RK-012 was her tag ever since initial construction. Of a platoon nearing a hundred soldiers, Carnel was the twelfth. In this era in terms of age, she was the oldest unit. The most experienced by far as well in terms of life. She didn't always reflect this.
Before she remade her frame, Carnel was a soldier within Dragonfall leading the charge of infantry against the beaches and skies of Durigon where the Astarama tore down beast after daimon to make way. Back then they were no different than each other, no certainly not in terms of capabilities, rather they were both slaves to the system. To the land that was there before renamed Gottenfall. A weak man with a lust for power became the general and forced both them and their makers into servitude. Day after day they'd work on weapons of war and pain. Pain reflected behind the eyes of that man. The one she spent the most nights with. Always at his side through the thick and thin.
They both knew this, but neither could truly advance the other in a way she longed for. Even after all Carnel has experienced in her travels, the look in Vulcan's eyes when he heard one of his creations was a success more of his soul was eaten. One casualty was enough more than enough. He begged for them to break; for him to be wrong...but he hardly had a dud.
He became a servant of Mors. A man colder than the snows of his home territory. Some could look to him and say he was a muse whose chosen instrument was death followed by an orchestra of dismay. Yet he remained pure in her vision. A lost puppy if anything.
When the dragons struck from the clouds a second time she was thankful that her digital prison was shattered so Vulcan could be freed. That general, he was causality in the fire as far as history knew. But Vulcan could never be truly free. Be it is judgment or the grudge of a god, he would be deemed a prisoner for all of existence. Cursed to wander aimlessly where his most treasured would become a grave. Not even Carnel could save her dearest friend from such fate.
Astarama. Combat constructs. Dwarves and Dragnoks. His brother and the Blue Eden Project. They culminated in Vulcan's head until the end of his days- he needed to do something to end the battle. A price she wasn't willing to pay but he'd surrender in a heartbeat.
Carnel couldn't accept the defeat upon that day almost a thousand years ago. They had won and the Astarama defeated elder gods for their new names….but he pushed them on as a ghost; embodiments of his very will split into seven along with land. Knights and Spears sided with the original duo, the Fists and other remnants of the war were swept under the wings of lords, unlike the seapaver tragedy. They all fought for Carnel to serve under them as well knowing her value to their lord.
But no. She rebutted them all, leaving no trace before searching.
'He had to be out there, right?' she lied to herself, 'There's no way he died down there….no that had to be a doppelganger
The Destria mines of Gottenfall, the Dyson laboratories lost to Himmelborn held no trace of life. The catacombs under Seigen didn't support her friend either as the years went on. No stone was left upturned except for that cavern in Doubhain. For over five centuries Carnel convinced herself he was alive in some form or the next….the realization was slow and heavy like being crushed by a steamroller. Given up and lost Carnel decided that Rote would be her lord. Until the day she would be reunited her frame would carry on what his will. Thicker, larger, bolder with an additional faceplate like the mask he wore.
To her, all of the siblings were just as powerful. The day she entered Gottenfall her spear was sheathed for a shield to cover any Dyson they would guard for years to come.
Now her spear was ready to shine again. Dragon killer, first of the second knight platoon. Carnel awaited orders from who she deemed worthy.
But for now, that meant that she stood upon a beach slightly outside Mandaly and on the edge of their guardian wall. Here the bay was beginning its curve as Mandaly was in the bottom of the bowl-shaped hole in the ocean. Sands were pink in these stretches too as sound from everyone's ramblings polluted the shores she stood upon, "Hmm. You," she pulled the only one she could stand aside from the rest of the group. "Why did you assemble us here in such haste? And why aren't you wearing a shirt?"
She directed both concerns to Dynamo, now sitting beside her getting their feet wet in the cold waters. Her sworn Dyson, Lucki was present alongside senior agent Tome who 'happened to be in the vicinity and came running on Dynamo's call' it wasn't an excuse for him to hang out or anything. Same with the criminal bartender Strider who he dragged over. Their meeting was purely coincidental as Strider hailed out the dragon and insisted on coming after the situation was made apparent.
They weren't alone either, but nearly half of the Mandaly police division came armed in scuba gear awaiting the orders. If what their caller said, what stood under the seas was disastrous indeed. "Even her lady wants to see these lands."
"Carnel, do you remember when we once stayed in Fischgrab?" Dynamo whispered. Neither had sensors to detect cold, but it trailed up their spines, "Remember the main track? The one we used to run through to get from Mandaly to Fischgrab?" his eyes darted past every member of the police. All of them were like him, suspicious. It could be any one of them. One was already known. A wolf stalking between bundles of sheep. "I think someone is still playing in that long erased tunnel."
Things were up in the air. Lena remained distant from most. Somewhat behind Dynamo, a few dozen feet away upon some rocks where the heat blistered. Harsh, but necessary. Beside her were Strider and Tome, arms folded and wings spread wide. Opposed to the lazy shirtless male next to Tome, with his fraudulent arms showing for everyone to see and scan, "Say, did he tell you what he saw down there?" Strider popped the question, "I still don't know what I signed up for in all honesty."
"Then why did you ask to hitch a ride?" Tome quizzed. For the coming future, he took what his father said to heart. Fire in his gut was ready to burn all evils of the world as his nails combed any loose hair into place.
"Cause I gave my assistant the job for today so I could stroll around here. Then I thought I'd meet Lena again," Strider was an open book, "Don't get me wrong I'm happy to help and all, but ya know…..don't think of me as some selfless hero," he waved off everyone's discomfort with a smug face all the while. Sometimes ego was attractive in a man. Sometimes. Veles, the rifle was around his neck with its barrel hugging their owner's neck.
Dynamo took firm notice of this before anyone else. Sure these people were weird and got a pass from Mandalay's blue maiden, but what more was it to this? Lucki questioned this herself, against the rocks with the division defending around her; her eyes locked with Dynamo's, "I get that the police are suspicious of us….but isn't that for a good reason?" he laughed, "In times like these, trust wasn't something you could give….especially to unplanned individuals."
He with a glass home threw a stone behind him with no hesitation. Starting his engines the gas within exhaled any residual mud forcing it to bubble out, "Can't say I disagree with you," Carnel nodded on all assessments. She was curious about the odd man out for several reasons, however, time wasn't ample. Lucki was almost finished giving orders of attack and scuba suits were given out. It was almost time for her to spearhead the charge. Her gears creaked as she stood. A weight tugged on her.
Dynamo grabbed her hand. "W-what?"
He didn't move. Nor did he look at her in the eyes. The ocean was simply stunning when a layer of death sat upon its gemstone-like hue. His voicebox gulped, "Can you stay here a little longer?" he pleaded. Nostalgia waved over both of them; she read him like a book. Carnel had no qualms to such a request, though Lucki did make a coy expression having her lips concealed. "Do you think we can do it? Without a casualty I mean."
"If this is a Zenith territory then the possibility sounds improbable," higher numbers meant higher risk for their better chance of victory, "This is the first large-scale operation you've been a part of in a while, yes?" Carnel questioned with a gentle tone. Dynamo's head twinged. His mechanical heart skipped a beat. Oil pumped through his veins; they were visible under a layer of skin.
"They're the next generation, Carnel, I can't have any of them dying just yet," he admitted, "Please...I have a request to ask you, dear friend," His voice trembled. His eyes wavered. It wasn't time. He didn't want to do it, but only one figure had the strength to aid him now. "I think you should send your boss a security update, something you recorded."
An unspoken message was conveyed through a bridge of other words. A faux smile equipped alongside natural flamboyance had nobody the wiser. Speaking loudly without a shred of cowardice only served to strengthen whatever point the old soul offered. In a crowd too preoccupied with hundreds murmuring and listening to their leaders alone, his secrets were best kept and recorded to their most trusted confidant. Dynamo spoke words only few could truly appreciate; only they knew it. A hub of danger awaited under turbulent tides where soldiers who emulated mortals would never be enough. For this reason alone he needed someone who could.
As a red knight, Carnel held an intercommunication neurosystem that served only Gottenfall's crown. She sent only a recording of the voice edited out from the background chatter across the airways and to another proud warrior. Though he was not like many, with his hands occupied in the walls of his home where all the nation's decisions were debated. Rote-Gigante sat undisturbed.
On the lower floors of his domain directly under the restricted zone was the councilman's room. A court of civil affairs was established and maintained since the foundation of the very city. Walls were refurbished from dark oakwood and marble slabs inches apart from each other. The floor was covered in a thick layer of red fur that brought color; a shade that matched he who sat in the middle. Rote had another throne in this room made of the same materials as the surroundings. On either side were windows that ran from floor to ceiling giving much-needed light into the chambers. Though Rote rested with a hand supporting his head, his mind had the pleasure of reviewing whatever petty squabbles the council brought today.
As monarchies of old went, head of state held the majority of the power in decision making. For that reason, the smaller seats of all councilmen surrounded their god as how students in a university did. The room wasn't flat with a thick staircase leading to Rote's throne having stairs large enough for him. It provided enough space for seventeen other desks in total for those who argued for the sake of it. On occasion strong points and debates were forged, that was a rarity in any regard.
Sixteen of the seats were divided into fours for the representatives of Mandaly, Skylandria, Cnoc Dubh, and Dragnov Mound. The last and closest chair to his lordship was his most trusted Alexander Dyson who lead the path of discourse. Upon his lap was a holographic screen with dozens of documents labeled in order of importance by the ones who brought it up. Every now and then Alexander shot glances at his lord once voices rose in intensity.
The loudest offenders of his ears would be Skylandria and the generals of Gottenfall who were trained without a quiet tone. They were four figures of similar builds and masses, dressed in green and golden tassels which hung all of their achievements over the years. Though three were tamed, the most decorated figure, spoke on their behalf. Yannis was a head under Alexander with his black hair clean cut. Over his lips were dark handlebars that kept his mouth snug as his spit flew in every direction. Tailor-made to his body was a suit of green and gold that was a bit tight around his arms and stomach where all of his accolades from tours over two decades of servitude.
"I implore you, milord rethink what you're saying!" he repeated, "These fiends are taking our land and using our own advancements against us. They've already been found in the ruins and can visit any of our cities! Are you going to wait until it's too late!?" he pleaded at the top of his lungs. His arms swayed in every direction. Rote turned his head. Sweat dripped off Yannis' dark skin with his pleas to mobilize his corps. "I will not leave this to the police division whatsoever!"
"Remind yourself who you stand before."
Yannis held an imposing voice, but the representatives of Dragnov had an authority he did not. Of the four representatives, only one was present. The eldest spawn of Draglion held his arms folded. Tempered by a century on this world, Druggikhan sat with folded arms and legs. Tail wrapped around his waist supporting the traditional feathered garb of his people where his green scales were prominent. Like Draglion, his head was also a bit oblong though not to the same degree; his beak was just beginning to form, "I raise a question to you, where would you get the funds to mobilize such a number? Who will keep your armories full? Last I checked, your logistics squadron? Certainly not."
Of the men who served the frontlines and the dragons who geared them, relationships weren't the strongest, "I would suggest importing goods, but seeing how Mandalay is handling their port situation...we're the only weaponsmiths you have."
A dragon's sharp tongue carried across the generations, though not all took kindly to the notion, especially the trader's of Mandaly. Four were present at the time, in the far left of the room. Representatives of the Blue Maiden's port. Kingpins of tourism, trade, and commerce who paid attention to the dragon. "Yes, tell me dragon, how're your exports looking right now? What are you doing to reclaim our ports?", Alexander winced at the comments made. Rote's eyes dimmed and his arm rose to meet the end of his chair as a mallet.
"Silence," his demands were met in one word, "Remember where all of you are and what your words represent," he was like a father one thread away from snapping. Nobody dared to disrespect someone of his grandeur, even of Rote was one of the nicer deities. "Though some of our views differ, have civility in sharing thine opinion."
With the wave of his hand, the debate continued on the topic of Zenith's return to the light. Rote's eyes dimmed with hums leaving his speakers; he rested and absorbed the knowledge at the same time. Unlike many others, he has been in constant activity with no rest since the end of dragonfall. Even now as he believed rest would come something prevented a moment of false slumber.
Carnel sent the antique unit an email with the tag labeled urgent. A rarity that she ever used their secret services, moreso something was imminent for her. All the message entailed was a vocal recording and the tag of 'listen immediately'.
Rote did as per request. "Hmm, not to be rude but if worse comes to worst and the people lurking down in the old Destria labs are more dangerous than we thought, you'd probably need to mobilize the red swarms, right?" the ancient god was stirred from his false rest. His eyes shone with the radiance of fire. When he stood tongues fell silent out of fear.
"You can't expect the full force of the swarm, that'll leave Giganto and Skylandria open for attack? The risk is too much to rely on them," the voice of Carnel argued back the other ancient.
Everyone in the room looked to their lord, has he finally grown angry? Temperatures rose with many taking cover as sweat flowed off their skin. Their god stood tall, "Yeah you're right, heh. It'd be way easier if we just had a hero to swoop in and save us, right? " that voice boomed in the back of his head. Carnel attached an image of him. His eyes must be tricking him, surely a fraud moulded their frame to replicate theirs? The thought drove the red giant to anger; such disrespect he would not tolerate. Yet oil leaked from his eyes once he listened to the rest of the recording. "What was that old proverb again? Something about patience?"
"Seven days to create the outline,
Seven weeks to lay the framework,"
"Seven months to make a working model,"
"Seven years to birth artificial life."
Upon this rising sun where heat blistered the lands of Gottenfall once more, all that its citizens saw was a wave of red heat travel across the land. From the inner walls, all the way to the far stretches of the badlands the wave wafted over leaving a trail of perspiration. Their lord lifted his hand adjuring the meeting with nothing left to say. With his hand out the window, he called out, "Parshad! To my side!" Rote ordered from the top of his castle. "Prepare yourself! We take to the coasts of the sea!"
One thousand years have passed since the day Rote last shed tears. He watched the land reshape itself, languages were eradicated and so were many threats. In all his years he did what he thought was best, what Vulcan would want of this world. Now the sunrise brings a gift to an Astarama. A call to battle. Offered by one he would never turn away. From the peak of his domain, Rote saw Parshad throw himself off the side; a fresh glow swallowed the servant.
"Now is the hour to remind this world of my accomplishments! To show what I have achieved!"
Rote used the window frame as a footstool and looked upon the land he was gifted. All the sun shone upon depended on his judgment; the will of Vulcan followed where he looked.
And to the ones who looked up at the castle to see a rare sight. Rote-Gigante wept.