His frame spilling outside of his pit, this zes' tears to streamed, wistfully down his scales. Cascading upon each other a lament to loss. The agony of losing an integral individual. Despite his fearsome visage, the enlarged frame, which expressed strength, voicing the promise of violence, he longed for peace. His soul, untarnished by intended violence, wept viciously after discovering the loss of the seeress. In all his cycles, throughout every occurrence, he never faced grief from losing someone so close to him.

Dorn of Guile, dark in tone, dense with strength, huddled in his pit, one whose size could fit a whole zes eron and a medium seywaw comfortably, allowed scarlet tears to rain down his face as he silently sobbed, his hearts bursting with agony. Muddling the blue soil underneath him, it formed a bright violet puddle under his head. Sinking softly into the mud, he allowed the ground to support him, to take the pain from his scales as a low throbbing sounded from his body, a soliloquy to lives lost, too soon.

Unaware of what transpired around him, the seywaw patchers gathered in each other's arms, binding to each other's pain, seeking comfort in the arms of friendship. Their former sobs, loud and resonating around the bedrock surrounding them, now exhibited soft whimpers. Sri unearthed her eyes from her talons, looking around her, noticing something so startling it causing her to jump up forgetting her sorrow. Pligal, the young legionnaire did not inhabit his pit. Shooting around her gaze, once more, she only spotted the densely built Dorn.

Before she could alert the others to the loss of Pligal, the one ordered to stay in the throng, to maintain his presence within the patcher den, her attention turned to a soft clacking behind her, originating from the path, quickening its pace exhibiting great urgency. Within a few moments, the individual reached the doorframe with labored breaths, surveying the area. Its orbs squinting, sharpened, heightened to examine the full detail of the area. Scouring the den until his dark orbs found his prey. A shadow fell over his face, a malevolent hunger draping over him. Taking a step backward, Sri moved by reflex as this monster came into the den.

Moving towards Dorn, Sri noticed the familiar garb of the san over him. Blackened, burned, sleeveless vests formed from the skins of a behemoth without scales, one, which shook the ground with each step, yet lacking the capacity for much intellect. Only six eron were needed to fell this beast, gentle as it is, its passing became swift, calculated.

Unable to stand between the san and the legionnaires, the patchers, ordered to maintain the illusion of absolute rule in this training yard, became adept at watching the san cruelly fill their patching den with the broken frames of recruits. Secretly, Sri loathed the work of the san. Some more than others in the training area, but this one, the san known as Zilterra, became well known in the land. His cruelty, exhibiting the ignorance of compassion, caused many to avoid him. Rumors spread of his murderous intents when his recruits started disappearing from the codex, the roster holding the names of each legionnaire under the tutelage of the san. Four, in this cycle, vanishing without evidence to support a reason they absconded.

Truth, darker than the others could imagine, Zilterra ordered his recruits to carry the bodies of their comrades to the portal. Deep within the bedrock, on the other side of the training yard, a slide, of sorts cut into the dense bedrock to meet the acrid sea. Unable to touch it, it opened into a cliffside where a long drop to the acid sea remained underfoot. Here, all manner of rubbish from the training yard met its demise. Falling into the sea, dissolving all that met its cruel touch, the embrace of death. Zilterra, cruelly, ordered the comrades of the condemned to place their frail bodies, still containing threads of life, into the steep slide, forever eradicating their forms, secretly condemning the comrades to, unknowingly be the weapon towards the demise of their weakened Legionnaires.

A chill ran down Sri's spine as she saw the dark intent spread over his visage. The make of one, who relished in the pain of others. As he witnessed the huge frame of Dorn in his pit, a wide smile spread over his scales. Gazing at the grief cascade off this being, Zilterra's orbs widened as he surveyed the Guile clan's seventh lying fractured, a testimony to the clan's weakness.

Moving around, placing himself at the foot of the pit, with a hearty kick, he plunged his heel into the thigh of Dorn. Rebuffed slightly by the think sinew, the dense muscle innate to his clan. The minor disturbance caused Dorn to life his head to see who called upon him. Mute, the san continued to loom over him. With dark scarlet trails lingered on his scales, Dorn blinked a few times before his vision cleared as his heightened vision met the gaze of his san, an eron blanketed in darkness, corrupt as the acrid sea.

"Tears on one such as you? Cleary, I thought you were sthtrong than this, Dorn. I see the weakneth of the Marn clan hath corrupted you." Zilterra taunted with his augmented speech due to cleaving a portion of his tongue with this sharp fangs.

Steady, Dorn watched his San, without reply. Understanding the meaning of his taunts, he remained quiet.

"Nothing to say, eh?" Zilterra said again before he spat near the edge of Dorn's pit. Wiping his mouth, he readdressed Dorn, "Where ish your mate?" Once again taunting Dorn, insinuating an affair between him and Pligal.

"Lasth I heard, he wasth called out to meet the Baron and yourself. I know nothing after thisth." Dorn said mimicking the taunt, sneering at the san.

Turning his orbs to slits, Zilterra watched, calculating Dorn's words before stating "Come with me. The Baron wantsth to sthee you now."

Letting out a deep sigh, Dorn sat up in his small pit slowly before wiping his face. Once, san attempted another strike upon the large zes. Aiming for his shoulder, Dorn leaned forward before the attack reached its target. Meeting nothing but air, Zilterra lunged forward as he lost his balance toppling to the side, landing in Pligal's pit. Dorn turned his head to see the flustered san seethe. Before standing, he grinned slightly proceeding toward the entranceway. Stopping at the entrance, he awaited Zilterra as he dusted himself off silently moving up toward the tunnel. As he neared the middle of the tunnel, he heard something behind him causing him to grin once more, the laughter of the patchers resonating in the hallway. Thinking of turning back to unleash his wrath, Zilterra changed his mind. Thinking twice about this action, he proceeded toward the Baron's chamber with his prize in tow.

-----

"Matriarch. It's great to see you." Pligal called out in the bright stone hovel.

The plasma dishes illuminated the small area brilliantly. Cascading upon the light surfaces, upon the light scaled creature who gave life to him, his Matriarch. Small in frame, she stood shorter than Sri, yet contained a strength to her demeanor, which Pligal never confronted before nor since.

"Who calls out to me with such formality?" The Matriarch replied to the creature standing in the door frame, sheathed in shadow.

"It's Pligal. Your seventh."

"No, how are you here? What has happened for you to be relinquished of your duty?" She asked cautiously.

Pligal ignored this before stated, "I need to talk to you Matriarch. Please indulge me in this, and then I will promptly leave to avoid any talk against our clan's people."

Squinting suspiciously, she gestured to a nearby stone seat with a minor gesture. Pligal obeyed before moving to sit. Many moments passed before they started. No one encroached into this area, into the home as they sat there alone. His Patriarch, not desiring an argument with his bonded mate, chose to stay outside, lingering around the doorframe to observe any nuances.

Softly, the Matriarch asked, "How are you here? What has happened?"

"I needed to commune with you. The ancestors are not sufficient to discuss this with. I needed you, my Matriarch, one of the few who cares for me." He said before being choked up with grief.

"Why are you fractured, my young blossom?" The Matriarch replied observing the pain in his voice.

"She is gone. War is coming and she has perished. I have no one, save you, to talk to with these matters. I feel like dust in the acrid sea. Slowly absorbed, slowly broken. Do you understand what I mean, my Matriarch?" Pligal stated, his orbs pleading for understanding.

"Who is this seyway you speak of? What do you mean of war?" She asked with her orbs growing wide.

"The seeress, she is gone. It happened the previous day. I believe I was the last to see her." Looking up to his Matriarch with pink vision, he asked, "How do you make the pain end, Matriarch."

Feeling the sorrow of her youngling before her, she quickly closed the distance embracing him tenderly, yet strongly. Pligal grasped her small abdomen pulling her close. Burying his face into her stomach, he let the torrent come.

His Matriarch allowing him to a time before speaking gently, "Everything dies Pligal. That is the way of this life. We live on the land to serve a purpose. Once that is met, our bodies lose their light. We start to become absorbed into the power of our ancestors. Remember the teachings, young one. They can guide you back to the light."

Hearing her harken these words, Pligal allowed her to remain ignorant of the truth of the cosmos. Giving her peace, he allowed her meaning to flow back into the sea of time, lacerated, devoured as fodder. Focusing on the touch of his mother and the closeness, he allowed for the love for this being permeate his own, causing his light to flicker in many limbs simultaneously.

"Now, what is this war you speak of?" She asked inquisitively.

Thinking quickly, Pligal chose to spare her the angst of the impending doom. "It's nothing Matriarch. I speak of the war with the darkness."

"Ah," She said. "Remember the teachings, Pligal. Let them be your foundation. "The light works to protect all. The machinations of those devoid of light cannot permeate you."

Relinquishing his grasp upon her, he looked up into her full onyx orbs. Her older, wiser face with grooves starting to form on her brow and cheeks. Not yet at the extent of the seeress, minor, innocuous. Nodding silently, he stood gazing downward at her, once more.

"Thanks, Matriarch, I knew you could help make the ill-will depart," Pligal said dishonestly, his sorrow magnifying. I return, now to the training yard. Let the ancestors guide you, Matriarch."

Leaving in silence, he moved toward the stone door to the leave the home before a soft tap touched his shoulder. Turning to see his mother silently extend an opaque onyx orb, he gazed at it in disbelief.

"Matriarch, that is your most prized possession. Why do you offer it so freely?" Pligal asked.

"Let this orb be a reminder of who cares for you. You are never alone Pligal. Let me be at your side when no one else can be." The Matriarch replied, her orbs fierce, focused.

His orbs misted, once more before reaching out and grabbing the small smooth stone, clutching it in his talons, he turned once more after giving the honorific gesture to his Matriarch. Returning outside and his onyx orbs became accustomed to the brilliant light outdoors, before noticing a small gaggle of erons awaiting him. A group of six, adorned with the black vests of sans, save one large creature towering over them all. Dorn, standing behind this configuration, appeared sullen. At the front, the shortest, yet cruelest of all the san, Zilterra, stood with a malicious smile, one marked with the glory of seeing this eron at his lowest point. 

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