Minutes weren't needed for the red god's reception to learn of the news within the shadows of Skylandria. On the edge of the badlands belt, another droid stamped by Zenith was torn asunder by the hands of the Steel-skinned Maiden. Few noted casualties took place. The lot being the bus worth of inmates the invader destroyed as reported by several of the droids and Dysons. Grant Dyson himself had earned varying wounds upon back, shoulder, and stomach that were already being treated. Names of the lost were already on way, brought by the figure Rote wanted to meet desperately.
The upper sect of Rote's castle was locked from everyone else, a select few ever saw the interior. Directly under the throne room was an empty chamber. A simple meeting place of dark walls in a circular formation. An eight-flowered lotus with pointed edges sat against the floor as a pattern with a mirroring formation upon the roof connected by intricacies against each wall. One-way stained glass, eight panes reaching the floor to tall ceiling. An Astarama inscribed on each double-layered panel.
The giant of Red with emerald eyes and a giant canon upon his shoulders. To their right was a similarly designed figure in blue; skeletal ever so slightly equipped with super-sized rifles. Long and sleek with enlarged exits. Beside them were their brother, a smaller figure shrouded in layering black and orange highlights. Their head was cyclopic peering through the glass prison with a fire in their chest and smoke from the handlebar type engine stemming from their stomach and back. After him was a stark opposition, the second largest of the lot. A statue of gold with white eyes with a thousand arms behind their resting position of folded legs and enlaced fingers; you could mistake this Astarama for a statue within a monastery.
Then the dragon with purple scales and steel skin. A mouth like a snake's with claws the size of their teeth. Dead eyes peered beyond the lightning which flew from their horns. The king of the skies ruled mercilessly with the ambassador of soil his companion. He was but a head, steel in tone with sharp brown lenses for eyes. His neck was too broad, his chest and shoulders far too wide to hope to fit in a mere pane of glass. But out of all, the one behind the stairwell was one of the most detailed.
It had the heavenly shine as the others held, wisps of white and clouds and platinum supported their holy glow. White silk and laurels rested upon his frame. The smallest of the Astarama yet the most detailed; most human. Angelic wings with individuality stored in every feather, sleek and elegant like a swan in human shape. That was the only way to describe him and their flowing dark hair. Kassiel Dragna, the machine who made himself. Kassiel Dragna the lord beyond lords.
All artworks that paled in the presence of physical counterparts. Glass and artistry no matter how many years dedicated could never hope to be the real thing, but it didn't try to be them either. Glass crafts would remain glass products, for the future to enjoy in time to come. It could still be admired of the hours and work dedicated into the craft, just as four machines adored them now. Red Knights sat in tandem watching the creations waiting for their lord's call. Carmine, Cerise, Baroque, and Marquis Beryl sat in a circle sharing words on recent events. On the spiraling staircase another seemed to appear. "Oh?"
Their heads bowed to the figure under their lord. Alexander Dyson reciprocated the gesture in his own nod, "Didn't think Rote would call you in so early," Carmine, closest to the staircase hailed out to the one she defended. "And I presume you made haste with the victim's list?"
She poked fun at their master. It was not reciprocated. Behind Alexander walked another, a fifth knight appeared for the group. Carnel, "We'll chat after, there's something more to this," Alexander made haste to the upper floor and another staircase half. Silence ensued as their sister sat beside the others, the lot waiting to let a laugh loose once the coast was clear.
Carnel remained silent. She eyed each of her siblings and their frames; no virtual changes since their conception fifteen hundred years ago. Before Vulcan brought Astarama, they were the ones who defended alongside the Azure Spears and Midnight Masqueraders, "Hmm? Something bugging ya?" Baroque spotted his sister's look. "Are you still mad about the whole...you know who?"
Carnel sighed, her arms folded. Out of the five, her proportions were the only different, "No that has long left my mind, he seems to be doing well," she bloviated with the flick of wrists. "I was more focused on the old captain, curious if that frame of his got an update like mine or not."
Every knight held a duty to Rote in some way or the next. Some took that to the extremes, so much so that they abandon the nation to follow alongside the Dyson that lead the operation. The captain was also different when compared to the rest, bigger; grander, "If he went into hiding...then I'd believe so," Carmine spoke up. Spear rested in her lap with oil escaping their fingers to grease the insides of their contraption. "The situation in your place is pretty bad, huh?"
Mandaly was the talk of the town for the transgressions that took place. Secrets which remained in royals lips of the Destria den active with dyson spheres. Word of mouth continued to travel and theories that didn't quite hit the mark in the slightest. It didn't matter to the five sitting in a circle exchanging tales of their respective Dysons. Their foolhardy nature and underlying ingenuity built upon a legacy of dedication to the craft. Each family related by blood or marriage shared the 'crazy' gene needed for their work to continue. Be it their insane bodies, concepts, and beliefs, that was what the legendary branching family was founded upon. Though the knights preferred not to discuss generations of the family with newer members.
In privacy they laughed. They swung about with limbs gripping each other; though power detectors were needed in case one sibling broke the next. If they got get drunk they would. Red Knights, the small platoon made smaller in their time operational. Now six members remained. Be it man or machine Mors was indiscriminate.
"I do doubt those zeniths would stick around for long, a year or two for the latest," Cerise threw in his two-cents on the talk of the town, "Though...if our speculated leader is as old as we believe then they may prove to be something fierce," a Seavpaver and now an Eyesnatcher were among their ranks. If their leader was someone aged enough to remember Z-N then they needed to worry.
"In the end, they'll stand beside the wrong end of history," Carnel supported their claims. It was still surprising how much the tone could change in a matter of minutes. The other four stretched their limbs far and sprawled off their weapons; unlike Carnel. Tucked under the window of Kassiel. Days of a time long past when on her mind.
Days where magic was unrestricted and daimon were pets. Where stars didn't hide under the nights. Where she spent years sitting on that windowsill in Doubhain for years working up the courage for an act she could never accomplish….though in this age it was more plausible. Her heart denied any action. All those years her heart beat for another like herself.
Action…..that's what he wanted right? Freedom from duty to roam from shackles? Sacrificing their every inch for a story of revenge with the price of uranium being blood. A price more than Carnel hoped he paid. Another Faustian bargain with the judge of death. She would remain sullen, acting the same uptight unit she always was with thoughts of what could have been stored away forever. "Carnel."
She jumped. Alexander called her name after who knows how much time passed as he walked down the stairs once more, "He and Parshad wish to speak with you, over the Mandaly findings," he clarified, "Don't look so startled, or he'll get worried of the undertones," he advised while having a brief seating with the group. Carnel nodded, offering a bow to the Dyson before hurrying from under the stairwell. "Beryl, Carmine. I think we've overstayed our welcome here, after all…."
"Those mines of yours are looking rather weary alone, aren't they? Marquis? Should we not pay a visit to them?"
"Ah...well seeing that no good boy of yours should have returned from his cavern explorations by now, why shouldn't we go to greet him?" Beryl kept his words select and seldom. Those legs creaked upon standing. Something had changed. Their expressions of joy, where were they from moments before? Noses pointed towards the flaming pits of Cnoc Dubh. The railway would suffice. Alexander had a custom train made for the Dysons long before. Unlike the other bodies of bland beige and boring black, this one was a luxurious form. Golden arches decorated a crimson body with diamonds ingrained in the side. Flashy didn't do the thing justice. Exuberant maybe.
They continued down the floors, using optical ID to verify themselves before entering the lower five floors. Through the main gates, the cold winds brought crisp leaves and their odor to Alexander. Nutty yet aged like a fine oak. Winter's premiere was at hand. Days were shorter with a void appearing in the skies at five in the afternoon. Silver-lined clouds puffed over their heads, too fat to be pushed by any gale. Blessings from the ocean goddess' spirit, for this weather called for something warm to ignite the soul.
Alexander walked down the thin streets. His hand waved in approval to the sentries placed outside the wall of Rote's castle before turning right and continuing down the brick streets. Roads jammed with the incessant hum of engines; they were quieter than older models, but just as orchestral in large gatherings. Traffic truly was terrible when the digital routes for flying vehicles were packed almost the same. "Well, suck's they're not on the express."
Alexander needed to be cautious. As always he wore his lower garbs; common streetwear from memories beneath him. Red jumper with rust over the zippers under black robes revealing the red with each swaggered movement. Aged boots with patches of white, stained with stories. Black framed glasses kept his eyes shielded and a hood and cowl disguised their hair and lower mouth. Anyone with half a mind walked the other way from such a figure. Not from their clothing alone, but the bots that followed.
All the way down the street people stared. When he turned. Crossing the street and hopping between cars in packed roads with no care for stoplights. Needless to say, annoyed people refrained from reacting to such a powerful being. He must have had some important reason, no? Along the streets, he walked further east stealing sniffs off the stick leaves on pines growing in metal pods alongside the road. His mind listed off every shop and sign he saw. Every worn letter and permanently closed arrangement waiting for another to move in.
A downpour was about to set in. The Dyson needed to stop; Amelia would kill him if he got sick now. Luckily for him, Alexander had his trusted steed, "You need this?" Before the downpour reached peak rainfall the red knight offered an umbrella. Colored red and yellow after him, it lacked the conventional head as many did. Eight ends prodded out like spider legs. The moment Alexander pushed a bottom near the base plasma burnt alive. Any stray end remained in formation by hair-like wires preventing the flow; the same ends with safety's if the plasma were to touch another.
"Thank you," Alexander praised, resting the rod against his shoulder he carried on. Space was made for both units to fit under the cacophony of steaming droplets, but they remained distant. Ever hovering behind. Always trailing behind by choice until Alexander met his goal. At last, the train station was in sight.
The train station was empty. On the side of the two-door entrance was a metal platform with heating vents that encapsulated the feet to dry off shoes. A grand station like this handles tens of thousands on a daily….not a large number in comparison to millions, but at least the industry remained alive, not on fumes just yet.
Beryl went ahead to get both of them tickets from the automated ticket vendor directly beyond the door. It was about the size of a person jotting from the wall beside the door next to a bin. Beryl flashed the back of his palm against the sensor. Two passes for the Dyson rail were released in the form of recycled plastic cards. In actuality a ticket only served to satisfy a record. Alexander hurried after, going true the sentry as everyone else would in those belted lines. A last-minute sentinel eyed him before sending him into a connective tunnel leading directly into the cart. Carmine didn't enter. Instead, she remained outside, wings keeping her afloat and eyes on the train.
Something didn't smell right, even fishier seeing that she couldn't. She hovered over the roof of the station. Half of the block belonged to this stop. It stood as a fusion of steel and hardy red bricks straight from Cnoc mines. Streetlamps hung off the sides shining against the semi-circle windowpanes; a cloth cover inclined gave some cover for passerbys in the storm. Upon a faux roof was where the magna-rails connected to the power source in order to remain in magnetic suspension.
Carmine rested her finger against neuragear sending texts to their V.I.P within the train. She sat diagonal to her vision, peering through one of many stained yellow windows. She analyzed the track for any disruptions along the rails. Still in top shape despite rainwater dripping off the ends, "Put in a line- rocket my hammer over here," Carmine was cautious contacting members of the swarm logistics division. "This instant, and made it discreet."
Her D.D.D system flared on end; an experimental parasite in her chest. A mess of wires and combinations but still street legal. Alexander could see the faint bursts beneath her wrists from this distance. His eyes fell on the remote in front of him. With a mere thought a signal went across to the device in order to get tea for him and the mechanical companion opposite to him, "Quite some time since you took his express," Beryl pointed out. He was accustomed to the glamour after the abuse Daedra gave this stronghold.
The externals were the same shade as the train's exterior, a bright gold lining complimented the crimson spearhead. Dyson's personal rail was built upon a recommissioned train, chairs replaced by more luxurious counterparts reflecting of their glory. Mantles of silver ornamented the ceiling with tiny beads of silver and gemstones ripped out of Tellus with agony and suffering of inmates within each jewel. "Yes….indeed."
This old train witnessed many rails and trips through the Mandaly district in the past, but now….now it was coming to an end. Alexander's father, Charles, rode this old thing as far as the country could reach. His grandfather also did so. Now with experimental technology such as spontaneous teleportation being tested and improved this old device outlived its use. A melancholy realization. He couldn't turn away from a reflection of him.
Upon every surface, he saw himself; including non-reflective ends. A sigh escaped his mouth once reclined as far back as possible, "The tunnels in the mine, it connects to the Destria dens," the revelation struck the mining foreman. Alexander removed his shades and lowered his cowl.
"Interesting, I wasn't down there myself. How could you tell?" the knight quizzed. His hands moved with the rotary gears, reaching to the table that rolled along the carriage bringing what the Dyson ordered. His eyes didn't break contact with Alexander even as the rich brew poured from ceramic into tiny cups.
"A supercomputer questioning me on what should be common knowledge for him?" Alexander tilted his head, "I studied the Destria manners extensively and so did my sons….though it appears some feigned attention in class," he waited patiently for the tea to cool with hands on his laps. The Dyson was breathless in wait. Nara, his firstborn son inherited their wisdom assured. Daedra and Grant were also disciplined upon their twenty-second birthdays. Lucki was still some time away; the soft spot of a father's heart to be taught ancestral secrets.
"Hmm, maybe you could lecture him on it later," the knight joked. Their lips wrapped around the end of the cup stealing all contents. Fingers danced on his lap with steam heating the train's insides. A horn blew. The wheels spun, off to Cnoc on an automated system. "Say….Alexander, you've been vocal on these Zenith twats, but you've yet to share any speculations."
"All other councilmen are throwing suspicion already, yet you remain silent." Alexander took a deep breath. His shoulders lifted with the rest of him. Both eyes narrowed, yet focused on all and none. He took his first sip.
"Because they are fools," he calmly shared, "Rote knows they are as well." the train's rattle was ever so enticing to the aging man, "In pressure, they snap like dogs at everything but the nib of what ails them as weak-willed men do. Not brave enough to confront what is true," behind closed doors the lead royal gave his opinion. "Why else have they not appeared in meeting for the past months? Rote knows they would cause more destruction and waste hours- that's why he counts only on me."
Ambition and ego were unsavory characteristics for any mere person. But a Dyson, head of his people and leader to many earned it. Smarter, stronger, quick on his feet, and faster with his words. Ego was backed by sheer knowledge. "Now...speaking of destruction, I smell some on the airwaves."
A flash of red earned their attention. Beryl wanted to leap for it, but Alexander snapped his fingers. Where the rails went beside clouds and storms a veil of red mist was also present. At the eye of a storm something peered back. A man from the stars.