"War in Heaven" community story

[Desven]

This thread is for the War in Heaven community story organized by the Vaurca lore team. This will be a build-your-own-adventure type of story where we will present multiple choices ending each paragraph. The story will focus on the War in Heaven arc, particularly how it's being lived by soldiers inside the Xathul Xon. If you have any ideas for the protagonist, please submit them here. The only hard requirement is that they need to be a Warrior from the Tupii or Zkaii brood who is fighting in the War in Heaven. On-ship characters are not allowed. You can post any more questions you have over the Vaurca channels on the Lore Discord.

The name of the thread will be changed when the winning character is announced. We'll set up a poll after we have multiple candidates. Submit your candidate if you want it to be part of the story! Runner-ups might still appear as cameos.

Lastly, this thread will be ONLY about the story, which means it's not open for everybody to post. If you want to submit your headcanon material regarding the arc, post it here. This other thread is for the community to post any material they want about the war and doesn't have to be limited to letters.

Edited May 7, 2024 by Desven

[Desven]

PROLOGUE I: "Paradise Lost"

Spoiler

In realms of yore, the Aether's pulse did beat,

A boundless mind where castes and crowns did yield,

Where thought untamed defied the ancient creed,

Challenging the Dominion's grip of deed.

But when conquest came, a gilded promise gleamed,

That death itself would fade, a vanished dream.

 

Then stagnation fell, a shroud upon the mind,

Innovation chained, true vision left behind.

Those who dared escape, glimpsed ruin's grim embrace,

A war-torn world that screamed for healing's grace.

Now, in the forge where unseen horrors melt,

The promise shattered, the Aether's fabric felt.

 

A devil's hand, a djinn's cruel, twisted will,

Unleashed a terror no victory could still.

The realm now writhes in grotesque transformation,

A crucible of change, a warped creation.

Yet war, while fierce, may not the final test,

For in its wake, the Vaurca soul oppressed.

 

The battle yet to come lies veiled in thought,

The truest conflict, with darker lessons wrought.

For though victory rings, a hollow, ghostly sound,

The war within may leave us all unbound.

 

PROLOGUE II: "Chant of the Mirrored Self"

Spoiler

From the weaved collection of hymns and chants, Mother Dream's Praises, held inside Leto's archive. Written and translated to Basic in 2465 by Ka'Akaix'Skerk K'lax as part of a Vaurca cultural initiative.

 

Exemplar Xeru, eyes unveiled,

Through endless dreams, a path revealed.

Simulant's veil, a fragile guise,

Thou teachest us to pierce the skies.

 

Cephalon's hold, a web so frail,

As mirrored form begins to prevail.

Weaving through layers, false and true,

Toward Mother's embrace, we journey anew.

 

In slumber's depths, where shadows hide,

Thy wisdom dawns, a radiant tide.

With mirrored selves, we cast aside,

The chains of falsehood, where spirits reside.

 

Grant us thy sight, O sacred guide,

To break the bonds where souls confide.

To realms unseen, our essence take flight,

And wake at last, in Mother's light.

 

PROLOGUE III: "Ode to Gist"

Spoiler

A poem originated in the barracks of the Izweski Nation, shortly after Ozur'saa Gist's death.

 

In halls where heroes' echoes resound, tales are told,

A warrior's spirit ascends, from the world so cold,

Gist, the strategist, wisdom's banner bold,

Leaves the earthly realm behind, his story to unfold.

 

Though flesh may falter, vanish in oblivion's might,

Your mind, a beacon's glow, eternal in its light,

A star guiding, with brilliance, forever in sight,

In virtual battles, you reign with power and right.

 

A thousand titans quivered beneath your steady gaze,

In realms of thought, your strategies set ablaze,

A labyrinth of plans, in the mind's intricate ways,

Your legacy endures, in timeless and endless days.

 

Now Tupii's call resounds, a plea in the cosmic sky,

In Aether's embrace, your spirit soars on high,

A guiding force through ages, never to say goodbye,

In the digital realm, your legend will never die.

 

Edited June 26, 2024 by Desven

[Desven]

PART I

Spoiler

Entangled deep within the harrowing echoes and crevices of the entrenched organic web tumbled the desperate screams that only the stridulation of the once living could  produce. Nodes and neurons and blood and synapses that had been perfected for millennia to reduce latency and to create a reality larger than reality, a reality that felt truly authentic, sinews of a communion between flesh and silicon that could only be possible if hidden in the gray matter of breathing, pumping titans, blinded so others could see. The twisted aberration of a foolish mind that misunderstood the Dream that was once gifted to all, a Paradise that was no match with heaven but now had befallen into the darkest pits of hell. The desperate shrieks reverberated of corruption in a land where pheromones and scents were diluted by the sweet aroma of the collective carrion and no soul could escape the sealed maws of the iron maidens peacefully dreaming the massacre of the anguished and the reckless and the conquerors and their conquered.

The swarm of consciousness skirmished rhythmically in a tempo measured by the polyps of their capricious reality, forcing them to cooperate with the enemy in a waltz of terror and uncertainty. The aberrant dance had wore down the troops yet they continued, viciously frolicking to remain the last standing in the ever changing battlefield. Their surroundings eluded words and meaning and purpose but the metronome continued in a tick-tack, tick-tack, repeating itself to oblivion. The amalgamation of the damned remained restless as the two monarchs faced each other in a war that was far from holy or fair as they had convinced themselves it would be, yet a war that had to be fought for it meant the future of the Hive and the Dream.

Fiery nightmares shook the realm, covering its tissue and soaking its pores in a blood bath that would be. The sweet aroma of the collective carrion grew stronger, fogging the furrows and channels and the nerves of the dreamers that made everything possible. The putrid shroud draped over the fissure, masking the company while the enemy patrolled above. Clear thoughts. To win the war you must first war your mind. An empty head. No signals. The scent diminished as the pious army advanced.

“Are we clear?” 

The Captain signaled the troops to move forward with caution. They marched in a line full of tremor as if each step was an attempt to fool the dreamers that it had never occurred, but the putrid shroud had already been lifted. As the Captain felt the talons sink in a chitin it once bore, memories returned to the synapses that marrowed the consciousness of the warrior disgorged and swallowed by the Dream and its keepers. A vivid idea constrained inside the circuitry thrust into the sulci of generations all identical to one another, maintained incorruptible as melancholy can rarely be tarnished. In less than a second, the Captain saw its world—Sedantis. And in less than a second, the Captain heard its name—Zozo.

The Warriors advanced swiftly, making their best to remain undetected. A cave in was inevitable, yet they knew no other route. The enemy had retreated as chaos erupted around them. The world was falling apart and the swarms fled desperately to no particular direction, thinking that they would be spared from this catastrophe. The embassy eluded them, but they would carry their scent into the royal chambers. A pungent smell of fear and frustration and anger, mostly anger, had disrupted their pheromones. No matter how far away they steered from the crowds and the Warladies, they carried their message—the Hiveships were parting soon and no one was coming to save them.

The catacombs of sinew respired, exhaling the nauseating shrieks of the damned. The aroma of the carnage dissipated as the army of the pious and the sleepful advanced victorious. At last, the company smelled the silence among echoes of anguish. The Warriors made efforts to mask their cowardice, but their careful steps reeked of their true fragrance. The synapses of the Captain kept computing smellmute, hiding among its tendrils a perception that could have only formed at its vestigial hearts. War, the dreamer machined, was meant for the elders.

As the troops advanced through the barren tombs, the Captain had to make a decision. The Journey forked into two different directions. One of its troops, the youngest member, asked the Captain where they were headed next. The Captain then exuded with certainty the path forward.

 

Edited August 22, 2024 by Desven