there's a harvest buried in the bottom of the sky; and, i'm thinking, what will then become of you? i...

In the beginning there was darkness and those that danced within it. At every start, it's always that way. Darkness giving birth to light so every creature can understand the gift of illumination, of warmth, of safety. The Darkness rules for longer than most sentient creatures can fathom and then, The Creator builds new things. To the Straz, it has always been The Gardner: a loving hand spreading seeds without any intention on which will grow to harvest or not. Every seed gets planted, every sapling gets nurtured and fed and eventually, the light begins to bloom for better or for worse. Perhaps that is why the slip of folded time and space beside the collection of all knowledge of all creation is called The Garden: flowers only know things through flower ways.

StrazStraz is a word older than old, a signature for unique stars themselves: the Petals of Heaven. They are transitions, slips of creation that are neither here nor there, existing as gently as petals on the wind might. They were not the first lights of the universe and they are hardly the last of the unique ones but they are special. Every seedling is. Even those that die, which every Straz has; that is their true birth. A light that loses to the angry darkness before overcoming to be something new. It's rare — too rare, in their taste — but true; four lights that were broken by the old dark and learned, somehow, to bleed twilight into new life and form for themselves.

So, in the beginning, there was darkness and those who danced within it. And when the dancers learned their grace in light, the darkness was an envious thing. Dominant, and strong. It broke with beasts and misfortune. It shattered at the world and took the stars of the heavens and crumpled them whenever it could. The Gardener did Their best to stop this, to build fences and safety, but creatures always get in; that is the curse of tending to too large a field, after all. With every seed unsure, you are never aware of what patch will need tender care the most. Some seeds are stronger than others, though. Some grow wild over the trees and soil. Some fight back, even against the sharpest of teeth. The Straz were like this: dying stars that decided to bite back.

First came BozurBozur, the healer of the light and stars, rising from defeat like a savage light that refused to break; the eldest of the Straz, the first petal to sweep back against the winds of destiny and ride toward something new. This the harvesting of stardust and strength; the first true season of the spaces bewteen life. Next, DaylaDayla who sprung forth like the songs of birds in early morning light; the second eldest of the Straz, who carries forward to split darkness down the middle. The burning brightness of stardust and the cosmos; Dayla comes like summer, the wholeness of life between youth and harvest. NelumNelum fought back next, the elegance of light and the stars, swirling as petals falling from their stems and beating darkness back. Nelum came as the bathing of light: the luxury and elegance of refined brightness, just as winter graces the land and covers all with unblemished snow. Nelum washes the seasons in new beginnings and ends of the past, welcoming the last of the Straz thereafter. RuzaRuza burst through the darkness too eager, too loud and bold and bright; it was their siblings that eased them into something calmer, something routine and bemused. Still, Ruza is the wild growth of the stars and light, the eternal return through all of creation, Spring of cosmic knowing.

Four undead stars, singularities in their own right, unique through all of space and time. And they would learn to play, to use both light and darkness in the everlasting garden outside of their humble spot in the universes. Moving, as it were, like pollen, always making a home anywhere they landed, the roaming CeiuxCieux — The Flowers of Paradise, the Petals of Heaven.

The Cluster was such a strange thing to those who saw it, not so much a garden as its light seemed more like a "planet" that would be lost to history books under the name of Nibiru. It was a point of transition: a fold in the everlasting sky that sometimes glowed before the gods visited. This made it, to most, a distant planet the gods lived on: a mystical and mythological place no one could ever see or understand. From the first sentient to stumble into a Straz to the last, the stories bloomed: Nibiru, Asgard, Valhalla, Elysian Fields, Irkalla, Summerland, Hel, Avalan and more are all taken from bits and pieces of the stories and places imagined by the first humans to weaves tales together. From Sumer and Akkadia to Greece and The Vikins, Siberia and Mongolia, and even tribes through India and China, the Straz became the figures of stars and forgotten, just as 'Nibirbu' was, but the feelings they left in people built new shrines and temples to be filled by the powers of Earth.

But it was not just The Milky Way the Straz made playgrounds out of: it was an exploration of all the dimensions with which transitions flowed. Of all the possibilities, only five dimensions mattered: the twelve realms. Each of them a triumph of light and power, a flourish of life. But each of them tangled into the tides of war and violence. Mishaps and misadventures plagued the Sumerians, chased the Whakaora, burned the fields of the Emberek. And in the end, nothing came out in new light; there were only victors and losers, the righteous and the fallen. So, the Straz took a chance at doing their own gardening, hoping that one single forest could grow wild enough with life and twilight that nothing would come to a brink of destruction again; death only to keep growth thriving.

It took time. There were seedlings everywhere. Gestures of light and winds, trying to send the right kind of growth where it had to be. They wanted, so badly, for things to work on Earth and then — it seemed nearly impossible for anything to last. So, the Straz did the next best thing: an earlier start somewhere, a place where armageddon could maybe be held back for longer than anywhere else. Worlds of darkness, places the Straz could teach life to overcome the chaos the way they themselves had already done. They slipped into a universe where they could do just that, a dimension connected to the Immense Heaven they were already toying around with: Dast Aker (The Fields). There, the Straz stood their ground, uniting the natural inhabitants of the few sparse worlds growing, guiding them into being true civilizations.

The beasts of chaos and darkness were hardly a trouble, but the Straz knew that becoming actual god-heroes would never suffice. Civilizations rose and fell far too quickly when hung up on the notions of something beyond; people made use too quickly and creatures forgot too swiftly. So, The Straz did the next best thing: each one to a planet, to gather the best that they could, with one simple offer. "Fight, and the power of your lives will spin forever." Onosay was first to be conquered, with eight species and various subsects of them coming together to conquer the grand beasts of chaos: the celove, sormend, sfinga, luontai, morse koje, kitvor, yantam, and the ravarx. Together, they fought with the Straz, listened to the way to overcome the darkness together and for that, a new universe was forged: one bound by the eight nearly-immortal species, each one given their own rules and rights to power supported by the roaming petals of the skies.

Xorsanea was no different, though the central stars of the galaxy meant less species developed enough to want to fight, at first. Just four species stood with the Straz and proved themselves mighty enough to conquer the darkness: the beicud, suungro, poslus and kitvor. It seemed, to The Straz, a good plan. The dimension thrived, grew and bloomed. Planets became habitats of safety and security and even when there were troubles amongst the sentients of the lands, seas or skies, there seemed solutions that were not war and destruction. Armies were for safety from the monsters that rose as the universes spun on; they kept safety and order from destruction, protected all the nations and lands that hadn't yet come to fruition. It was, for better or worse, the garden they had always strived for.

But they would learn, in time, that weeds untended do grow for more than stress. They poison. They destroy.

you know well: when it hits me, it could raise these bones again & i wish that the rumbling would shake me 'til i'm still...

A single being is neither minuscule nor magnificent enough to defeat the universe. On their own, sentient beings shouldn't have had enough influence over the meta of moons and sun suffused shadows to alter the course of anything. But living is barely more than a chaos of existence itself; eventually, things craft and crack into new dark pieces. It was not a dismantling of the laws or existence itself as much as it came a slow business where in instant by instant of weakness, strength was found. Uncertainty and fear became a new creation. Impossibility became, in the oddest fall from grace, the absolutely possible.

There were always rumors. The weakness that hit once every century. The way that light shifted and suddenly hearts felt heavy, softer. But celove had no motivation for exploring myths of old beyond the turmoils of the economy they'd built; they wanted to sustain and survive, to build and flourish, not explore beyond their own means. It was the death of Aviti's own yalo that caused the need to know more; no Sakti Ravich had ever fallen ill to death before, all of them choosing to live the end of their days quietly, simply, after giving the crown to the next in line. Houses changing power, seats drifting from what house proved to have the best plans for Xemabu to continue to grow and take care of its subjects.

Things changed when Aviti took over. Slowly, and sometimes for the best in the eyes of the subjects of Xemabu but they did change.

The first drastic change was Aviti's marriage: not one of the noble houses at all but a local priestess instead. The first of many but, in a mark of power, the only one to obtain the title of Revich and give children who would take rule one day. Kuhra was kind and welcomed in the early seasons of their rule — beloved, even. Not a sentient of the capital hadn't heard of Kuhra's gifted ways in the Temple of the Triple Suns and soon, that word spread far and wide. Aviti stood at their side a glimmering tower of hope: the lost Revich who had lost too much and now held a beauty and wisdom in their own hands for all the universe to witness. A blessing, straight from the stars themselves.

And so, every expansion was a gift, for centuries. It wasn't until Kuhra was in danger with their own pregnancy that things drifted; Aviti had always held darkness but the thought of chasing down creators and gods had never crossed their mind. Destiny would not dismiss their will twice over, however, and the hunt for the Lost Islands rumored to house the Straz themselves was the new conquest to be had. Every hundred years, a weakness; every hundred years, then, there came a chance to conquer destiny and rewrite the stars themselves. Nothing would stop the Empire from expanding then: no immortality, no scions, no destiny or fate.

It took two shots: 200 years of an effort, to subdue the Straz. The first alignment stole Dayla and Ruza from the Islands; the next took Bozur then Nelum. And they did not simply take them: the Dynasty broke the Straz apart, learned to tear them asunder and use their energy. The first three were the experiments; the last... the last became the ultimate weapon for the empire.

armaggedon is flooding through the living room & i, triumphant, stand off dead & tense. we didn't...

"The sadness will not cry out of me," Kuhra held onto their own vacant body as Aviti sat beside them. "One fears if it ever starts, it will never end."

This is how the plan came to action. Not with need for power, but need to prove that no destiny would hinder progress. Selfishness painted in hues of sympathy and healing.

Atsel and Ortasi Lesinar are the false children of a lost pregnancy. In the haze of salvation, Kuhra was lost. "Yes, anything," the Revich of Sakti would tell Aviti. "One simply must." Anything to stay with children, to raise and treasure the gifts marriage and the empire had given. Who cared about far off worlds and galaxies that no one of Xemabu would ever likely visit on their own? What was one lost city, one lost province, when there were babies to raise and the near loss of everything to come back from? The light of Xemabu was darkened then, turned into a coal mine warning with no birds to chirp; delirious and confused and caught in the illusions of purpose, Kuhra became a fiddle for Aviti to use just as surely as Ortasi was.

It was Atsel that was always a problem.

Splitting the darkness from the bright had been easy. Doing away with the vastness of a Straz gifts was another process but, still, simple; daggers and crystals, vessels and shade. Things found a way, through heart sparks and mind moves. Technology infused with magic, after all, was a simple task for the Revich. Aviti had even managed a device to keep the darkness not only bound in a vessel that could be used but to keep the living body nearly completely without will. Ortasi was, for better or worse, a puppet on a string: no thoughts beyond response, no will beyond the commands given. Prompted to destroy, Ortasi would swallowed a universe just to complete its given assignment. Atsel, the brightness of it all, was ever different.

Like, somehow, the brightness had always been the dominant aspect. Like it had always found a way to be superior to all that dark.

Even just trying to contain the brightness, with all its innovations, in a vessel was difficult. For days on end Atsel would bloom light and burn rooms. For weeks, the young Carevic would be thinner than sunrays and fade through everything, or charge up brick and stone as if it were meant to explode and decorate the sky. It took time, too much time, to figure out how to use it for better purposes: a tool, like Ortasi, but in much more delicate affairs. If willful was what the brightness would be, then willful Atsel would become. The young royal who was locked in towers and chambers but given everything a heart could desire. A royal who was taught the downfall of magic and subjects, how dangerous the world was, how awful it could be to anyone not prepared for a real battle. Even when Atsel aged and swore preparedness for the field, no differnt than Ortasi, they felt, it seemed like more reasons were there to avoid ever stepping out of imperial grounds.

There were ways for Atsel to help, anyway. To bring joy and life to the universe. To give back, from afar. The power harnessed from the Carevic began to have purpose, to have use; no longer did Atsel glow and burn and destroy, they gave light willingly and this light had the will to serve. Weapons were made. Tools, for the cities. Vehicles and devices. Suddenly, the empire was not simply expanding: it was magnificent. Everyone sang praises of the Carevics, the way that Kuhra had been so bright and lovely and so, of course, the young Carevics were going to do the same. Heroes! Atsel would sit and hear from every visitor, every worker of the grounds, of the way they people only knew praise. The Bright Carevic. The Kind Carevic. The Gentle and Wise and Beautiful. Stories, as far as the empire could expand towards, all speaking of the brightest light Dast Aker had ever known.

So, what need was there for more than that? Living in luxury, of a belief that every person touched by the greatness of Vosxod Selsele was made better for it. Subjects would send gifts of praise and worship, celebrations would be had all over the land — and Atsel was told of it all, given witness through windows and recordings, even brought out to perform for visitors of noble houses and royal families of afar. It was not a prison by any means but a sanctuary; a safety that needed to be assured, because Atsel learned how often the palace would be under attack and often had to stand up to fight for themselves. It might have gone on forever, a simple practice in belief turning into truth, had it not been for Aviti's evergrowing greed.

It was the middle of the night, with Atsel at a young 476. Not a raid for once but a break in — a thief, they thought, rising from bed with a start and staring into glowing eyes, sharp as a cat in the wild. Atsel felt the hand over their face before they could scream, and a promise being whisperd in a voice as soft as the moonlight. "Not here for harming, young prince." They barely understood the language spoken and yet, it filtered through, like it had been lost knowledge that lingered in wait for use. "But you need to wake yourself up." The fight came fast, then, and quick; the Carevic gave as much as they could before a device fell from the invader's satchel and rolled to the floor. Then, the waking truly began.

Kixipole had kept within its own universe many of the old ways. The stories of Straz, the efforts of wildness. But what Atsel watched unfold on projections of light within their chambers were anything but traditions and kindness. The ravages of war, the turmoil of take over. Atsel had always understood that violence was a difficult thing to stomach, in a way, but watching gave their stomach a twist they hadn't expected. And that only became worse when their heart lodged into their chest as they watched the truth: their weapons, used to strike down children, used to steal from parents and force them into shackles and slavery. Faces, then, Atsel could nearly recall. From other nights, from other battles. People who had come to the castle in search of something and found only death. Wanting no more of it, the Carevic tried to fight on; but the light would not come and their orbs fell to the sight before knees met the ground.

The truth would be found, the young thief said, if the prince simply looked hard enough. And it was the last thing the stranger could say before Ortasi came in the room and darkness tore their head clean off their shoulders. It took weeks for the blood to leave the stones. It took months before Atsel could even try to sleep again. But, when they did, something was new there; like another story playing out, Atsel began to dream of a place far off and familiar. Words that sang to them and an air that made tears roll down their cheeks. The scent of salt seas and mountain soil. The warmth of something in the heart. And then, the violence; each time, Atsel's eyes would try to turn from the pain of what happened and focus instead on a shadow, on a figure that loomed on the edge of a shore and listened. And then, the Carevic would wake with a start, falling from their bed and feeling their heart race.

If the prince simply looked hard enough...

The problem with a Dynasty is the secrets have too many places to hide. Each night, Atsel began to search, finding excuses to need to stay in different locations, in different palaces and stations. Each night, nothing came but new rumors, new stories and possibilities, and then Atsel would sleep and watch dreams again. The first true clue, the first notion of a fact, came simply then: Ekimi mentioning a dream of chaos and fighting, of salt seas and mountain soils. It was too familiar, too real, and when next Atsel slept, it was Ekimi's face on one of the bodies falling.

The downfall of using a dimensional weakness is that, any sakti or technology powerful enough to harness it is also under its affect. And as the new alignment of the planets came into focus, Atsel grew more and more aware of the strangeness of the Dynasty, the palace and their own family. So, they began to plan, to harvest an idea. And that proved almost unnessary.

On a search for a dagger that had come to dreams, one that stabbed before filling with crystal and light, Atsel stumbled into the a chamber normally locked, only to find soldiers who had tried to attack the palace the night before. Only, they were without armor now, and they huddled with their children and Atsel heard what their own palace guard was saying: "Only once more, in a few moons. Then you can go free. No use fussin' when the end is so near, is there? Less your cedo there wants to be a plaything." The sickness the night of the watch came back to Atsel, then, and there was nothing that could be done; the guard was downed in a moment's notice and Atsel was letting their orbs fly to tear the chamber asunder. The slaves were liberated, charging through a broken wall, and Atsel took to fighting their way through the halls. Or, they intended to, before they saw a brunt and beast of a subject come wandering through.