Chapter 1

The very beginning

Daggorath…Is… He creates the Triumvirate and evokes Eigengrau (the Darkening).

Between the folds of Eternal, Endless, and Everlasting, there was the Severance. Knowingly, Daggorath forged the division to medially intervene the spaces, so they would be kept uniquely distinct. As He loved greatly, He passionately created unto weariness; until the mysterious, intricate, and stunning were stratified into existence.

His cosmological opus was a depletion – even for The One. The circumrotation of the discretely triform continuum became the beginning. In the boundless perspicuity, His very form then divided into this threesome of coexistence.

To safeguard the birth of the Origin Flame, He ensured it would never be used to alter the Creation, through His circulation across the consciousnesses. Daggorath would always remain, but would be forthwith shared across three dimensions in ubiquity.

So it was, that each arm of the Creator would be disunited and yet kept aware of its host, and ever aligned with the conscientious Darkening. The created would be allowed to understand their place in Creation, but not the sterile unsurvivability of the black.

Eigengrau offered no answers. Peering into the secrets of its grim nature only brought questions to the Maker. Daggorath’s thoughts were not their thoughts and a cross dimensional cognitive amnesia would maintain the Law. Authority would be given to the black to persist the decree, while the created sought relationship with their God.

Chapter 2

Arena

As Einar looked into the night sky for his Eternal, he wondered why the suit always seemed to chafe against him. Sure, these assemblies were part of the Observance of the Unbroken, but in the countless centuries, nothing ever changed. No one on their planet could even recall a time of equanimity. There’d be no hope of course change, and the woebegone would always be the wretched lower caste they were born into.

As no one could even dare challenge the superiority; these events were in no way celebratory, or in any way festive. Just exactly how many would have to die this time? How big a spectacle would be bathed in the latest centennial bloodletting? It was all designed to just remind exactly who enjoyed the Primacy. But the pull to this place was instinctive. The suits just persisted, and the legs followed.

Still… Perhaps the clans had developed new creeds or adopted fresh dogma. There was only one way to find out, and he couldn’t fight it anyway, so onward he trudged. There was always hope…

On occasion, he’d stare into the night sky and watch as the moons grabbed at one another, just as the combatants did in the amphitheater. The seemingly innumerable, diminutive frozen rocks would threaten and glance one another, as they always had. Something in the uselessness of that brinksmanship reminded him of his own station.

But still he dared into the Darkening. The Eternal had to have intended more, and yet it was heresy to even think in such a manner. Many had and would continue to suffer if ever these thoughts were unearthed. Yet these ideas weren’t his alone, and the further from this place he was, the more popular they were.

As he came in range and buried the yearning down, he saw the colossus of light up ahead, and momentarily railed against the pull. The others passed curiously, because there’d never be a reason to waver. It also caused a great deal of pain to anyone wearing one – far more than the heft of it, and its normal abrasive nature.

The hooks dug into his desensitized flesh, and the deadened nerve endings still gave way to an inconvenient and growling discomfort. As always, he’d twist his body to find a bit of relief, but the notion of comfort inside was a silly one. They were specifically designed to protect while proving unwieldy, and to wear your forefathers was an honor. But they’d never had to carry him…

Still, there were almost no chinks in any of them (but still a few), so the only way to lose inside one was from a bludgeoning death knell. Or to be so outmatched, the armor didn’t even matter. Careening off the insides could eventually take its toll, and the soft flesh would be little more than a network of practically bloodied contusions.

Though vision was nearly prohibited, he was still able to see clearly through the shell at what had just crossed his path. It was there but then it wasn’t. Still, he’d seen something just in front of his armor.

Maybe a bit reluctant to join the celebration, but he’d never neglect his duty. Then again, he had to see what this was. It was an unusual sight, just a whiff of shadow but in the form of something bipedal. Odd in its gait – strangely two-footed, and not like anything he’d ever seen. Over and over he looked around his area to find it, but it was gone. The onboard data replay captured something and replayed it over and over. A ghostly translucent form that only added more questions to his fatigue.

He’d just have to deal with it later, because delaying any longer would be suicide. The pain of his resistance to the involuntary sojourn was becoming physically unbearable (but was still rebelliously enjoyable). If his suit came apart in route, he’d have a lot of explaining to do, and an unexpected curiosity wasn’t worth the hassle. An unresolved oddity wasn’t worth dying over, and he’d needed the time to figure out how to explain what he’d recorded. Time to refocus.

The heavy deliberate steps rejoined the exodus, and the others stopped staring in their disbelief. His suit was larger than those nearby, but still not grandiose. If they stared any longer, it may have been considered a challenge, and no one wanted to perish – at least not before arriving. To die as part of the Observance may have been honorable, but to fall before getting inside was unthinkable. Where would the ancestors rest? They wouldn’t enjoy becoming Einherjar out here.

In range, his digits no longer mattered. No one’s did. The pull of the leviathan of dreaded light created an artificial pull toward the nexus. A reddened sky – the color scandalously falsified in its texture and hue, from the essence of those in attendance. Fictitious daylight…bloodied by unwilling spectators. The sea within; abyssal through the meat grinding assembly line of participants flowing indifferently forward.

Though they all tried to divert their eyes from the approaching ghoulish haze, it was clear that many would be dying today. Always, the sight of light conjured so much negative emotion. Or, perhaps what happened within just made light feel evil.

All of the tiny dots in the sky didn’t seem to mind being illuminated, and they didn’t invoke the same sense of dread. So why here?

Soon, it wouldn’t matter, and eyelets would be obscured further with combat effluence. So, as the celestial objects became hidden in the contaminated light column, he was comforted by them. Maybe, just maybe there were inhabitants around those stars who enjoyed light far more than his people. For now he’d have to think of them fondly, and don the role of melee warrior. Everyone he carried with him, both inside the suit and back at home, needed him to do well.

While he passed beneath the arches, Einar knew he should be proud. He knew what an honor it was to be representing this way. But why this way? As the lovingly clad walls of the entrance made their wartime embellishments known, his apprehension gave in to the adrenaline. Very soon, the heft of a bladed implement would cast its renown on his future. If not for a lack of anticipation, he would be excited.

The dots gave way to memories of them, and became negatives fused on his eye’s remembrance. Not in the sense of photokeratitis, but in the burning of the desire to know what they represented. As the façades depicting great heroes opened to the next panel, and the next, his adroitness would soon be ornamented with respect. Now, the heavens would have to wait until he dismembered his first opponent. If he had to be here, he would fight his heart out, so he let his readiness take hold.

Though his senses now boiled with expectancy, he took one last glance toward the sky, just as the large blade barely glanced in front of his face. Slowly, it slid down the metal of his breastplate with an unlubricated skidding rasp.

It lodged itself into the ground in front of him so he nearly lost his footing on the massive slab of razored metal. It left a foot deep divot in the turf, and his opponent tried to fulcrum it out with an armored sole. At least Einar would grant him the glory of dying with those boots on; sword still in hand.

Picking up the closest thing to him, he countered with the removal of the first limb in range. He then pounced on the attacker’s large frame, burying his elbow into the man’s throat. His free hand then beat the other’s armor into the ground – making the combatant’s form nearly the same as sea level. He then buried the large axe so deeply, only the handle could still be seen. The sparring had begun, and the sea deepened.

Odd of a junior man to take such a cheap shot at a veteran, but such was the mania of this generation. As the man’s fluids drained into the soil, so did his entire lineage. Einar only hoped they’d be reclaimed, but commencing a sparring round with someone unarmed might just have bound him to a hellish fate.

But this was not his main concern. Einar’s primary focus was staying on his feet while cutting the legs out from under anyone who drew near him. Being older gave him an edge – he hadn’t reached that milestone by losing. The dents and tarnished scorching came from all those who’d failed before. More importantly, with that maturity came size. So, he was well positioned to endure this fighting style.

After a good measure of time, he paused to breathe. The fetid air was still rife with screams of iron. Then he gazed out from the arteries fueling adrenaline behind his eyes, while his frame lifted the weight of his now graven arms. Amid the wreckage, there were just a few others remaining. The expected few still stood, with just a few more scars, with their challengers collapsing into pools. Those who fought valiantly were being taken up to be praised. A few who didn’t, were lost to this place in disgraceful perpetuity.

Gilcrist stood. He always did. No one could remember a time when that behemoth didn’t grace the center arena. Einar himself had seen it the last three times, but some of the newer clansmen hadn’t expected such a spectacle.

Warring was the path, and the destination was always the same. Whoever won the fight, won the right, and enjoyed free access to the Eternal. So, the stakes were high. With being decimally more massive, there was little debate about the foregone conclusion bleeding to death on the ground in front of him. Gilcrist’s triumph was always assured, and there’d be no dispute. With each glorious win, his suit continued to grow, propelling it to the next win.

His gleaming armor, now drenched in crimson grandiosity, was unmatched in its molting. It just knew what to do. Other suits expanded so infrequently that they’d absorb Lifeblood incorrectly, or damage themselves in their enlargement. Yet, right before their eyes, it was already beginning. As their own exoskeletons creaked and groaned, the ruddiness did little to obscure the shine emanating from between the growth lines.

Monologuing: Not for nothing…it is impressive, Einar ruminated. But when was the last time we even had an off-world attack, let alone a real internal threat? It’s just such a waste…

Gilcrist had just awoken one day in defense of himself and his position. He instinctively defended; but against what, none were quite sure. Each victory necessitated the next, and the next, right through to the current day. He claimed to have been touched by the Eternal, and wore that emblem on his breastplate. But it was hard for many to imagine that divine eminence should be derived from so much brutality. When would enough be enough?

As Einar and the other surviving clansmen bowed and pledged fealty to his battle standard, there seemed some unease from the newer Exos. Pledging was tough for those with shiny free will and new ideas. But to those on the field with rank and experience, duty was unmatched in its honor. The oath wasn’t just lip service, it was the creed by which they lived, and the framework of their entire society. None had earned the right to question their leader, so they didn’t.

Outside of this place and this special moment, was another story. Many envisioned self-rule, and a bit of autonomy. But emancipation from their vow would not be quite so simple. So, they lived within their given rights, and release wasn’t their life’s work. Much had been lost today, but just as much could be gained for playing the game. Each time their loyalty was re-asserted, the proclamation earned them special considerations. As did their performance on the field.

Einar had been around the block. He had no love for any of it, but he was in the system, and made the very best of it. After today, his stature would be renewed, and his pastures had earned another century of security. Plus, his renewed declarations would keep things very status quo. He’d remained above contempt, but also stayed gloriously anonymous. Having no more attention coming his way would allow his people to just keep on keeping on. He was proud to have served them well, and would return home to a bit of his own local fanfare. Then he could go back to thinking about the lights in the sky and tilling his fields.

With the obligatory sword searing, medals and commendations were awarded; as were service marks. All were hand carved deep into the metal, by a being nearly ten times larger than the recipients – at the tip of an even weightier blade. Einar’s fourth arm stripe came, as did another sort of marking that wasn’t quite clearly understood. All he wanted to do was get it over with, so he could be back on the road home (so he really wasn’t paying attention). Punishments were awarded; but combatants were imbued – almost charged with the responsibility of their decorations. As long as a rebuke wasn’t forthcoming, he just nodded civilly.

He bowed sheepishly while figuratively thanking his leader for leaving his head in place above his shoulders. There was no actual disdain for his leader, but he never broke eye contact, no matter how deeply the bend at his waist. Nor, did he relinquish his weapons, as was his battle given right. Subconsciously, he urged him to pass right on by, with hands still poised for conflict.

On this day, the stance was noteworthy to the autocrat, who let out a fearful laugh that all at once quieted the entire arena. In the silence, he squinted down on Einar and pounded a proud fist down on his pauldron. The bulk of his hand could have easily damaged him, but it was a thump of approval, supported by a gleam in the giant’s eye. To that, a large cheer and hail reignited the onlookers who shouted praises down onto the ceremony.

It was nearly over for this participant, and finally his hands could lessen their holds on leather wrapped handles. It would be the next guy’s turn, and Einar could finally return to guarded calm.

But it happened again. What he still hadn’t made peace about from moments before their skirmishing, was now in front of him. A phantasmal bipedal figure, or the outline of one, was frozen in space between he and his better.

Immediately, Gilcrist paused and revolved the massive blade toward it, and it went straight through. Somehow the form was taking up space, but its translucence made it elusive. Visible but undefinable, it didn’t move as he swung the blade through a second time. So swiftly and harshly, that the business end of it nearly hit the next fighter awaiting decoration.

Everything paused. Much like the solitary figure, they all just stood motionless, as Gilcrist waved a free hand through a couple of times. From what they could distinguish, it was a glitch. Like something that wasn’t supposed to be here, just strangely occupying the space. It certainly wasn’t one of them, and not like anything they’d ever seen.

All of a sudden, the confusion of his expression turned to pain. With a loud thud, the enormous invincible fell on one knee and the opposing hand. His scaffolded physique fell right on top of the shape which was not disrupted. It continued to show its form straight through the fallen.

Slowly, the cryptid began to vanish, as Gilcrist tried to regain his footing. What Einar couldn’t see, was that some of the junior men had attacked the back of their leader’s leg, while he was distracted.

Einar!! Help us. Destroy the monster while he’s down!!

Unable to process what was transpiring right before him, all he could do was marvel. Halted and unable to process, he watched as the smaller frames actually drew blood from their elder. He could only imagine that they’d hoped for enough time for death by a thousand cuts. But they were mistaken.

Before he realized it, he was fending them off of Gilcrist, who was still trying to right himself.

He’s our leader, man!! There is no honor in felling a man who’s back is turned. Nor is there any glory in hitting a man while he’s down!!

Out of some misplaced loyalty, or honorable sense of duty, he was literally fighting men off of the despot. Something he dared not dream about was finally happening, and he didn’t find himself on the side of the insurgents.

There was no love lost between anyone on the field, anyway. All were fighting for what was best for them – first and foremost. But he couldn’t let their entire society fall into disorder and lawlessness for the sake of change. All at once, he’d become a keeper of the Law, and a defender of a faith he didn’t quite choose. Everything was just happening too fast.

The crowd had not dared breathe during the entire event. What took moments, seemed like miniature eternities, and all that could be heard was the clatter of blades on plate. Finally, the natural order began to haul mercifully forward.

In their hasty petulance, the smaller men hadn’t considered that a failed coup might mean the end of everything. Not just a reprimand from the sentient, but the conclusion of literally everything they held dear.

Gilcrist spun as he stood and grabbed the closest man in one hand. He gripped the man so tightly and with such speed, that the air escaping the compressed lungs, didn’t have time to be replenished. In an instant, the frame was a pimple that had been evacuated. The goo inside took the place of the face that once peered out of the tinted visor, and it was discarded like waste. Fearing the same fate, the others ran as the obsessed gave chase.

Einar was pushed aside, as the behemoth cleaved one man and the next, and split the remaining two men in half horizontally. All of them lay on the ground while the Lifeblood essence melted away, and those smart enough not to challenge looked on in horror. There was no dignity in this attack, so each man and his lineage would be lost to the ages. If history was any guide, their entire communities would be destroyed and the annals would no longer contain their history. All would most likely suffer for the cowardice of a blindside attack.

Instead of the titan growing yet again in his suit, he rested. As he straightened himself, he limped noticeably as he headed over toward Einar. The less significant man had no idea how to act as he watched the tarnished armor approaching him. Out of reverence for his station, and out of respect, he knelt and waited for inevitability to arrive.

As he gazed toward the underling showing obeisance, he articulated his arm upward, as the distance was closed between them. Muted murmurs could be heard from the seats, as the viewers spoke uncomfortably amongst themselves. Pain began to infiltrate Einar’s receptors, but he wasn’t being disciplined. It was his suit spreading outward. But he’d never experienced this sensation. Normally, it was just a bit uncomfortable, and never had it been so excruciating. Short of distressing, he was nearly nauseated, just as the other man reached him.

While he waited for normalcy, and for Gilcrist to speak, he dreamed of heading back home at the speed of dark. On this day, his dream of uneventful was destined to go unfulfilled.

Chapter 3

The good old days

Kinney McRaven dug her spoon deeper into the cow juice, for a multihued scoop of flavors, while admiring the cereal box. Delectable goodness had come in the form of Fruity Pebbles since her parents were kids, or at least they told her so. She supposed it was easy enough to find entertainment in a cartoon Fred dancing on the box, but she couldn’t imagine being gifted a free Flintmobile.

They’d also thrilled her with tales of the Action Pinball Game in Super Sugar Crisp, and glow in the dark Moon Globes in Cap’n Crunch’s Peanut Butter Crunch (and some kind of baking soda submarine).

It just didn’t make sense. People never had time for breakfast, so why bother to put real life toys inside the box? In any event, these little distractions still made a whole lot more sense than whatever a Big Trak was, or Simon, or a Cabbage Patch Kid. They’d still also never explained to her something called a Pet Rock.

But at least these little tabletop amusements placated a kid enough to remove some before school angst. Before she realized it, she had been whisked away in a daydream to the place and time of her parents’ childhood. Having one last blast of joy on the way out the door might just start the day with a smile. Perhaps they’d actually enjoyed breakfast time together back then, even though they admitted to never living like the folks in The Donna Reed Show.

Whatever. That was a long time ago, and this was her time. Her parents were now officially old, and the stories were just as antiquated. She wasn’t quite sure how long they’d been old, but at least for a few years. The more she matured, the more the mom and dad jokes just seemed to be more frequent, and even more repellent. Who’d want a banana seat on a bike anyway? Seriously! Who cared about splitting wood, or taking home economics classes? This was her generation and was therefore destined to be the greatest.

It wasn’t that she saw herself as ungrateful or unappreciative. She was just growing tired of explaining how remote controls and cell phones functioned. Kinney was also fatigued from the stale references to a bygone era. The pace of that portion of the family timeline just seemed so painfully slow and repetitive. She really did love the sentiment of it, but the ever-gravelly timbre of Pop Pop’s voice meant it would take even longer next time. For her, life’s pace was accelerating, while the rest of the family was slowing down.

Still, she did appreciate Pop Pop for setting the right tone about their worship of the Everlasting. The man, along with his increasingly feisty lifetime companion had always been the moral way finders. But Nana knew the closer they got to meeting their Creator, the more that legacy should be built into successive generations. As they would pass on someday soon, Kin’s own mom and dad would be left to lead.

Beautiful sentimentality with a side order of hypocrisy. They’d been around a while, and if their stories were to be believed, they’d actually lived. In their day, schools weren’t prisons and they still taught civics; while politics hadn’t ironically crept into every single conversation. Working harder or smarter correlated to gain, and tax dollars were spent with some discretion and accountability. Now everything was stupid, and the things the previous two generations held dear were now culturally myopic. At some point in her youth, living had been replaced with surviving, and social pressure was king. Trying to live free and adhere to her thoughts of the Everlasting, could only be attained after rousing the self-appointed from their somnambulism.

Today’s youth wasn’t allowed the same curious indiscretions or honing by the School of Hard Knocks. Everything they did was public knowledge, and if social media didn’t pick up on it, someone’s dashcam certainly would. Where the Greatest Generation was allowed liberty with their responsibility, kids now were confronted with the insurmountable challenge of being all things in all circumstances – with zero freedoms. Little white lies, and the defensible sins that came with growing pains, could now all just be looked up on Google, and didn’t need to be experienced.

Now, the grandparents would say they were trying to prevent her from making the same mistakes. Somehow their prevention felt more like deprivation, and it only fortified a bit of defiance within her. Even in this adolescent state, and though she wasn’t atoning with hard labor, she did know her ass from a hole in the ground. Though many her age didn’t, so she understood the moniker.

So, the kids in her generation weren’t suffering from a misapplication of child labor law. So, what. They were more mature, and knew everything they needed to – just ask one and they’d be ready to tell how hard life was. It made no difference that kids in every preceding generation, were laying their lives down to fight for her right to be a smart aleck.

To Kin, the big picture didn’t matter yet. She just didn’t want to get to school late, and Nana always dragged her feet, or forgot something on her way out the door. For her, the present was her reality, and theirs was the hell and back worldliness they’d damn well earned. So, the little insignificant haste frothing around her lips went unnoticed. She’d be rattling and drowning in the thought that she’d never have a chance to earn her stripes, if they couldn’t even get out the door!

But she remained calm. Mid-terms were havoc on her normal schedule anyway, and her short-term memory was already playing Pong. Plus, Nana was doing her a favor by picking up her best friend (again). Kin’s brain needed the energy to keep rehearsing the useless facts she was juggling and couldn’t wait to flush. Plus, she was really curious about the new Vans that Clokey would be sporting today. The shrinking form heading into the driver’s seat would be given a passport from playful mockery - for today.

As her grandmother placed herself in graceful awkwardness in front of the steering wheel, Kinney realized how precious these moments should be for her. She also felt a little ashamed for childishly gibing their matriarch, when the woman was so absolutely selfless. She should be enjoying her lofty perch as the neighborhood’s leading songbird expert and birdseed maven. Instead, she was running