As the terra god crested above, shining down its brilliant light from its celestial plane upon the multicolored rocks, Pligal walked tall towards the structured patchers den. Tucked deep into the bedrock, connected with a series of tunnels, anchoring the Baron's workplace and living quarters, it remained poised to heal the elites granted passage by Richol's word. Nearing the opening of the passage, the area where two death state cycles passed as Pligal rested, healed, and observed his wounds, both of the scale and of the mind.

Glancing up with her onyx orbs at the sounds of talons clacking upon the stone path, Sri watched expectantly for him. The one who graced her path, the young zes who look at her so knowingly. As if, he gazed through her scales and saw the true being within. Her hearts fluttered as the plasma emitting light upon the pathway, illuminated a large, thin figure. Her orbs widened as everything around her dissolved, the discussions from the other seywaw, the moving of fabrics and the sloshing of crimson in their containers all melted away as she remained focused.

Finally stepping into the room, Pligal's orbs shot around the large room as it passed over his pit, Dorn's empty pit and then upon her. Sri, the seywaw who held his attention, the one whose presence caused him to dissolve as his bioluminescence flickered, throbbed, silently echoing his contentment, his pleasure at meeting her orbs. Quietly, she stepped forward, maintaining her gaze. Each step toward him, his light pulsed as his abdomen fluttered.

Now, within arm's length from him, Pligal suppressed the urge to pull her close into an embrace, to allow his smelling holes to take in her aroma, basking in her scent. Feeling his genitals starting the engorging process, Pligal, quickly brought his attention to the luminescent beings, the ones of his vision, who in earlier times, would have provided reverence, gods to him, he would have worshiped as he refused to gaze upon their visages. Now, that thought lost as his piety dried away, husks of their former selves, absent any semblance of its former self.

Feeling his gaze drift as his attention waned; Pligal saw Sri's talons clench into a fist before an unreadable expression passed over her face. Quickly, the fist met his abdomen, as Sri's orbs became slits. Pain erupted from the impact of her assault as his light pulsed throughout his the entirety of his body as shock caused him to freeze after grasping his abdomen. The physical sensation washed quickly away as his mind sought understanding.

"Wha?" Pligal thought to himself, completely perplexed.

As he turned his attention toward her, his audioles became flooded with a torrent of admonitions as Sri assaulted him with choice words.

"How dare you flee like that! Do you know what you put us through?! If you ever leave like that again, the Legion will be the least of your concern!" Moving in closer, Sri whispered in a threatening tone, "You are irresponsible. Careless of your actions and how they affect others."

"Yes," Pligal said, now standing up tall. "You are correct. I do not wish any ill will. The blunder is my own. However, I think I may have a solution to fix all of this." Glancing around, he inquired, "Have you seen Dorn?"

---

Escorting Dorn toward the area adjacent to the acrid sea, the two escorts, much smaller than him, appeared as younglings next to this lumbering figure. Thoughts exploded in his mind as the terra cycle of events passed through. Now separated from his fellow Legionnaires, Dorn, unable to acquire any of his possessions lingering in the Hall of Gloom nor the pit of his death state within the hard bedrock below Richtol's abode.

Passing the Nordac, nestled against the looming epicenter of communication within the training yards sat an adjoining pathway. The pathway of torment as the new legionnaires identified. Here, the seventh zes would embark towards his journey of becoming a legionnaire or, if capable, the elite forces of the Clathor, Vior, and Glain. The Clathor, the strongest and most desirable of the three, trained vigilantly, hardening their scales, building their resolve to defeat any foe placed before them. No symbol befell any of these creatures for their power of presence evidenced their stature, their position within the Clathor. Under the order of the most high, the Imperial Legate, the one who held the power of the full might of the Legionnaires, the Clathor could not announce their position within this elite clan, unless directly ordered from her. A seywaw was chosen by a council of other seywaw clan leaders determined the sole direction of the forces.

The Vior, brilliant minds attempting to develop new solutions for the problematic life of the Legionnaires, they spent ample time experimenting on new tactics of battle, developing new armaments, as well as taking time to immerse themselves in pure crimson to allow their minds radiate thought. Their symbol, the skull of an Eron, enveloped by a writhing branch of the sharp, dexterous Fulla life entity embedded upon their mythology and ancient stories. Each Vior, upon initiation, had a Glain carve their symbol upon their right side of their head, above their audioles on the largest scale. A sign of their dedication to the Legion, a symbol of their inherent and prodigious cognitive powers.

The Glain, much less prized as elite, provided supplementary care for those around. With a symbol of the mighty tulac engraved upon the hides adorning their bodies, a symbol of their position within the legion, one of care and support. Dining, transportation, supply, and patching, these all remained within the Glain family of the Legionnaires. Providing the foundation to the practices therein, the Glain branch normally received the least of the admiration of the others, always expected to support and remain submissive to the whims of the rest of the Legion, they grew to understand their subordinate position.

Urged further along toward a seated guanay, a cart attached to a single tulac, bridled and chained, its heavy steps moving in place, sending thunder into the multicolored ground below it, Dorn marveled at the creature. So many of his kin, the Guile, hunters, and traders of these docile, yet powerful beasts, witnessed this firsthand as they took many down in the great flatlands of Bashor.

Seated next to the lands of his clan as well as the other clans living in the conglomeration of the Duidon, the land inhabiting the Legionnaire training and proving grounds as well as the homes of all the nearby clans, it stretched far. Far into the other lands and clans, those who held advancements in their crafts as well as those who beheld prosperity unlike any in the lands of Duidon.

Silently ordered to sit within the cart, Dorn glanced downward while acquiescing. His hearts heavy, the burden of betraying his comrade Pligal, he averted his orbs from all as he punished himself as no one else could. Swirling in a sea of rebukes, in his own ocean of acrid fluid, he felt his body pulled under, drowning as he took in the bitterly powerful words of his own recriminations.

Unable to hear the steps approach, waiting there for what seemed like many moments, Dorn adjusted sharply as a single talon touched his forearm. Tender, yet deliberate, he stirred as a familiar scaled face met his orbs. His biolight flicked as he saw this creature with an unmistakable expression etched over his face, one of eagerness to see him as well as forgiveness. Pligal stood there holding onto his comrade Dorn's arm.

A moment passed between them as a crew behind him started to move upon the cart containing many pieces of equipment and what seemed like possessions. Rocking the cart as they entered, Dorn nodded as Pligal's orbs widened, the silent message carried between them before a voice broke their silence.

A soft yet brash voice cut through the tender moment holding the two zes saying, "Enough already. Let's get moving. The terra god wanes and we have many moments before our next stop."

Turning with his broad frame, causing those seated next to him to cry out as the cart rocked, once more, Dorn glanced around at the faces of the patchers of the den. The one who broke the silence of the two, Sri. In her talons, she beheld a small wrapping outstretched toward Dorn, with an unreadable visage carried over her face.

"It is your things. Those you left near your former pit." Sri said as Dorn looked puzzled, his biolight giving away his confusion.

"Why are you all here? I don't understand why you are seated." Dorn said before shooting a glance at Pligal as he straddled the side of the cart and hoisted himself onto a seated position. "Ah, it was you. Always you Pligal." Dorn said affectionately his massive form betraying his tenderness.

"We have a long journey ahead of us Dorn. I could not have parted with someone of your skill. We must see this through together." Pligal said as the cart began to vibrate.

Inaudibly, a small eron climbed one of the bindings of the tulac to arrive near the top of his neck. Holding onto a few horns, he tapped hard onto the top of the head of the mighty beast. The signal to start moving as it wailed, a deafening howl before kicking its flat feet forward. Each step lumbered, its pace shaking the stone cart, dragging it away as the mechanisms for movement circled underneath, propelling them forward, away from the Legionnaires, toward their new homes.

Turning back at the encampment, ruminating upon the many aspects of the past cycles, Pligal caught the figures of Queyan, the elderly advisor to the baron. Bowing deeply, the truest sign of respect within their clan, their people, Queyan lifted his head before nodding his silent goodbye to Pligal. Feeling his hearts burst at this sign of respect, Pligal beat his chest in acknowledgment as Dorn watched the interaction.

Taking a few moments before interrupting, Dorn inquired, as the cart moved further in the path, shrinking the land of Duidon, the birthplace of all seated upon the cart, "Where is it we go?"

Turning back toward Dorn, Pligal answered, "We are summoned by the Imperial Legate. Well," He said shifting uncomfortably, "You were, but I made a deal to leave the presence of the impish Baron. Now, we will all see this lord together."

Gasps resounded upon the entire party as Pligal informed them of their departure from Duidon to meet the Imperial Legate. The most powerful individual known to them. Seated in the east, just north of the land of Xiantu, the Imperial Legate resided in the land of Reyopa, the lifeblood of the eron. Encased in wealth, it provided doctrine to the whole of the clans, sending down their edicts with careful calculations, embedded in the power of understanding, moving away from the teachings of the superstitious clans living in Duidon, their words, their laws provided many with discomfort as they directly contrasted the teachings of old.

Many in the cart silently prayed as they, now, understood where they moved toward. Away from their clan, their people and everything they knew, these eron traveled to an alien world, a world that stood on the tenuous cusp of disarray as the torsons moved ever closer to envelop all in its path, all in the land. Pligal and Dorn watched the others as their minds moved toward their own levels of understanding. As the terra god moved closer to the horizon, the crew of patchers and the two legionnaire trainees voyaged far into the land, closer towards Reyopa, further away from their former lives. 

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