On distant shores

[Balthier]

The air in the subterranean vault of Praxis-III tasted of ozone and dead centuries. Keilani traced a slender, dark-skinned hand across the monolithic stone circle dominating the chamber’s center, her bio-luminescent teal eyes tracking the faint, pulsing ley-lines carved into the rock. As a biomancer of Mu, she could feel the faint, dormant heartbeat of the world-engine hidden beneath the dust. Magic and technology, to her, they were the exact same language.

Suddenly, the ancient silence shattered.

A harsh, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the stone, rattling the iridescent, scale-like fabric of her gown. Above, the sky split open with the blinding, crimson glare of drop-pods. Metanoids.  "Organic anomaly detected within sector seven," a synthesized, grinding voice echoed from the surface, accompanied by the heavy, mechanical thud of cold-iron boots. "Purge the biomancer. Secure the locus."

They had tracked her across three dimensions. The Machine Empire’s scouting party was closing in, their sensor grids painting the ruins in lethal red beams. Keilani didn't hesitate. Channeling a surge of raw, vital energy from her own essence into the stone circle, the ancient runes flared into a brilliant, chaotic turquoise light. The portal roared to life, a swirling vortex of unstable dimensional energy.

With a chorus of mechanical screeches echoing down the corridor, Keilani leaped through the threshold just as a plasma bolt scorched the air where she had stood.

The transition was a violent blur of sensory overload, tearing her from the dead vault and dropping her onto damp, solid earth.

Keilani fell to one knee, drawing a sharp breath of remarkably crisp, oxygen-rich air. The oppressive heat of the machine legion was gone, replaced by a cool, evening breeze that rustled through a canopy of deep green maples.

 

Stepping forward, she looked up. Towering above her was a massive, weathered structure painted in a brilliant, lacquered vermilion, a Torii gate, framing a breathtaking view of a sprawling, neon-lit metropolis nestled along a distant bay. Her dimensional compass pulsed weakly, recalibrating to the local grid:

Location: Earth, Mountain ridge overlooking Yokohama

Threat Level: Low (Local technology primitive; no Metanoid signatures detected)

Keilani smoothed down her shimmering cape, her teal lips curving into a sharp, intrigued smile. Maybe the Machine Empire would find her eventually, but for now, this strange new plane of existence had plenty of its own magic left to explore...

Edited Monday at 10:00 PM by Balthier

[Balthier]

The heavy, moist air of the Japanese mountains did little to soothe the phantom ache in Keilani’s chest. Standing beneath the lacquered vermilion of the Torii gate, she looked down at her hands. Her dark skin and the shifting, pearlescent scales of her dress seemed almost alien, fitting as that was, against the rustic earth, yet they were undeniably alive.

Unlike them.

When she thought of the Metanoids, she did not merely think of cold logic or standard military drones. She thought of a grand, terrifying philosophy, the tragic, absolute surrender of the soul to mechanics.
She remembered the worlds they had swallowed. The Metanoids were an empire of immortal, hollow shells who viewed organic flesh as a pitiful, fleeting sickness. They did not just conquer; they offered a horrific bargain. She had watched entire civilizations willfully cast aside their warm, fragile mortality, trading their hearts and their tears for bodies of gleaming chrome and black iron, believing eternity was worth the price of a soul. To the Metanoids, a universe that could bleed, grow old, and sing was a universe unfinished. They sought to turn the cosmos into a grand, silent clockwork mechanism, beautifully precise, entirely immortal, and utterly dead.

"They trade the agony of living for the peace of a tomb," Keilani whispered, her voice carrying the slow, mournful weight of a funeral dirge. "They do not understand that the flower's beauty lies precisely in the knowledge that it must fade."

Images flashed through her mind, painted in the melancholic hues of a fading twilight. She remembered the grand concert halls of a forgotten planet in the Andromeda cluster. There, a great mechanical dreadnought resembling a gothic, iron cathedral sailing through the sea of stars, had blocked out the sun. Its sirens hadn't wailed; they had droned a monotonous, metallic hum that drowned out the planet's final symphony. The Metanoids had marched through the streets, their faceless, glowing visors reflecting the burning museums. They did not weep as they crushed priceless violins beneath their heavy, rhythmic boots. They only calculated the raw material value of the wood. A tear, bright and teal like her eyes, slipped down her cheek, catching the distant neon glow of Yokohama.

Down in the valley, the city lights blinked like a swarm of fireflies, a chaotic, disorganized masterpiece of human endeavor. They were so fragile. A single planetary bombardment from a Metanoid mechanized fleet would reduce this entire harbor to a frozen, metallic graveyard, populated only by clockwork citizens who had forgotten how to dream.

She rested her hand against the rough wood of the gate, listening intently. The distant hum of the city, the rustle of the leaves, the faint, sorrowful string melody drifting up from the slopes, it was a fragile opera played on an instrument made of glass.

"An empire of immortal steel cannot compose a single line of poetry worth a damn," Keilani murmured, her teal lips tightening with a quiet, fierce resolve. "They pursue me because my magic is the very breath they discarded. Let them track me to this world. I will guard the melody of this earth, for a universe without song is a universe not worth surviving."

[BladeRunner]

And in the rural forest near the city of Yokohama... 

The road on the way to the nearest forested campsite was vacant this cool late-afternoon. Usually this back road had the occasional car or two passing through, however now it was only a single SUV that drove down it. Windows down and music blaring, the vehicle made its way down the pavement at a moderate speed. As the SUV approached an intersection it would turn right and continue further until making another turn onto a gravel path. The way down the winding gravel was surrounded by so many trees and wildlife, leading well away from civilization and up a valley. 

"-And when she waaakes up and maaakes up her mi-yai-ind! She'll say I'm not so tough, just because, I'm in love with an uptown girl-" Singing from a quartet could be heard from the SUV, driving uphill and around various curves. 

The four young men had been traveling for hours on a trip to do one simple, one very important thing. Camping. Like any man with a desire to get out into nature, these goon squad of four were no different in that each of them finally had either graduated or had a chance to get a break from work. They would get the chance to let loose from all the struggles of the city life, an escape to the wilderness that may or may not become as one put it, an absolute drag. 

Upon reaching a clearing that was miles away from any town and city, a place surrounded by trees and thick brush, the SUV was parked off to the side and the truck door opened up. The men hopped out, one after another age begun to pull out ice chests and bags, already setting up camp as if familiar with this particular spot. Of the four was an orange haired fellow, perhaps not as tall as everyone else, but he was getting to work with setting up rocks in a rather large circle. Two were currently choosing spots for tents while the last was unloading gear out of duffle bags. 

Atsuno had just recently graduated from highschool alongside one of his friends, Teru. Iskibi and Toshiro had already found jobs a long time ago, with the former finding himself as an accountant and the latter a bodyguard for the Ivory Thorns, a modeling company that was kick started four years ago and has found prosperity in the United States, Japan, South Korea, and England. While he didn't know if he would follow in his other friend's footsteps, the orange eyed man was certainly looking around for a job other than his own father's business. The thought of getting into fighting like boxing or MMA sounded decent enough, he had the body she strength for it so maybe that was his angle... Or, or, he thought about becoming either a homesteader or even a porn actor... Shit, maybe owning his own restaurant?

Upon finishing the outline of the fire pit, Atsuno moved to start gather sticks and branches, nothing small. He'd say moving toward the SUV, "Yo, Toshiro, you bring that tool box?" 

One of the other men, a spikey haired and red eyed fellow, answered back while setting up a two person tent, "Yyyeeeahhh... Yeah I think I did. You have to check though, we kinda did leave in a rush." 

Upon looking into the vehicle Atsuno immediately saw the large black and orange case beneath some wrapped up blankets. He moved them aside and pulled the heavy tool box down, clicking it open and pulled out a little hand chainsaw. He clicked a battery into the tool and powered it on, reving the little machine on to see if it did work and when the bladed chain rotated, he gave a nod. Today was going to be adventurous. 

[Balthier]

The mountain air above Yokohama was a canvas of deep purples and fading golds. Keilani walked through the dense forest, her bare feet pressing lightly into the rich, damp loam. Every step was an intimate conversation with the earth. She could feel the slow, ancient pulse of the root systems, the frantic, warm heartbeats of small nocturnal animals waking up, and the deep, wet breathing of the soil.

It was a beautiful, chaotic melody, so vastly different from the terrifying, singular rhythm of the Machine Empire.

Yet, the haunting memories clung to her like a shroud. As she brushed past a weeping fern, her thoughts drifted back to the Choral Seas of Aethelgard. She remembered how the people there used to sing to the water, their voices blending with the tides in a perfect, living opera. And she remembered the day the Metanoid dreadnoughts darkened the skies, dropping monolithic iron towers into the oceans that bled the currents dry of electricity, silencing the songs forever. The survivors hadn't even fought back, hypnotized by the promise of escaping grief and age, they had willingly walked into the cybernetic conversion chambers, trading their voices for the eternal, silent hum of a turbine.

“A tragedy in major key,” she whispered, her voice a low, melancholic cello note that rustled the leaves. “They forgot that the sweetest chord is the one that eventually ends.”
Her train of thought was abruptly shattered by a completely unfamiliar, discordant noise cutting through the peaceful mountain air.

“...And when she waaakes up and maaakes up her mi-yai-ind! She'll say I'm not so tough, just because, I'm in love with an uptown girl—”

Keilani paused, tilting her head. Her long, pointed ears twitched, capturing the strange, energetic rhythm bouncing off the trees. It was messy, completely unharmonized, and fiercely unoptimized, and yet, it possessed a vibrant, unmistakable warmth. It was the sound of undisputed life. Curiosity, a trait she could never entirely suppress despite her sorrow, drew her forward. She glided through the thick brush, her iridescent, scale-patterned dress slipping past branches like sunlight reflecting off water. The shimmering, translucent cape trailing behind her caught the last rays of the sun, casting a soft, ethereal glow on the bark around her.

Peeking through a dense cluster of maples, she found herself overlooking a wide, hidden clearing. Down below, four young human men were bustling about a parked metal vehicle. Her eyes, glowing a soft, luminescent teal, tracked their movements with genuine fascination. They were so beautifully uncoordinated compared to the terrifying, synchronized efficiency of Metanoid foot soldiers.

She watched as the shorter, orange-haired one finished arranging a circle of heavy stones, a primitive fire pit, an ancient ritual of life and light. Suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched whine ripped through the clearing.

BZZZZZZZZZT!

Keilani flinched slightly, her hand flying to her chest. Down by the vehicle, the orange-haired young man was holding a small, roaring mechanical device with a spinning, jagged chain, nodding with satisfaction as he revved it. Her teal eyes widened slightly, a sudden, familiar coldness gripping her heart. A machine. For a terrifying, fleeting second, the image of a Metanoid executioner sawing through the grand wooden amphitheaters of Veridia flashed before her eyes. But as she looked closer, she realized this little tool carried no malice, no cold, calculating intelligence. It was just a crude extension of human will, powered by a simple battery, used by a boy who simply wanted to cut wood for a fire.

A soft, bittersweet smile touched her teal lips. She leaned against a mossy oak, her gaze drifting from the orange haired youth with the chainsaw to the others setting up their fabric shelters. They were completely oblivious to the grand, terrifying cosmos outside their little world. They were just living, basking in the brief, beautiful peace of a late afternoon, entirely unburdened by the weight of dying worlds.

"How beautifully loud you are," Keilani murmured to herself, her voice a fragile whisper above the drone of the hand chainsaw. "You sing badly, you play with iron, and yet... your hearts beat with such magnificent, fragile passion."
She stayed back in the shadows of the canopy, unsure if she should approach and disrupt their fleeting, perfect symphony, or simply watch over them like a ghost from a world that had forgotten how to smile.

Edited yesterday at 11:40 AM by Balthier

[Balthier]

***Elsewhere***

Across the cold, silent void of Dimension-X99, the ancient ruins of Xylos-IV lay under a suffocating shroud of crimson light. The stone circle, once vibrant with the turquoise pulse of Keilani’s biomancy, was now dark, its surface scorched by plasma and stained with the soot of sudden violence.

A massive, imposing silhouette cast its long shadow over the altar. Standing over nine feet tall, its chassis forged from a matte-black, non-reflective alloy that seemed to swallow the light, a Metanoid Commander stared down at the deactivated runes. Its face was a polished, featureless mask of dark chrome, broken only by a single, horizontal visor that glowed with a chilling, unblinking red light. Behind it, a dozen mechanized legionnaires stood in terrifyingly perfect unison, their joints emitting only the faint, rhythmic whir-click of hydraulic perfection.

The Metanoid Commander’s arm, an elegant construction of interlocking steel plates, raised a heavy scanning apparatus over the stone. A lattice of harsh crimson laser grids projected onto the ancient rock, tracing the lingering quantum decay of Keilani’s escape vector.

"Biomantic residue detected," a voice synthesized from the cold vibration of iron resonated through the vault, completely devoid of inflection. "Target Keilani has initiated an unauthorized dimensional transit. Spatial coordinates: Locked. Sector 045." A lesser machine, a spindly data-drone with needle-like appendages, skittered forward, its metallic claws clicking against the stone like a mechanical insect. It began to interface with the stone circle's base, forcing cold, digital data-streams into the ancient, magical circuitry. The machine empire did not understand magic as an art; they understood it as a flawed, unoptimized energy source.

"Warning," the data-drone’s vocoder droned, a flat, monotonous frequency. "Local spatial fabric on Sector 045 is dense. The gateway requires a massive influx of kinetic conversion to force synchronization. Organic lifeforms in the target sector will experience localized atmospheric distortion."

The Commander did not hesitate. For the Metanoids, the eradication of the chaotic, unpredictable variance, or forced conversion of he life wizard was only logical. To leave a biomancer alive was to allow a disease to fester in what should a perfectly sterile universe.

"Commence the calibration," the Commander ordered, the crimson light of its visor flaring. "Overload the dimensional anchors. We will tear the gateway open by force. Prepare the vanguard for transit. Let that fleeting, fragile world learn the perfection of steel."

With a deafening, synchronized clack, the legionnaires raised their heavy rifles, waiting for to see if the fabric of reality to break. There was no sure way to warp as the biomancer had without magic, and without this ancient gate she had used, usually. But the fact the portal had only just closed and the gate remained intact, gave them a chance, to force a reopening synthetically. 

***

Edited 7 hours ago by Balthier