," he answered.

"We're over at Road 7, sir," came the Lieutenant's reply before he logged off.

He gripped his weapon tightly before he signalled Sergei to move on. They made a quick jog through the battlefield, passing by a few T-800 corpses here and there. Matthew noted how many of them had their heads blown clean off, thanks to the generous use of high explosive weapons. All of which, of course, were extensively modified to give the necessary kick to knock their armored heads off their torsos.

The T-800s were mean sons-of-bitches, and Skynet knew what it was doing when it chose this specific model to be the mainstay of its armies. They were fucking hard to kill no thanks to the implementation of a tough composite alloy Skynet had developed, plus the fact they possessed the strength to bash through almost any substance with their bare hands. And add to the fact they used highly accurate laser rifles to nail any unlucky bloke who happens to be in their optics.

But thankfully, the T-800s are not invincible as they were believed to be.

As they cam closer to Road 7, Matthew suddenly saw the three dead Resistance troopers over by some sandbags. He ordered Sergei to stop moving before he walked over to the fallen men, the Private following close behind, eyes trained on the surroundings in case of an Aerostat. The Captain knelt down before one of the dead men, and gingerly took the man's dog tag in his right hand. He looked closely at it and the name inscribed on the tag: Devlan Anders.

Matthew sighed. Devlan was his squad's lean mean fighting machine. He'd always have his SAW prepped and ready just in case an encounter would happen. And whenever he was in the fight, he'd never fail to make a clear point that the humans aren't just walking meat. And now here he lay.

Still, him and his buddies must have gone down in a good fight. Matthew scrathced his nose for awhile, thinking of how Devlan must have felt moments before he died. Well, he wouldn't know.

Sergei was silently offering a prayer to God for the three, while Matthew collected the dog tags from the other two. Carran Lee and Michael Richmond.

God, how many more people have to die before they can get back to the life they once knew? When will Skynet finally admit defeat? The Captain wonders if he'll ever find the answers to those questions.

They set off after retrieving the dog tags, and in a minute or two they finally met up with the rest of the squad. Lieutenant Kade was speaking with one of the medics before he spotted the Captain approach. He quickly made his way to his CO and saluted.

"How many wounded, Kade?"

He shrugged. "Just Daniel," he nonchalantly replied, as they walked along to the temporary triage centre Kade's men had set up. "Grazed in the leg, but he'll be fine."

Matthew nodded. He noticed two men to his left, smoking cigs while they sat close to a campfire, and realized they weren't part of his squad.

Kade noticed the Captain look at the troopers. "They're not part of us," he responded. "Come from Unit 18 up north, they said."

He frowned upon hearing that. What are troopers all the way from San Francisco doing here in Los Angeles? He might have to question them later.

"How many of them?" he decided to ask.

"Nineteen of them. One's dying."

"I see." A dying man is always a grim situation. "No chance we can save him?"

Kade shook his head sadly. "Doc Carlos did what he could," he said, eyes low.

They reached Carlos Maguire, the squad physician, who was already packing up his gear with the help of his orderlies and one of Kade's men. He saw the Captain and gave a partial salute, still focused on the task at hand.

"How is he?" the Captain asked the doctor. Carlos looked up at Matthew for awhile, and then sighed.

"He's gone," came his reply, lined with disappointment.

"You did your best, doc," Matthew reassured him, patting the medic on the back. Carlos smiled sadly and nodded.

"He's over there, being watched over by his friend," Carlos added, pointing to the makeshift ward behind him with his thumb. Matthew thanked him and walked to the ward, Kade following behind. He pushed the tent flaps aside and stepped in, greeted with the smell of medicine and blood. On the foldable bed lay the soldier, now dead, while his friend sat on a stool next to him, silently gazing at the corpse like a statue.

Matthew coughed lightly, and it woke the visitor from his reverie. He stood up in surprise, before he realized he was in the company of a Captain.

"Sir," he managed to say, before he made a prompt salute.

Matthew nodded. "At ease," he told the man, eyeing him closely. For some reason, this young fella had a very familiar looking face. Like he'd seen this guy before, maybe even met him.

"Have we met before?" he decided to venture.

The soldier looked at him a little quizzically. "I-I'm sorry?" he responded with a confused look.

Matthew shook his head. "Never mind the question."

The soldier went "Oh" and nodded. There was a moment of silence.

Matthew looked at the dead man for a brief moment. "You know him?" he asked.

The soldier looked back at his dead comrade. "Not quite, sir," he replied, a little shakily. "But he saved my life."

"I'm sorry to hear that, son."

The young man sighed, looking down on the floor. "I don't understand why he did that for."

"It's only fitting that every man fights for each other's safety," Matthew replied as he walked over to the bed, his eyes still on the newcomer. "Instincts tell us it's only right that we protect one another from harm, even if it means putting our life on the line."

The soldier shook his head. "I've made lots of risks for other people, but it always seems like... they are the ones who fall. Not me."

Matthew could tell this was a very demoralized man. He couldn't really do much to help him, though. What he needs is an expert on these things. Maybe that would help him.

"Which unit are you from, son?" he decided to ask, changing the topic.

"Unit 4, sir," came his reply.

Matthew stopped pacing when he heard the name. Unit 4? That can't be right, he thought. All that remains of Unit 4 has been evenly assimilated into the other Resistance Units in North America. Much of it was annihilated in the failed assault on Skynet's Detroit Foundries. And it was from that course of action that the Collective was formed and split from the Resistance.

He felt something was amiss. He probably knew Kade realized that as well.

"Unit 4 is long gone, soldier," Matthew said to the man, his hand very slowly reaching towards his holstered pistol. "They were destroyed utterly, and the survivors were transfered to other units in the region."

The young man nodded. "I know that, sir," he replied, not at all surprised. "My father was leading the unit, and he was the one to blame. The one who actually killed the unit. The one who split the Resistance apart."

Here he sighed solemnly. "The blood of thousands of men, either dead, wounded or emotionally scarred, was on his hands." He raised his own hands and gazed at them. "But," he then added, with a tone of sadness, "why must I shoulder his failures as well?"

Mathew couldn't tell if his ears were playing tricks. But could it be...?

"What's your name, son?" he asked, almost in a whisper.

The soldier's hands dropped onto his knees. He then looked up and into the Captain's eyes. It was only then Matthew saw the resemblance.

"My name is John Connor, sir."

The Dream

The first thing that came into Verne's mind was "Am I in?"

He blinked. He looked around. He was standing in a verdant field of grass. Fine, soft grass that you usually see in the movies. But then again most planets have that kind of grass. Mother Nature has her ways sometimes.

Anyway, he stood in that grass field while he wondered where he was. He took a deep breath, and got a whiff of the fresh country air. And the fresh scent of the grass. He looked up at the sky and saw how sunny it was. Thankfully there was sufficient cloud cover, which meant it wouldn't be too hot.

He took his first few steps before he realized he was barefoot. He looked down at his feet and frowned. Where had his shoes gone to? They might not be anything special, but they were his shoes.

Yes, he thought to himself, I am in.

He continued walking on before he saw a tree. He had no idea where the tree came from. It just stood there by itself in the middle of a grass field, its leaves flapping in the slight breeze. He walked up to it, stopping only a few feet away from it. He stroked its bark lightly with his left hand, feeling the tough, gnarled wood on his fingers and palm. He took a quick sniff at the bark, and could tell from its mint-like scent that it was a pine from the Dvordanian species. Such species of pine always had a very nice minty smell to them.

So... this could be Dvordania. But then again Dvordanian pines and other such variants of the species can also be found elsewhere. He frowned at the insight.

He looked around again, hoping to find some other hint to where he was. Then lo and behold he saw a signboard that, moments ago, didn't seem to be standing quite close to the tree.

He casually went to it, examining the words inscribed on it. Some of the words were faded, but he could still tell what it said. The sign said:

WELCOME TO RUANIS, CANARIS IV

Population: 300 000

Home to Beautiful Sights of the Ruanian Mounts

Enjoy your Stay!

Canaris IV. Thargorium System. Haladi Galaxy. Yorkshire Universe.

Verne frowned again and stroked his chin. There must be a mistake. Why is he here on this planet? It's known only as a pretty substandard holiday destination, plus the fact it's in a Universe that has little significance to even the Forces of Disorder ever since the collapse of the Hykhani Gate in the Gor'than Region.

So why here? What was he being led to?

He heard the sound of laughter, and it caught him by surprise. He reached for his holstered K&M 9mm, but then remembered he didn't have it with him at the moment. Only instincts kicking in.

He turned around, and there on his left there was a family. A father, his wife and two kids who were busy chasing a butterfly as it flew (in a seemingly panicked way) all around the parents. Verne noted that they were having a picnic. It seemed like fun.

The parents were smiling and laughing away at the antics of their kids. The kids were really enjoying themselves. The butterfly, if it could talk, would probably say how devilish they were and how they needed to learn manners. IF it could talk.

The family paid no heed to Verne's presence. It's obvious that they don't realize he's even there in the first place. It didn't bother him any bit.

In front of Verne was a river. It flowed pretty fast, but not as fast as others. Maybe it flowed from a lake somewhere nearby. He couldn't really think of any lakes on the planet at the moment, though.

There was something about the river, though. He noticed there was something strange about it. Was it the color of the water flowing? He raised an eyebrow. Then he took a few steps forward.

Yes there definitely was something about the water. However the shining sun didn't make it easy for him to see the difference. Verne decided to kneel and scoop some of the water, hoping to find something.

There was an odour in the air. It smelled a little like ozone. Thankfully it didn't stink that badly.

And then he looked back at his hands as they held some of the river water. The water was red.

It was blood.

A scream. Verne almost jumped. He looked up and saw the same family he was watching earlier on. It seemed the little girl screamed, and now she was running for her father. Both her parents looked agitated. Worried even. Where has their boy gone to?

The sky was getting darker. Was it now? Verne glanced to the heavens and saw thunder clouds looming. Very fast. Very, very fast in fact. He couldn't help but gulp.

Something was looming from the horizon. It looked like smoke. There was a tremor, and the girl began to cry. The young boy had returned to his parents, crying too. Verne wondered what was going on.

The sky was almost pitch black. Thunder boomed from somewhere as lightning began to flash. It also began to rain. There was another smell taking the place of ozone. God, it smelled horrible. Like it was the smell of a thousand rotting, bloated corpses piled on top of one another and left for the vultures to pick on.

There was something about the rain too. As it began to pour, Verne realized it was raining blood. He felt a little disgusted. Calm yourself, he told himself, you've faced things like these before haven't you? Yes he had. He should just-

The tremors became greater in magnitude. The family remained where they were, both children crying softly now. Both parents were hushing them in whispers. Verne was worried about what was next.

And moments later it happened.

The earth began to split. Without warning, a crack appeared on the surface and edged its way in a zig-zag. The crack split open in between the family, separating the father from the mother. The children began to cry again, the girl crying for dad and the boy for mother. Verne fell when the crack continued to burst open, sundering the ground only a few inches away from his feet.

The shock ran down his spine. It took him a while before he decided to pull himself up.

The storm raged on unabated. The rain of blood had stopped, Verne noted, but then it started raining fire. Raining fire? Before Verne could even register it, everything suddenly exploded in a bright flash. A flash of colors. Verne shut his eyes almost immediately and crouched down on the grass - if it was still grass.

And what followed were screams. Dear God, those screams would be burned in his head for all eternity. It was the small, unfortunate family - they were screaming. In pain. In agony. In fear. Their screams were echoing across the entire area. Their screams echoed in the deep corners of Verne's mind. Their screams almost seemed like they would never end.

The cries of the children especially were the worst. They would just cry and cry. But it didn't sound like they were upset. They were crying from the pain.

Verne risked a glance. He saw madness all around him. A rage of colors twisting and mixing in entropy, where the sky once was. Everywhere around him everything was distorted. Twisted in malice, in sadism, in evil. Twisted by the Warp.

Around him the screams went on. Verne shut his ears with both his hands and screamed as well. But he was screaming for everything to stop.

He risked another glance. In front of him, where the family had stood, were instead four daemons. Daemons? They had to be daemons; everything around here was in the tainted grip of the Empyrean. God, had they seen him? If they did he'd be in trouble.

The screams had somehow turned into laughter. Bone-chilling laughter. Sadistic laughter. Laughter that seemed to eat at your soul, consuming it utterly. It was all too much to take. He had to get out. Get out, get out, get out...

Another tremor, and the ground in front of the daemons exploded. Dirt, mud and sand scattered far and wide. The ground started caving in, forcing the daemons to back off quickly or else fall to their doom.

There was a loud groan. Verne thought it was the ground as it gave way to the quakes. Then a hand appeared from the depths of the sinkhole. A giant hand.

Moments later, a grotesque face appeared from the ground. Grotesque couldn't even fit the description of what he saw. But Verne just couldn't take it and puked the contents of his stomach out onto the ground. It felt as though he was retching for a full minute.

The monster hauled itself out of the sinkhole. The four lesser daemons began to laugh - that very same spine-chilling laugh - and dance around their master or whatever it was. It chuckled at the sight of its minions showing their servitude to him.

And God, he smelled worse than a pile of rotting bodies. He smelled like... like... Verne began to retch again as the horrific stench began to seep into his nostrils and pollute his airways. He honstly felt like dying right there, had he not steeled himself much earlier in anticipation for something like this.

But nevertheless, it was still too much for him to handle.

It took him awhile before he realized the monstrosity was looking at him. Right at him.

Verne didn't take any chances. He began to bound away as fast as he could. He could hear its minions cackling as they gave chase after him. He started to pray, pray that he would come out of this alive, pray that everything will be-

* * *

Verne woke up with a start, and realized microseconds later that he was drenched. He looked up above him and saw Major Jude Revenian. He looked around worriedly before he realized he was in the Major's room, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

He saw the Major was carrying a bucket. And standing next to the Major was Colonel Tyrone Jermanis of DRONOS' 81st Legion, 12th Company. The both of them were looking worried.

He coughed. "How long was I out?" he asked the Major, rubbing his eyes.

Jude shrugged. "Twelve minutes, approximately," he replied.

Verne nodded and slowly stood up from the makeshift bed they prepared for him on the floor. Tyrone quickly stepped forward to offer a hand, but Verne held up his own hand first, asking him to wait.

Behind the Colonel, Dr Hanson LeChaye was doing some scans. After about a minute or two, he nodded to himself and turned to face the other three.

"He's clean, gentlemen," the scientist announces smilingly. "Zero percent Warp residue in his mind."

"Thank you, Doctor," the Major promptly answered, before offering his hand to help Verne.

"I'm fine, Jude. I can walk by myself."

"Even after what you saw there?"

Verne stopped and looked at his friend. It was pretty damn obvious that Jude was agitated, but of all the others he knows that what Verne is doing is necessary in any case. Risks are a part of the whole plan.

"Jesus, Verne," the Major added, a tinge of disapproval in his tone, "if it wasn't for the fact you were convulsing and puking all over the floor, I'd not have dunked you."

Verne noted the mess he made not far from his makeshift bed and frowned.

"It's all part of the risks," Verne calmly replied, pouring himself a shot of Jude's Tellavirum whiskey. "You of all people should know that."

The Colonel stepped forward with a look of uncertainty. "What did you see this time?" he asked the psychic.

Verne drank the whiskey deeply. Setting his glass down, he responds: "A world called Canaris IV. It's in the Thargorium System, Haladi Galaxy, Yorkshire Universe."

The Major raised a quizzical eyebrow. "And?"

Verne kept staring at his glass. Everything he saw, everything he's heard... it still chills him.

"Chaos will pour forth when it begins to rain fire and when pestillence spreads near and far. The daemon is at work here, aided by its armies of heretics."

The Colonel was really looking displeased now. "This cannot be allowed to happen," he said after a moment of silence. "Despite the fact Canaris IV is a relatively unimportant location, it is still very close to Order's territories as well as the borders into the Outer Fringes."

The Major nodded, mostly to himself. "I'll ring up High Command and tell them what we're up against. Hopefully we'll have a couple of psychic knights to help out."

Before the Major got to leaving, Verne turned around to face him.

"Have them send us a contingent of Grey Knights as well, if possible" he told Jude.

Jude stopped dead in his tracks and faced Verne, a bewildered look clearly written on his face.

Verne sighed. "The bad news is whichever damned force is coming over to Canaris IV, they're summoning a Greater Daemon of Nurgle. The worse news is, they're summoning Ghovorraash the Pestilent."

* * *

'I am the instrument of Father Nurgle's will
I spread the joys of the Rot
I enlighten these mortals in my pestillence
I show them what it truly is to be clean
I teach them how to purify the unclean


Fear me ye mortals
I am Ghovorraash
Devourer of Impure Hearts
Scourge Host of the Pestillent
Poisoner of True Minds
Let this be fair warning
For I shalt not be kind to ye


Feast I shall
Until all of the Universe becomes Nurgle's own.'

Voyage of the Golden Dream: An Excerpt

The Golden Dream wandered lazily as it traveled through the warp, powering its way towards the Sanghrel System after its detour in the Mairensol System, analyzing the local populations of the inhabited worlds and their growth. The planet's satellite system failed to detect the ship's presence there, thankfully, as it was not to be discovered by anyone - not yet, anyway.

The Sojourner stood by the bridge's viewport, admiring the strange beauty of the warp, a mixture of colors and strange anomalies that appeared here and there, then disappeared from sight, like optical illusions. In all actuality, they were more than just mind tricks. The Sojourner was always perplexed by its unique yet dangerous nature to those who travel using the warp.

He was very much used to the loneliness that enveloped him now, accompanied by the chiming of the automated controls in the bridge. He preferred to stay away from the hustle and bustle of civilization and its businesses. Many millenia ago, he was like them: working their lives away as they feared the impending threat of war that would shatter their peaceful lives, worrying of themselves, their loved ones and friends... those times have long past him.

He was now the Sojourner, the chosen Herald of the Brightest, the mysterious race that was as old and as intelligent as the Masters Of Technology themselves. There were many tasks he must accomplish, and so far he has completed two hundred and ninety-seven thousand out of the five hundred thousand he was entrusted to complete. Not bad actually for twelve millenia worth of work.

The Golden Dream's artificial intelligence projected itself above the hologram console next to the Sojourner. It took the form of a Terran, much like the Sojourner was before he was Herald, though the AI was female and the Sojourner is male. She looked at the standing figure, not noticing her appearance.

"Still amused, Sojourner?" she enquired.

The Sojourner didn't turn to look. "I prefer to be alone, Syra," he replied sternly.

The AI, Syra, folded her arms and continued to glare at the Sojourner. Though still an AI, Syra was designed to be first and foremost a counselor to the Sojourner in all matters. He still didn't understand why the Brightest wanted a monitor for him, but probably it's to ensure he does what he must do. Or possibly to understand the human - or even his - mind a little more.

"The Golden Dream has been in warp for three hours," she told him, "and it won't be another twelve before we arrive at our destination. You should rest to prepare for the next task."

"I am always ready, Syra," he answered as he turned away from the viewpoint and walked towards his chair. He sat down, and from the left armrest a glass of lemonade materialized. He held the glas and took a sip, his eyes still on the viewport and ignoring Syra's presence.

She sighed deeply. Are all humans like him? she wondered. She never did meet any of the people the Sojourner met on his endeavour, let alone set foot on the planets he went to. It was all about secrecy; no one is to know of their existence, or it may jeopardize her creator's plans.

"In any case, you should listen to this," she then continued, willing one of the holo-monitors to activate. It displayed the starchart of the entire Sanghrel System, a five planet, four moon solar system orbiting the seventy-nine million year old Sanghrel Star, inhabited by 62 trillion people. Also displayed were several stray asteroids from the Glathus Asteroid Belt some fifteen light years from the system, and the passing Tarkin Comet that was soon to make its fly-by of the primary world, Sanghrel Secundus.

A location was highlighted on the starchart and magnified, showing a unit of three Imperial cruisers on routine patrol.

"So, we have a problem," he noted nonchalantly.

"Indeed, we do," she said half-heartedly. "By the time we arrive, we will be in their peripheral field of detection. It's unavoidable."

This is indeed grave news, the Sojourner told himself. For so long, they had evaded detection by the many races of the Multiverse and completed their missions without any problem. But now, due to a freak of nature, they weren't as lucky as they were previously. Perhaps this was what the Sojourner's superiors had warned him of: the time when he cannot remain hidden anymore. Had it already come?

"How long can the shields last before we make another warp?" he then asked Syra.

She looked astounded at his suggestion. Her arms akimbo, she replied sternly, "You intend to retreat?"

He nodded. "It's the only option, but only for awhile. Nothing else can be done."

"Shouldn't we retaliate?" she retorted, still upset. "Shouldn't we defend ourselves from their attacks, rather than become sitting ducks?"

He gave her a cold glare, and she immediately shut up.

"Are we even supposed to? Don't forget that we're not here to start a war, but to end all wars. Need I remind you? Or have you almost forgotten Bentakh Qurashi?"

She sighed with regret over her words, and the embarrassment over that previous incident. "I'm sorry," she apologized, looking rather ashamed. "I... got carried away."

"Make sure you don't, Syra," the Sojourner replied nonchalantly, drinking up his lemonade. "You're beginning to display Rage. Don't let the sin consume you."

"It won't," she said, reassuringly.

"Then I hope you're right."

They remained silent for a brief moment, lost in each other's thoughts. The Sojourners disintigrated the glass into nothing, and sighed as the psychadelic view of warpspace bend and distort, caused by the strange forces residing in it. Syra was just like that, always unpredictable and headstrong. It could mean trouble for her if she doesn't keep herself in check. It could also mean their deaths, and the failure of their herculean task.

An event he prayed will never ever happen.

But surely they would have had a backup plan; the Brightest were after all the race that came before the rise of the Technolords. Surely they would have one in case their plans could not reach fruition in the given timeframe?

But how sure is he? They had not contacted him nor any other race since their 'disappearance' countless millenia ago. They may have been consumed by the Old Gods; they may have been exterminated by the C'tan; they may have died of extinction - the possibilities are endless. Who can say?

"So," he then spoke, "what are our chances of escaping alive?"

"At most a probability of 129 percent, which means extreme survivability," she replied. After saying that, she gave him a glare and said: "I thought you knew that already?"

He laughed softly. "Just asking," he murmured to himself.

She gave him a sneer before she faded away, back to consult with the Golden Dream's Monitor within the mainframe. The Sojourner was alone again, but he didn't complain. He was better off alone and he like it that way.

He checkd the ship's time: still about eleven and a half hours left to arrival. And then it'll all happen: the violent fury of weaponry unleashed by the cruisers, smashing the shields of the vessel and probably turning it into scrap metal - provided the shields buckled before the enemy's ammo reserves went out. That would take them forever, though...

He relaxed in his seat, his eyes still watching the vivid changing colors of warpspace through the viewport. He suddenly felt tired, and slowly his eyes began to close as he drifted off into sleep....

....as a verse from an old Terran tune slowly repeated itself over and over again in his mind:

Don't know why I left the homestead,
I really must confess,
I'm a weary exile, singing my song of loneliness...

Homecoming - Part 1

As Aiur came into his view, Executor Rydas sighed with sadness, noting the floating Zerg vessels that orbited his now-ruined homeworld, and the bright lights that dotted the surface, signifying burning Protoss cities. It seemed so long ago since he left Aiur, and now coming back made him feel depressed. Who would have known the Zerg would have finally found them?

Truth be told, he longed to see his homeworld again after the numerous victories he claimed against the Zerg within the farthest reaches of space. He longed to return to his birth place and feel the soft grass under his feet, breathe in the fresh fragrant air and reunite with old comrades and tell tales of their victories and experiences. Now it seemed like all his hopes were dashed.

"Executor, the fleet is prepared," called out his second-in-command, Praetor Yaren as he stood behind Rydas. Almost as old as Rydas was, Yaren was the best warriors Rydas has in his fleet and he was proud to serve with him throughout the years. They were almost inseparable, Rydas and Yaren. Everyone knew that fact, and respected it as much as they respected each other.

"Have all elements begin the assault immediately," Rydas replied, still gazing at the planet from the viewport. "Judicator Aldaris and Prelate Zeratul await us on the surface. The longer we delay, the faster they will fall."

"Yes, Executor."

"Once all the Zerg attackers have been dealt with, prepare the ground forces to secure the landing zone. Make sure all survivors have been rescued."

"I understand, Executor. I will lead the ground assault myself."

"You always do, Praetor. Now go. Our brethren are in peril."

As the Praetor turned away to leave, Rydas had a thought.
"And Yaren," he then added, just as Yaren was almost out of the door.

"Executor?" he enquired, curiously.

Rydas turned around to face the Praetor and sighed.

"Be careful, old friend."

Yaren chuckled to himself. "You need not worry of me, Rydas. En Taro Adun!"

Yaren left the room. Rydas turned back to face Aiur again. The Carriers had begun launching their offensive upon the Zerg's space force, a titanic clash between mighty Protoss ships and hordes of Zerg flyers bombarding each other. He sighed again. Truly this wasn't much of a homecoming.

"Take us into the battle," he ordered the ship's navigational drive. His flagship began to spin around like a lumbering giant as it moved to join the fleet. If this was how it was meant to be, then so be it. The Zerg will not find him lacking.

The Chase

The cold snowy ground crumbled under Private Jansen deVire's feet as he ran for his dear life. Once in a while he turned back to look out for his pursuers, hoping that they wouldn't gain on him. It sounds impossible to escape from them, but if no one tried how would they know?

It was a risk Jansen never intended to make, but in the end it was necessary. At least he had his armor, and in this cold, it'd provided him the heat needed so he wouldn't freeze. But would he last long?

Jansen checked his rifle as he ran: 97 rounds left. Fuck, he thought. It would take more than what he has now to strike down all his enemies. With only this much left and no spare ammo, it'd mean game over for him. But this game over doesn't come with a restart.

He heard them thunder after him, and it made his blood boil. They must have been toying around with him, so they let him run ahead before they do. But their patience must've been expended by now - if they had patience, of course. Switching his gun's firing rate to "Semi", Jansen let loose a few rounds wildly at his pursuers. He couldn't let them get him, and he couldn't let his rifle's only rounds go to waste.

Another three rounds poured out violently from his weapon. He heard one of them scream in pain as a bullet tear flesh and bone. Out of satisfaction, he barked at them gloriously. Their thundering feet seemed to sound much faster than before. This would mean...

...he's fucked.

Running on for his life, Jansen misses a step and trips on his own feet., slamming hard into the ground. His rifle fell away from his grip, and he cursed under his breath. He heard them approach, now so slowly as they knew he was about to die. Not wanting to give up, Jansen crawled as quickly as he could toward his gun. One of them lunged forward and kicked him aside into a fallen tree. He howled in pain as he crashed hard into its bark.

The others ran up to him and threw him around here and there, seemingly enjoying this whole new ball game. Jansen, utterly terrified and angered at the same time, desperately tried to escape them but all to no avail. It seemed his death draweth near...

He crashed into the ground again, cursing the beasts at their amusement. He turned to look away, and there in front of him, his rifle beckonned. It seemed none of them noticed the gun that lay right next to him at all, oblivious in their excitement to toy with their prey.

With lightning quick reflexes, he reached out for the rifle and grabbed it. In a split second he noted its ammo indicator - now at 67 - and cocked the gun, just in time before they realized what juist happened.

"Assholes," he spat at them, before the gun spewed fire and tore the heads of half the group off. The rest backed off as he fired another salvo, tearing their brains apart as the whizzing projectiles punched through their cranium in a bloody mess. So much for protection, he thought.

The gun clicked on empty. Just as one more was about to be blown apart by him.

The foe spun around to face Jansen. He was perspiring excessively under the helm, but he knew he couldn't let his fear be seen. Both of them stared at each other for a while, before the attacker growled.

"Come on, you bitch," Jansen murmured to the hunter, as he held the rifle like a club. His eyes gazed longingly at the sky as he thought of home. Winter has just begun, and he hopes his family's doing fine.

Both sides waited for a fleeting moment before they lunged at each other's throat.

* * * * *

The cold snowy ground was stained with fresh red blood as the Zergling fed itself on the clawed remains of Private Jansen deVire. It looked up from its meal and watched its surroundings intently, before it ululated a loud and piercing shriek into the air.

There was just enough for a few more Zerglings. They would come soon. It just knows.

As it went back to feasting, the air began to pour with snowflakes.

Part 1 - Rise of the Technolords

The history of the mighty Technolords, Masters of Technology and Science, remains shrouded even till today. Not much is known of their birth, but according to myth they were born from the forges of the Machine God sometime after the creation of the first planets. He had left the Firstborn, now famously known as the First King of the Technolords, on one of the newly born worlds in the Galaxaria Universe.

When the Firstborn awoke, the Machine God commanded him to explore the new world, still in its chaotic equilibrium-achieving state, and tell Him all that he had seen. The Firstborn did as he was told an for a few months the Firstborn scoured the world and understodd its every crevice, every new feature, every valley and every corner of the planet. He also learned of the arts of forging as the Machine God implemented His skills to his newest champion.

The Firstborn soon returned to his God and told Him of everything he saw. The Machine God then commanded him to build the first of his kind using his newfound skills and experience. Then he left, and the Firstborn did as he was told. When he finally succeeded in creating thirty brothers, the Machine God came back and "asketh the Firstborn to build him the greatest city in the Multiverse, so that all may know of their might and power." (extracted from the Technolord Historica, Fifth Edition, by Hunrath Ghuldyr) The city was to be named Technovva, which meant "City of the Divine Word of Technology" in their tongue, Machinespeak. It will serve as the primary worshipping site of the Machine God as well as the hub of technological advancement. Their road to glory will begin to grow from here.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

A Very Long History Lesson - Coming Soon

LOL, you read right. There's gonna be a very long post on the rise of the Technolords, the most powerful race in the entire Multiverse. It can get a bit boring, but for those who really enjoy sci-fi, this is very interesting. I just hope that you will enjoy it. But for now, I'll be doing some other very important things here. So I leave you with this short extract on the Vythan Conflict. Cheers!

"The Vythan Conflict would forever be remembered as one of the most decisive battles in the history of the Fannorix System. The Pythraeneons had led a massive incursion upon the planet and had defeated the local Planetary Defence Force within four months. The Technolords led a small assault force to reclaim the planet and the war began with the major Battle Over Vythan that saw fifteen Pythraeneon warships crushed in the initial bombardment by the Technolord flagship The Second King's Remorse.

"However, the conflict turned rather sour when the Pythraeneons called for the Sykharim's assistance. At that time, both these races were part of the so-called Coalition between them and two more races. Thus, the Sykharim led a fleet of twenty hundred of their mighty juggernaughts against the Remorse and its fifteen ship escort. Out of the sixteen, only the Remorse and nine ships survived. The Sykharim bolstered their efforts with more reinforcements sent from the nearby Thrangal System, increasing their fleet size to thirty hundred assorted ships.

"The tides were finally turned when the Remorse's Ship Commander, Khrrundarik Azzarenthadzgar, finally decided to unleash his ship's most powerful weapon: the Star Render, a mighty cannon that could literally rip stars in two with its enormous supernova burst. Knowing it may rend the planet as well, he powered a defensive iota-shield around the planet before firing the cannon a split second later.

"And the rest, they say, is history."
- Forian Kells, Major Battles

The Great Races - An Extract

The Great Races - twenty seven races born during the Early Years of Life. Everyone who studies Multiversal History will always know those names. Among them:

- the Mirakhys (now the Sykharim)

- the Tyrgholl

- the Hegemonians

- the Vythrandar

- the Gorin'thalas (now the Pythraeneons)

- the Nakraynal

- the Voolan

- the Rjaar

- the Sidious

- the Loreans

- the Ganthrians

Each of these races became the first who dominated the Multiverse, and who were the first who met the all-powerful Technolords, at the time on their Great Vigil to discover new races within the Multiverse. However, out of the twenty-seven Great Races, now only nine remain: the Sykharim, the Pythraeneons, the Sidious, the Ganthrians, the Tyrgholl, the Vaydani, the the Hegemonians, the Koorish, and the Daariqal.

No one can say for certain for how long these races will last. The Tyrgholl are retreating to the safety of their god's home within the lost Silence; the Chaos-worshipping Sykharim are dwindling in numbers after countless failed crusades against Order; the Koorish are fleeing from their now-destroyed homeworld; their time is running out. How much longer will they remain on the face of the Multiverse?

- Damian Kronson, The Great Races and their Decline

A Brief Introduction to the Multiverse

Extracted from the scriptures written by Lord Ahraiel Hyrrden of the Tyrgholl Empire, first edition:
The Multiverse - a collective of untold billions upon trillions of Universes in a concept similar to that of our Universe itself. The Multiverse is the physical realm of existence that lies between Heaven, Hell and the lost dimensions of the Silence and the Dark Dimension, home of the bloodthirsty Kyrilnon host. Bordering the Multiverse is the Twisting Nether, the only line that separates these realms from each other, where daemons reside and angels refuse to tread.

Heaven and Hell has been at war with each other for generations, since the beginning of Existence itself. Both factions have been deadlocked in an endless war that has raged on for so long, no one truly knows who is the real victor over each other. Both sides have taken heavy casualties, and both refuse to submit to one another. It will never end until the Time of End - Judgment Day - finally comes, when the Multiverse will be torn apart by powers beyond mortal understanding.

Those of Order and Disorder now stand on the point of no return. The Doomsday Clock is now only three minutes away from twelve, and the wars that rage across the Multiverse have grown in size compared to the previous years of the Dawn of Disorder. Planets and stars cower in fear as daemon spawn poison the galaxies with the taint of Chaos, star gods devour hapless worlds in moments, billions die in the fires of war, plagues ravage whole Universes, and races slowly die out against the onslaught of war throughout the Multiverse. Perhaps Time has come for our generation to end in order to bring about the ascension of the new? Perhaps Heaven or Hell should give in to form new foundations for the Multiverse? No one can say for sure.

The never ending wars continue to tear at the souls and spirits of the inhabitants of the Multiverse. As Order's factions desperately rise to counter the threat posed by Disorder, the Multiverse teeters on the brink of collapse. It will only be inevitable to see that the Multiverse may never be able to be saved from destruction, unless a victor emerges. And they have only just begun...

Sci-Fi On A Boring Day

I'm here in the IT Lab, wasting time blogging 'cos there's no IT lesson today. Sigh, what a nice way to end your school period, huh?

Oh, forget it.

Anyway, here's a quick fixer-upper to get you in the mood for some sci-fi stuff. Enjoy it while you can. LOL.

"For centuries, the mystery that is the race known only as the Brightest still remains a mystery till today. Scientists have always questioned whether they even exist or are merely fictitious characters created by some prankster. Years of research has so far proven that the Brightest do not exist, but the strange, non-Technolord relic discovered on Mythari V states otherwise. Debates have flared for too long over this subject on almost all matters - on religion, science, beliefs, social norms, and the likes. Yet, nothing proves to be helpful at all.

"That is, until the Golden Dream emerged from hyperspace...

"A magnificent ship the size of two Shivan Sathanas class juggernaughts, with the elegance and grace as a falcon, and the beauty of a shining pearl, the Golden Dream was truly a class of its own. First discovered within the Baltis Magna region, the ship was thought to be the last haven for the ancient and mysterious race, that has wandered space for so long till now. A group of scientists and analysts had boarded the ship days after its emergence, but were suddenly trapped when the ship burst into life again and jumped trillions of light years to the Fortallan System, where the team miraculously made their escape.

"And after they did, the ship once more disappeared into the folds of space and time, never to be seen again. Or will it?

"Rumours have surfaced that the ship was spotted entering the Genthallian Nebula Cluster only weeks ago, but a small detachment of cruisers sent by the Tharadrim 45th Fleet stationed there found nothing.

"It would only be timne before it will reappear, people believe. It may be a messenger, or an omen, or just merely a traveler - who knows? The future is clouded and uncertain, and we cannot say whether it will truly return or not."
- Nathan Juryk, spatial anomaly researcher