#halfmonstergames

Darkness has always been equal to silence. And only the darkness of the bottom of the ocean could bring this sort of despair, this loneliness, this fear and this rage. This…hate towards everything else. Towards every living creature. Even towards his fellow brothers and sisters that kept surrounding him in the surface. Even towards himself. Everything was reduced to flesh, bones, wood, and metal. Among the whole myriad of materials, what could be seen was bronze. Especially bronze.  But all these were mere nouns that hardly carried any significance when they were mentioned alone. But whenever two materials started getting nearer to each other, the picture got clearer. The image got formed. The painting got painted. Everything has been nothing but feeling the flora and fauna of the hadopelagic zone. Everything that surrounded the bronze, the remaining metal, the almost degraded ropes, and the unaesthetic corroded reactor, was despicable. It was intolerable to feel the fin of a blind bioluminescent fish, or the touch of any species of the algae, or the greenish lichens. It was even worse with the deposits of the plankton that was about to be eaten, as it attracted even more creatures while giving the food chain a very depressing beginning. How would it be possible to fall so low, literally and metaphorically? The Botican Peninsula has been governing the seas during thousands of years, since he could remember. The early history was starting to be written at that very moment for every living species. Except, of course, for the mere monsters of the Axonate, who seemed to be more ancient that history itself, like anything inherently evil.  Monsters, they were. Even feeling the touch of an octopus could make Zrocall, the Silent Shadow’s blood boil, if blood was what circulated through his vessels. It enraged him to be reminded of those fiendish creatures. Those sticky and disgusting tentacles ruined every sediment they touched. They were carving for crab, snails, starfish, shrimp, slugs, and mollusks. Some were alive, some were absolutely dead. But the mere idea of those tentacles made it an unbearable thought for his consciousness. They reminded him so much about those…things, the Abyssals. Those monsters only knew how to spread destruction, they lived because of chaos, they lived because of the most extreme entropy. But they were gone. Now, they were finally gone. Their shadows left the environment about a while ago. It was almost unbelievable at first. He would be able to rise up again. Finally. The wood and the metal would become ground, ceiling, barrels, reservoirs, spikes, chains. The putrefaction of the flesh from the remaining creatures would rise again as his fingers, as the branches of a tree, as the neurons of his brain. He would create them, cultivate them, keep them alive; they would be able to think by themselves, to feel, to work, and most importantly, they would be able to obey his orders. The days of staying immobile in that merciless pitch-black pitfall of despair were about to be gone forever.   The general cracking of the materials started as a carefully planned melody, but it eventually became the most strenuous cacophony. Steel, aluminum, bronze, silver and gold were clacking, all at the same time. Rods, tubes, pipes, sheets, flats, pulleys, channels and bands started colliding, reinserting, crashing, and reconstructing themselves into more complicated pieces, which then let to both modest and intricate mechanisms. Every piece was getting wherever it should be, assembling perfectly, like a god-like prodigious puzzle. The Silent Shadow could already feel how, driven by rage itself, the reactor initiated his reactivation, the ropes started to get tied, and the oceanic waste of organic matter started to either get cleaned up completely from his surface or started rising as barely humanoid figures. More metallic than organic, these were going to be those who would make his wishes become real. Many emotions did the Silent Shadow feel; a variety of feelings crossed his mind since he was been sunk by Abyssal folk, thousands of years ago. But this time, he would be the winner. This time, he would be the one to command the whole of the Botican fleet. No other Botican could be compared to his magnificence, his glory, his fire power, and his desire to conquer everything that could be called an “ocean”. And this time, he would prevail.

Nillos Fleifield looked into the distance from the tallest skyscraper of his Dominion. Scarlet red was the colour of his skin, his big and twisted horns, and his tail. His thin, hairless and stylized body looked like a red dot in the grey sky. He was wearing a plain pink silk tunic that covered the whole of his body, with long sleeves. There was no one with him. Whenever he decided to go here, it always meant that it was his time alone. The guards knew that. A monarch needed to have his own time, too. Not everything could be planning, and speaking, and being awfully bored with some tactical decisions…reigning a Kingdom could always be fun, too. He was a strong supporter of that idea. Everyone should know that he needed some privacy, a right that few rulers can still brag about. He had to make sure that everyone in the Reign knew that about his sovereign. And he was going to make sure that his generals make everyone know about his name, too. “Emperor Nillos Fleifield. It doesn’t sound bad at all” he thought. Of course, he always believed himself to be a very graceful Magnon. No detail escaped him.  No one could do anything without him knowing about it. He knew every aspect of his Dominion, and hopefully, he will do the same when the rest of the Dominion communities all around the globe. And why not, probably he would know everything about how the rest of the species live as well. He sighed. One day, his name would be next to the past monarchs of the Dominion. He looked at the rest of the buildings surrounding the skyscraper. The ruins from the previous bombings and dense, dark and disgusting flora surrounding them lied before him. Nillos was standing right at the edge of the building, which he knew it was extremely dangerous, but he enjoyed the sense of vertigo. After all, being a monarch could always be fun.  There was a strong feeling of wildness inside him all the time, that he continually needed to feed. And looking at the rest of the city from such an inexpungable position made him feel powerful, imponent, glorious. The sensation of being the One and Only filled him up with warmth and joy. The idea of his portrait being held as some almighty ruler gave him almost pure pleasure. How could there be creatures out there that disliked the feeling of having everyone’s lives in their own hands? He thought about that common saying: “Not everyone is fit to rule”. He fundamentally disagreed with that statement. Everyone was fit to rule, as long as they were not cowards. And if they were, anyone’s mind could be shaped to lose cowardice and empathy. If those traits are lost, what everyone gains as a result would be a true Emperor. Fear is absolutely off the table. No leader should be able to even grasp the idea of fear. And Nillos considered himself to be the opposite of that. The concept of fear twisted before his presence. He has never experienced fear, and never would he. And the Magnon Dominion would clean the spot of his previous fall in disgrace. No creature would dare to laugh about the Magnon Dominion. No creature would dare to laugh at them again. No one would ridicule them again. No one would ridicule him again. He smiled. His grin was a mix of a charming expression and borderline insanity, almost grotesque. He looked at the horizon, where he could barely distinguish people colliding. Wolven, Leonians, and an Ancient Dragon Queen that was probably still sleeping in the distance, in the old Mighty Draconia. A revivified Arcanican. A Furlein scientist. He has already been informed beforehand about what was happening. Everyone says that the Dragon Queen was the most powerful being on Earth, and that her ire would destroy this world without any chance of mercy. Tales have been told about her previous rising in the antique Citadel. Rivers of fire would swallow the Earth, life as it’s known would be reduced to ashes, and freedom would be nothing but a dream in a cloud of misery. Creatures would have ashes adhered to their lungs. Open wounds would bleed permanently. Entire families would be burnt. Crops would not grow anymore. Storms would be constant. Meteors would fall. Life would end, and the only music that could be heard would be the sound of her faucets before she started breathing fire. Needless to say, Nillos didn’t believe that at all. “The colour of her scales matches my skin” he thought. “She would make a good cape”.

She knew how they felt about her. She was adored, respected, feared. Everything was clearly as it should be. The way that nature pretended it to be. The way that the universe worked. She could see all those humanoids and non-humanoids figures pullulating outside of the burned borders. They lived their miserable, insignificant life without true uncertainties, without true understanding of the threads that control the destiny of the universe. How could life even exist in that way? How could such a waste of organic matter be called a ‘living being’?

And they worshipped her. Clerics fought over her favour, which they never really had. She understood that. She comprehended every language inside that whole myriad of dialects that everyday they spoke altogether, in those despicable amounts of words they dared to call “languages”.  Since the last time she was cornered in her cave, they had been doing nothing but speaking nonsense. Speaking. Even their words of love and adoration felt disgusting and pitiful. Of course, they said they adored her. She was the “Elder” as some called them. The “Queen of ashes” as some bards sung in their meaningless songs. The fire breather Monarch. The indomitable wings.  The Crimson diamond. The Goddess of the scales. The immortal one. The untrustworthy Deity. The unwanted Death Machine. The red terror. The disgusting outcast. The corrupted beast. The foreign monster. The monster. She knew where those words came from. Some of those who lived in the outsides of her sealed domains had something in their soul that was dark. Something that was against her. She could sense it, she could feel it, she could detect everything about it. There was something inside the hearts of those who feared her that wasn’t submissive nor silent. It was a faint flame, an almost invisible one. But it was obscure, repugnant, and most importantly: insolent. She heard the whispers, the sayings, the comments. The ideals of rebellion were contaminating their souls. Drakkenjaegar was how these weak, insipid minds called themselves, and how they were presented in their respective societies. Dragon hunters. They came from different origins, races, families, but they shared a common objective. She was familiar with this sort of people. They were like the ones that annihilated her brothers and sisters when Time was created. When the first songs were being composed. When sunlight touched the Earth, but it didn’t create deserts. When winters weren’t harsh, and food was still plenty. She felt that lust for her blood. And it was imminent to them. They were convinced that they could do it. As if in any moment she was going to be able to hear the steps of the author of her death. They wanted that. They wanted her. Her scarlet red scales, her golden pupils, her magnificent wings, her polished claws, her sharp teeth, her elegant head. They wanted to use her head to ornament the stone halls of some king, some leader, some representant of their despondent life. They wanted to laugh at their display of power, courage, bravery. They wanted to mock her. They wanted to ridicule those of her kin. Maybe her head was going to be right next to another member of her clan. Someone that she could remember from the days when dragons could freely be the ethereal, magical masters of the sky, and nobody dared to question their authority. But they would not do anything to her body, at least not before trying to steal her secrets. Or attempting to delete her memory. They would have to carry her to powerful bearers of magic: wizards, sorcerers and warlocks of different species to see who was going to be blessed with her knowledge. Disgusting beings that think they know how the world works, how destiny is forged, when they could not even scratch the surface of true knowledge. They would try to read her mind, to reveal her secrets, to go against what the cycle of life dictates. And all her wisdom of the past ages would have left her body. She would have felt empty. A pointless vessel. A hollow tree, a blank message. A mere ignorant beast just like them. She would have been pathetic. She would have been nothing. Of course, as if that was even remotely possible. She was aware that in this period of silent, patient wait for her hunger to be insatiable and her fire indestructible, she was going to be able to make her enemies surrender without a single fight. The weapon of no commoner was going to put an end to her life. She was older than some of their races. Wiser than most Councils. More powerful that the mightiest kings. More terrifying than all their armies joined together. More Divine than most of their wretched gods. How would a mere mortal, a disgraceful and deplorable mortal, even dare to think about the idea of killing her? The cave trembled. Then, there was an odd pause. Silence. The Ancient Dragon Queen felt as if the whole world was in silence for a second. Time stopped. And the halls crushed. The sealed entrance of the cave exploded. Giant pieces of burning rocks flew through the circular chamber. As soon as they touched her scales, as she stood up roaring uncontrollably, they felt cold. Frozen pieces of gelid rocks. Shattered pieces of ice covered the room. Blue, delicate but hurtful crystals. Blue magic. Ice magic. A very small but robust, dark hooded figure appeared through the destroyed pillars. It was alive, but it wasn’t just someone or something like the living beings she could recognize in Draconia. No…this creature, this beast, was something else. It was made from rocks, crystals, and ice. She sensed everything she despised coming from this creature. Just like the cobalt coloured fire that was dancing over his palm, as soon as he stepped into the chamber, she knew that his blood was made from gelid arcane energy.

The air over the water was constantly vibrating. It could be sensed. It was possible to detect movement, to detect life. Ox'eds knew that he was in foreign territory already. He could, actually, feel how everything around him was different to what he used to: the salt solutions that touched his skin, the amount of light, the water pressure, and the distant the appearance of other living creatures that weren’t psychically gifted cephalopods. Everything else was just mundane life, with no real purpose, no concept of true understanding, no different from a brainless vegetable.

The increase on the general brightness of the environment was not a total far-off concept to him, sadly. There has been several moments through his long life when he had to briefly be in contact with the outer sun light. It was a miserable sensation and essentially torture, for him or for his fellow Abyssal Raiders.

But every victory needs a few sacrifices, and exposing themselves to the depreciable sun was only one of the many sacrifices that the members of his society have been doing through centuries.  The Axonate needed to prevail.

He extended his dark blue tail behind him to move forward, tilting his enormous, fanged head. His dark eyes made it look like he was completely blind, but in fact he could see, and better than most sea creatures. They were used to absolute darkness. That was their niche, and their way of life. Anything that’s vibrant and colourful only serves as a distraction, or as food.

The air vibration was getting more and more intense. Now the movement was more defined: it was a vast amount of living beings crowded at one place. He wasn’t sure of their reasons, but that was ultimately non-important:  their motives will always be lower than the Axonate. These creatures, these…beings, they all claimed to be different, to have unique societies, they were constantly fighting for supremacy…but it would always be in vain. Their lack of self-awareness and silent communication with their equals was nothing but a sign of ignorance that lead to individualism. It was impossible to conceive a dominant, competent civilization with individuals that didn’t share the same objective; and the only way to have a unique collective ideal was by sharing each individual thought into an intrinsically connected wire of neurons, which for them was the Axonate.

This was the only way a dominant culture would be able to prevail and survive every natural and non-natural catastrophe and survive until the end of times. Therefore, it was known that they were the only ones that should rule both the ground and the seas, the solid and liquid, the sunlight and the darkness. The conquering thirst was in their bloodless vessels, and the only way to calm it was to follow its lead. Their society was latent, not keeping a positive contact with any other individuals different from them, as the only purpose these despondent and hopeless beings could serve was their own doom and destruction. How was it possible that they could not see more than themselves? How was it possible to live without serving a collective purpose? It was just a matter of time before they collapsed to their own foolishness and incompetence, he thought. And for that, it was necessary to let them loathe each other first. To let them start their own wars, famines and disgregation.  Even if it took centuries. The Imminent Final was upon them, and there was no chance of changing it now. 

In the distance, he saw that the musky ground got interrupted. He got closer, as the land diagonally went up and it got separated from the next body of land. There was a naturally circular area that lead directly to the surface. A lake. Ox'eds came back from his thoughts and he sensed…metal. Artificially sharped metal was around the lake, around these beings. Armor. He also sensed fire. He was close to a fire source. It was not a massive flame. He also sensed crepitant wood. It was being silently and progressively disintegrated.  Raw meat was nearby as well, as its mineral content was still not fully burnt. There was water. There was alcohol.

He could observe their shadows as well, but he could not distinguish them very clearly. He saw furred creatures of predominantly grey and black colour by their reflection on the water. They were wearing the metallic pieces. He also noticed an orange furred creature, different from the rest, that was somehow interacting with the strong but shorter individuals. The vibration still existed, but he could not distinguish any evidence of phonetic communication. He saw the sky was of a bright orange, but that meant that the night was about to arrive. Their time was about to arrive.  He looked down. His pupils stared at the void for a while. His whole body was stiff, his tentacles didn’t move at all. “There is an entrance” he communicated telepathically.  “The Axonate will prevail”.

We must be prepared. They have a choice: they can surrender, or they can die.” General Delmaic Whithart shouted these words to his assembled army, who roared in return with a hundred voices. His breastplate glinted in the afternoon light. He dismissed his soldiers - who left in columns of steel and claw - and they began marching away to the camp beyond the marshalling ground. He was standing right in front of his own red tent, considerably more ornamented than the rest and flanked by two guards almost as tall as him. But he didn’t go in, not yet. His head had a lot going on and he didn’t feel like resting. He surrounded his shelter, grabbing the hilt of his sword, alone, and looked at the horizon. He hasn’t washed his mane in days, not to say himself. Water was very limited and there was no sight of a closer river in this territory. And he had the feeling that he was going to be sick very soon, as this place was just an enormous allergen to him. The flora and fauna were just way too different from what he was used to.  He felt homesick to an impossible extent. These lands felt as strange as they could be. He looked at the valley that was lying before him, a vivid green grass covered by a clear sky. And tents. Ragged, dark, blue tents raised at the end of the valley. Black and blue standards were moving faintly thanks to the wind, though he couldn’t distinguish more than that. The war against the wolven was imminent at this point, as he didn’t really think they would surrender. That was not part of their mindset. And travelling so far from the Leonian Kingdoms just to stop them from the madness they were about to execute was beyond his understanding. Delmaic has seen and experienced tough moments in his life, complicated battles, even civil wars…but never something of this level. It’s known what the wolven wanted to do. And it’s also known what The Elder, the Red Terror, would likely be doing as well. And he wasn’t still very sure about what was that type of <creature> that the wolven claimed to have in their power. He only knows that they call it a “magical weapon of mass destruction” whose only purpose is to defeat the Elder. Whoever took this decision was out of his mind. It’s known what the Ancient Dragon Queen would be able to do with the rest of the world. She’s done it already, and whatever this “weapon of mass destruction” was, he was sure that it could not face her power. Her rage and anger would fall upon the realms, her fire would drown the houses of the fair and the palaces of the kings. She could devour any creature that got into her path. She could make Kingdoms fall and civilians would riot against their leaders. She could destroy the Leonian Kingdoms if she was released. She could end all what they knew about life. All their pride would be gone.  And Delmaic, first general of the Leonian Kingdoms and defender of the King, would not let that happen during his watch.

He looked at the white lilies that were covering the valley. It seemed like a gracious display of innocence before all the almost imminent bloodshed. These flowers, as much as any other flower, or flora, or fauna, or anything…would be gone if the dragon was released. The general knelt and picked up one of the flowers, holding it in his hand, looking at it, and admiring it. “This will serve as a way to remember” he thought. These were probably the worst days of his life, and he was a warrior of great renown. Strategy was important, as well as keeping the moral high. The truth was, this time he was very uncertain about what could happen. Or at least, part of his soul didn’t know how this could end. What if the weapon they had was more powerful that the Dragon? That seemed unlikely, but with the wolven people it’s impossible to know. He allowed himself some moments to doubt about his decisions sometimes. After all, keeping the moral high for a whole legion of soldiers is extremely tiring. And he wasn’t very sure if the wolven will wait for them to move, or if they will decide to fight them first anyway. They were unpredictable folk, with soldiers that most of the time weren’t very eager to draw a line between what was morally correct and what wasn’t.  Delmaic was not a person that used to generalize, specially because he knew that not every soldier was the same, but all his encounters with wolven people seemed to share quite a pattern. They all shared this irrational thirst of blood; this disgusting idea of conquering just for pillage and the sake of bloodshed itself. They attacked villages just to feel the taste of blood. Just to feel powerful, before those who had no power. For Delmaic, that was one of the lowest actions a reasonable being could do. Those in positions of power must gain the respect of their subordinates through honorable tasks, not through fear and erratic slaughter. It made him sick to even think about it.  He sighed. Night was about to fall, and the wind started to blow stronger this time. Another day camping in these foreign lands was gone. There was no movement from the enemy troops. He looked up. About 2,000 miles away, the Mighty Draconia was waiting to see its destiny. And the Leonian Kingdoms were about to have a key role in writing it.

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Vuskall Roguebone has never been confident in himself. He has never trusted his mind. He always felt like everything he did was because everybody else was doing it. Maybe he wasn’t alone, maybe every young adult Vixinate in the Republic felt the same, but they were just very good at hiding it. ‘Do I have any other option?’ he has always thought, while trying to suppress that ‘what if’ scenario that was always creeping through his mind. After all, the military service trials were obligatory, and it was either that or absolute banishment from the community. He sighed. He has heard what beings from other societies, or even from other Kingdoms, think about that strict and stupid rule of ‘serve or perish’. He could never truly comment it with anybody, because that would be followed by suspicious looks or even being accused of treason to the Republic. That made him feel trapped, even for a loner like him. He wasn’t the most social person, and he was pretty pessimist about life, but certainly he had some feelings, emotions, and dreams inside him. Or that’s what he thought. He looked up in front of him. Noise. He heard the movement of a running river and decided to walk towards it. While all this was happening, he started to remember the voices of his fellow companions. They were the fox he grew up with. They were the ones that were supposed to understand him better than anyone. One of their voices sounded very clear in his mind: the voice of his friend Voneo Shadowblade. He once mentioned that foreigners think that these practices are outdated and cruel, aloud, as a side comment. And then Vuskall never heard from him again. It would not have been wise to risk having his same fate. He put his white hood on and kept on walking through the wildlands. ‘Wildlands’ was the name the Vixinate gave to any place that was out of their jurisdiction. They could all be described with the same repetitive pattern: dark and dirt marshes, wet and hot forests, an occasional river, and giant insects. No signs of civilization. He found the river. He stopped and knelt to wash his face. His eyes and muzzle were already very dirty and sweaty. It was disgusting. He also took his leather cloak to wash it as well, to avoid feeling so incredibly uncomfortable as he was at that moment.   The typical uniform the Vixinate military proudly made use of consisted on a white hooded long cloak of common cotton, a leather cloak over it, three sets of leather belts, brown riding boots, and simple loose shirts and trousers (usually grey or black) to have underneath. They couldn’t have much over them, as it reduced their mobility. Also, the whole attire was made to hide daggers everywhere, even inside their boots. Their red tails were usually covered behind the cloaks, to avoid being recognized easily by their enemies. Vuskall never truly understood why their community felt so proud about that uniform. It was well done, and aesthetically pleasant, he didn’t doubt that. The seamstresses of the community certainly showed great skill while making it. The only aspect about it that always bothered him was that he was never fulfilled by the idea of wearing this uniform, like his leaders tell him he should do. Doing something with it on gave him no joy. This was no more than doing any other compulsory errand. He didn’t doubt about his physical capabilities, he thought he was strong enough. He looked at his paws, covered by orange fur and a few scars. There was really no point in this. But he couldn’t look away. Not now. This one was only one of his first tasks. They usually start being very easy, and then they start getting more complex, rougher and even more disturbing.  One of the missions that he had to accomplish in the past, he remembered, consisted in a one versus one combat back at the community with his fellow acquaintances. It wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t that good either. They were trying to teach him that no feelings should be developed between the fox of the military. No signs of comradery, no signs of friendship. Only those who were able to adapt themselves to the heartless side of life were the ones that could serve the Republic. You could not run to help a friend, nor someone you considered that was about to die, even if it was unfair to you. They had weapons; they should be able to defend themselves. Why would you help them? They didn’t deserve it. They were in training, and any sort of help was unacceptable. That was the way nature worked. That was the way the universe worked. Empathy was just an imperfection sign that had to be erased from their minds. Vuskall heard a noise. He swiftly moved his paw inside one of his pockets and held a golden circular piece in his paw, which had intricate tribal patterns over it. He has found it. He won it. And he has killed for it already. Nobody was going to steal it from him. He needed to just give it back to his leaders and wait for the next task, as if he was just a mere messenger. Another work was complete. He analysed his surroundings carefully. Nothing showed up. The upcoming evening seemed peaceful enough to feel relatively safe. Then, he heard a noise again. He saw a toad of a very saturated yellow colour, and he recognized it: a Saddleback toad. It jumped over the tip of his boot as soon as he stood up, just minding its own business. These are poisonous, he thought. He shook it off. The frog left him, scared of what just happened, and went back to the river. The assassins’ expression was non-existent. It was cold. Dark. His black opal eyes looked at the sun, trying to find it. It was hidden already. Another day was gone. This was him, after all. All this was just what he was supposed to be. He was just a pawn. A disposable pawn that could be thrown away at any time. A killing machine, an assassin that serves the leader of his community. No voice. No personality. No spirit. No soul. Only the dripping blood dagger that was hidden under his wrist. That was him.