Balthier

Welcome aboard dude.

***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. ***

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.

I started a story with my own alien, just because I had time on my hands and felt inspired yesterday. A man vs. machine theme for her background. Introduced a background of her running from the Machine Empire. Memorial day had me in the mood for tragedy, not sure it's even going anywhere, but I wanted to write. Depends how Vengeful Exzel feels, and if anyone trusts her enough to go through a portal with her, I suppose. It's definitely a possibility, however. 100% her wheelhouse though, she used to be used for that purpose, among others, in the great ox demon king's army. Which is why her kind are prizes to to be marked by Demon Lords.

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."

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...

Name: Keilani Race: Alien/dimensionalbeing (Lemurian) Alias (primarily for Magical Girls/Knights): "The Lemurian" Gender: Mostly female, capable of being futa, by biomancy/temporary magic Age: 42 (ages slower than human, looks closer to 20 in human years.) Hair: Turquoise Eyes: Turquoise Short Bio: Keilani is a Lemurian, a race of dimensional travelers from Mu, a floating city that slides between worlds and galaxies. Keilani is a biomancer, a practitioner of a potent school of magic that alters the Code of Life to grow living weapons, bio-armor, and war-steeds. She recently had to hop through an unknown portal to escape from an attack by an empire of machines in some distant reality. Can read surface emotions and also communicate through telepathy up to about 10 miles.

I'm waiting to see what those aliens will be up to.

Upon the fields where golden sunlight weaves, The fallen stand in halls of endless light, Beyond the turning of the autumn leaves, They toast to honor, shielded from the night. With scars of valor worn like cloaks of pride, They wait in Odin’s keep for final call, Where heroes rest, forever side by side, Within the rafters of the sacred hall. Though ages fade and mortal seasons wane, Their names are etched in silence and in song, A testament to battles faced in pain, And spirits resolute, defiant, strong. We pause beneath the banner’s steady fold, To whisper thanks for lives so freely cast, In stories carved in memory and gold, To hold the echoes of a noble past. So raise a glass to those who guard the gate, The chosen warriors of the ancient fray, Who mastered fear and dared to challenge fate, To carve a path for us to walk today. Their vigil knows no setting of the sun, A brotherhood that time cannot divide, Until the cycle of the world is done, They watch the hearth of freedom, glorified. -Dedicated to those who did not return from Kunar province. All hail, the Einherjar!

As Zorn pins her to the bed, the sudden shift in power isn't a threat to Exzel, it’s an invitation. As he presses his weight down, she feels the ambient magic of the room thicken, a subtle tightening of the dimensional fabric that she instantly recognizes as a lockdown. A lesser Deevil might panic at the sudden inability to trigger a rift, but Exzel only lets out a low, trilling laugh, a sound of genuine, predatory delight. Was she trapped? Who could say, but it gave her a feeling of confinement, of being taken that was exciting. She doesn't make it easy. As his weight settles, she flexes her core, her deceptively soft hands sliding up to grip his powerful shoulders, her nails digging into the black fur as she forces herself to arch against his dominance. When he plunges inside her, the sensation is absolute. It is a raw, jarring collision of demonic power that makes her vision swim. She gasps, a sharp, ragged sound that isn't the Daimond's anymore, it’s the true, unfiltered voice of a Nexus Deevil, perhaps, meeting her match. "You really... hnnnh... you really think you can lock me in, Zorn?" She taunts him even as her body betrays her. She isn't fighting to escape the pin, she's fighting to be closer, her hips rolling with a rhythmic, professional precision that is designed to maximize every inch of his length. She meets his thrusts with an equal and opposite force, her inner muscles milking him with every beat, turning his taming attempt into a dual-layered struggle for control. She pulls her head back, her eyes glowing a fierce, vibrant purple as she stares up at him, her lips parted and damp. Her body is slick with sweat and his essence, but she's surging with that stolen energy. She loves the bite, the weight, the sheer audacity of him trying to ground a creature meant to move through the stars. "Do it, then!" She challenges, her hips grinding firmly against his as she pulls him deeper, her soft, wet walls clenching around his thick demon cock like she was made to take him. "If you want to tame me, you’ll have to do better than just pinning my wings! Prove you’re the strongest thing in this realm! I'm not going anywhere, Zorn... make me beg for it properly. Make me forget..." She continues to roll her hips in perfect sync with his pace, her body a high-tension instrument of pleasure, pushing back against him with just enough resistance to keep the fire between them burning white-hot.

A small, subtle reaction betrayed the internal conflict the beast was grappling with. Akemi didn't pull away, if anything, she tightened her grip, offering the Hound an anchor of warmth and reassurance. Seeing the hound’s ears flatten and her eyes cloud with worry, not because she was afraid of a fight, but because she feared losing Akemi's approval, was a sight that cut right through Akemi's heart. "I am sure," Akemi said, her voice soft but unwavering. She reached out with her free hand, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from the Hellhound's temple, her thumb stroking the skin with a soothing, rhythmic motion. "It isn't about ignoring what happened, or acting like it never occurred. But you aren't that same person today. You're a hero, and I want her to see that too." Akemi stood up and walked around the table, pulling the Hellhound into a tight, grounding embrace. She rested her cheek against the hound’s shoulder, smelling the clean scent of the soap they had just used together, a reminder of the peace they had built between them. "She's scared, just like anyone would be," Akemi whispered into the hound's ear. "But she's kind. If I explain... if she sees you standing there with me, I think she’ll understand. And if she doesn't, I'll be right there beside you. You won't have to face her alone." She pulled back just enough to look the Hellhound in the eyes, her expression earnest and full of trust. "We don't have to stay long. We can just walk in, ssee her. But I would like you to be there. I want to show her that my protector is someone who can choose to be better." Akemi leaned forward, placing a soft, lingering kiss on the Hellhound’s forehead, right between her eyes. "I think, It will be okay. Just stay close to me, and keep being the good girl you've been with me. Can you do that?"

Akemi watched the Hellhound eat with a quiet, private fascination. Seeing the Hound so content, so thoroughly humanized by a simple bowl of rice and fish, sent a warm flutter through her chest. Beneath the table, she let her guard down further. She extended one leg, her soft, bare foot lightly grazing the Hellhound's dark, powerful calf. It was a gentle, flirtatious brush, a secret communication in the quiet morning. She let her toes linger there for a moment, a playful smirk dancing on her lips as she watched for the hound’s reaction. However, as the flirtatious moment settled, Akemi’s expression shifted. The lightheartedness in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a clouded, somber look. She set her chopsticks down neatly across her bowl and took a slow, steadying breath. She looked directly at the Hellhound, her gaze steady but heavy with a complicated truth. "I’m so happy you’re here, and that you’re safe," Akemi began, her voice dropping to a serious, quiet tone. "But... we have to talk about what happened before. Before we were friends." She leaned forward slightly, her cleavage heaving with one deep breath, fingers lacing together with Hellhound's on the tabletop. "My friend Hikari... she was in the village during your first attack. She was badly hurt when things caught fire. She’s been in the hospital since then, recovering." Akemi paused, searching the Hellhound’s fiery eyes, not with anger, but with a plea for understanding. "I want to go see her today. I want to visit her and make sure she’s okay. And..." She hesitated, her heart beating a little faster. "Do you to come with me. It might be hard, but I think it's important..."

Akemi half smuled silently at the Hellhound’s concern, the steam swirling around them as the last of the suds vanished down the drain. "Don't worry about the clothes for now, hero. We’re in my home, no one's going to judge you for being a little uncovered while we eat. I might have a yukata that will fit you" With the Hellhound clean, Akemi turned her attention to herself. She moved under the spray with a practiced, feminine grace that was a stark contrast to the Hellhound's raw power. Her hands, still smelling of honey and sandalwood, traveled over her own petite, delicate curves. She lathered her medium-small breasts and the soft slope of her hips, her skin pale and gleaming under the artificial light of the bathroom. She took a moment to tilt her head back, letting the hot water sluice through her dark hair, washing away the tension of the previous night. Finally, she turned off the dial. The sudden silence was punctuated only by the heavy drip-drop of water hitting the tiles. Akemi stepped out, wrapping herself in a fluffy white towel. She grabbed a second, much larger towel and draped it over the Hellhound's shoulders. "Dry off well, like a good girl. I'll get the kitchen ready." A few minutes later, Akemi emerged from her bedroom. She hadn't gone for a full outfit yet, opting for comfort in the safety of her apartment. She had pulled on a pair of blue and white striped panties that hugged her hips, her perfect ass, and a crisp white button-up blouse. The shirt was a little long on her petite frame, the hem barely covering the top of her thighs, and she had left the top two buttons undone for breathability, giving her enticing cleavage. As she moved around the small kitchen, the fabric pulled and flowed in a way that was inadvertently alluring, a casual, domestic beauty that could mesmerize. The kitchen was soon filled with the comforting, savory aromas of a proper Japanese breakfast. Grilled Mackerel, sizzling gently, its skin crispy and salted. Miso Soup, steam rising from bowls filled with tofu and green onions. Steamed Rice, perfectly fluffy and white. Tamagoyaki, sweet and savory rolled omelets, sliced into neat yellow rectangles. Akemi moved with a light step, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. She set the table for two, placing a generous portion of everything on the Hellhound’s side. When everything was ready, she slid into her chair, her legs crossed comfortably beneath the table. She would look up as the Hellhound approached, a truly adorable, beaming smile lighting up her face. The morning sun caught the moisture still in her hair, making her look radiant and entirely at peace. "Breakfast is served," Akemi said softly, patting the seat next to her. "I made sure there's extra fish for you. Come sit."

The air in the chamber is thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and the raw, supercharged demonic energy. currently humming beneath Exzel’s marble white skin. She listens to Zorn’s philosophy on conquest, the "greater victory" of making an enemy desire their own submission, and a faint, knowing smirk touches her purple lips. She understands the weight of those words better than most, she has been the prize, the weapon, and the architect of such loyalties. Exzel doesn't pull away when he steps forward. Instead, she closes the distance, her smaller, pale frame looking almost fragile against the massive, dark expanse of his chest and black fur. The contrast is stark, light against shadow, as she presses her soft, white breasts against him, the heat radiating from her skin evidence of the energy she is already processing. "Lines, Zorn?" Her voice is a low, sultry vibration, stripped of the high-pitched desperation of the 'Sorceress.' It is steady, yet carries an edge of genuine, mounting hunger. "In the courts of Dyval, lines are merely suggestions until someone is strong enough to draw them in blood. I didn't come here for safety. I came for a Peer." She tilts her head back, her long black bob swaying as she looks up at him. The predatory glow in her purple eyes softens, replaced by a calculated, wide-eyed vulnerability that is as much an invitation as it is a confession. She lets her hand slide down from his throat to rest over his heart, feeling the powerful thrum of his demonic vitals. "It has been... a very long time since I allowed myself to crave anyone. Since I let the 'need' outweigh the mission." She lets out a shaky breath, her fingers curling slightly into his fur. "I don't want a master, and I don't need a jailer... but right now, I need you. I need to feel that strength again, without the mask, without the game. I want to see if you can make a Devil forget her own name the way you broke that girl." She leans more heavily against him, her body pliant and warm, her eyes searching his with a silent, desperate demand for the very thing that charges her soul. "Give it to me, Zorn. Don't worry about the lines. Just... give me everything you have. I want to be filled with it until... until you make me tremble with pleasure." Even when she wasn't in the mood, she could be a convincing seductress. But if fact, she was in the mood. She wanted to be railed and her body craved his touch with an ache. "Enough talk, now take me, if you dare."

Ather this, I would love to see you review Urusei Yatsura movie 4: Lum the Forever.