| abstract
| - Flight Deck A high, broad chamber that serves as the flight prep and launch deck for the Concordance Station colony ship. A blister module high atop the port wall, above the entrance, serves as the control tower. To starboard, a wide slit opens onto the blackness of space. The cargo bay is aft. A muster room is fore. Ships are directed towards the hangars by deck crew while marines patrol the area. There's a large red sign above the entrance to customs, "Pay your day fees." Cottington walks onto the flight deck, hands raised above his head, unarmed, to face the swarming Nall that have emerged from their assault transports in advance of the main carrier. Volari enters behind Cottington, his form darkened by the cloak and obscuring any light that might radiate from his skin. Standing to the right and several feet behind the man, the Vollistan watches in silence. Latimer holds his hands up as well after her enters, his eyes somewhat wide as he takes in all the Nall aboard the ship, "Looks like CSIS in the old days..." he remarks quietly. Outside, the Trakral grows closer to Sanctuary and the fighters and smaller military vessels continue to hold their positions, waiting for trouble. A small group, armed to the teeth come barraling out of the construction hanger, a few hold pulse rifles firing on the unloading Nall ships and trying to provide cover while the others attempt to seek cover behind cargo crates. "No!" Cottington yells helplessly at the resistance group. "If you resist," Volari says soothingly behind Cottington, "You die." He gestures toward the group, nodding his head arcanely. The Nall talons move with prescision. A few fall to the groups pulse fire. The rest bound behind cover quickly and take aim at the group. A swiftly hissed order, and they commence fire, sending brightly glowing bolts from three different directions into them. Latimer half ducks as the group comes running out, "Oh, dear God." he mutters. Jasra strolls rather casually onto the flight deck behind the others. She stops just outside customs as she scans the deck. She sighs, keeping her arms to her sides, gloved hands held open and in view. When the firing starts she makes a dive for shelter behind a nearby crate. "They're gone. It's the end," Volari repeats, his voice a lisping whisper behind the commander of the vessel Sanctuary. Those providing the cover never had a chance, the Nall's fire is precise and deadly, tossing many of the resistence members off their feet with the force of the pulse blast. Of those scrambling for cover only 4 make it, the rest are brought down mid-path, caught in the crossfire along with several folks who were simply standing at the wrong place when the skirmish began. "Simple," Volari repeats once more. "We have surrendered!" the president shouts, arms still raised. "There's no sense to die foolishly!" He watches, horrified, as his words go unheard, unheeded, lost in the blaster fire. The Nall warriors begin to advance, one talon providing cover for the moving group of warriors. There's a rasp of steel as the closest draw their blades. The rasp is echoed by a chorus of hissing sounds from that group. The others continue to pour fire on the crates. Latimer straightens up, "It's too late, Oswald. Maybe they're buying some of the others time." He frowns and takes a few steps forward, drawing next to Cottington, his face twisted in what might be anguish, or dissapointment. Cottington hisses at Latimer: "They'll get us *all* killed." Jasra throws herself flat on the deck behind the crate she dived for, trying to keep a low profile. "I believe moving Sanctuary toward Nocturn is what will get us killed," Volari breathes softly. One of the men pinned behind the crate takes the risk and rises, pulse rifle firing wildly but towards the group of Nalls. The others attempt occasional shots with varied success, but seem focused on staying behind the crates. Unaware of the knife wielding Nall approaching. Latimer turns his head slightly, "As you say, maybe." he whispers. "Say nothing," the Light Singer advises. "Stay still." And he follows his words, firmly rooted. A blurry image of Xillimn appears. It focuses slowly, suddenly materializing into solid form. Cottington frowns as he watches a Centauran materialize in the midst of the conflict. The Nall warriors charge, hopping erraticly with uncanny grace. As the man's shots go past them, the hissing grows louder. One even drops his jaw slightly, letting it loll. The covering Talon stops firing as the blade wielding warriors leap onto the crates. The lead warrior tears into the standing mans throat with his blade. Gouts of blood paint the crate as the dead man flops forward, his head flopping backward, attached only with a thin flap of skin and muscle. The other two Nall leap over the crates, and the screams start, mixing with gleeful hissing. Latimer blinks once, then twice, and remains very still, but hisses a single word, "Stupid." Crates and deck are now painted red with the blood of the few members of the resistance. The blood flows in rivulets across the deck plating from the body of the fallen. A blast from one of the resisting humans' guns hammers Xillimn, injuring the Centauran. Jasra fortunately doesn't see the Centauran as stays behind the hopeful protection of a crate, waiting for the firing to stop before checking if it's safe to give up. Volari merely nods from beneath the cowl of the cloak, his legs spread shoulder-width apart. As the Centauran materializes, it does so into the immediate path of one of the human pulse weapons. Ideally floating two meters above the ground, it dips to a dangerously low height, nearly crashing to the ground with the shock of being blasted. It expends what energy it can to fling itself away from the immediate conflict and towards nearby available cover: The rear stabilizer fins of one of the vessels parked here. Several escape pods fire free of the surface of Sanctuary, spiraling away as their occupants try to flee the invasion force. But it takes little effort for Nall fighters and small capital ships to angle around and pick them off, breaching their tiny hulls, evacuating atmosphere into vacuum, vaporizing the pitiful souls within. A sudden calm comes over the survivors as they watch the escape pods explodes. A few collapse, wracked by sobbing. Most just stare, dumbfounded. The Nall warriors work quickly, herding people into managable groups. One or two attempt to fight and they are executed on the spot, a Nall blade thrust through their guts. Cottington leans against one of the crates, sighing, heartbroken by the massacre within and without the colony vessel. "Three hundred years," Volari directs to Cottington. "And nothing has changed." Jasra decides it might be time to expose herself to her destiny and slowly rises from behind her protective crate, gloved hands first, palm outwards in surrender. Latimer keeps his hands up, standing still next to Cottington. He shakes his head slightly at the concussion of the explosions that rock the station so slightly. Cowering, or perhaps just observing, Xillimn remains precisely where it is, multiple eyes and psionic senses probing the situation. A palpible feeling of shared pain radiates from the Centauran as it hovers between fins, a few tentacles curling and uncurling rapidly, perhaps from agitation. Xil flees no further, though. The Trakral and its smaller escorts slowly close the distance to Sanctuary, while the mop-up operation continues inside the freshly siezed colony vessel. Cottington glances wearily toward the Light Singer. His jaw sets. "If you have anything *useful* to say, then get it over with. If all you want to do is a bad impersonation of a Mystic, I have no time for you." Once standing, Jasra stays standing, hands up, her expression not giving anything away to be misunderstood. "What are you going to do, Oswald?" Volari smirks, his voice monotone, "Unholster a pistol? Advise your guards to escort me from the flight deck? You've done enough, Cottington, you don't get your power and clout any more. Not now. Not here. I'm no more responsible for the death of those men than you are, so persist your anger elsewhere." He swallows, watching the ship approach and glancing toward Latimer. "Here we go, partner." "Heh. Can't wait." Latimer remarks, "I suppose resigning at this point wouldn't help?" He shakes his head and looks at the approaching ship. "I doubt that," Volari agrees, humorless. The chaos dies down as people begin to accept their fate. A talon of Nall make their way to the group near the entrance. "You, sssoftskinsss, you will join your sssoft brethern.", the talon leader motions with his rifle toward a small group of people. The vessel parts around it are distorted as Xillimn moves around, causing light to shift, fracture, and reform through its crystalline form. The tentacle twitching has slowed, and the Centauran now drops a metre lower, still not getting any closer laterally to the Nall. Though it does seem curious, the small Centauran is also missing sections of several tentacles, and there is a gouge in its bell as a result of the pulse bolt hitting it. The Trakral passes between Sanctuary and the distant baleful red orb known as Nocturn's Companion Star, eclipsing the crimson blot with its arcing hull and bristling weapons. Jasra keeps her hands up and her chin up. Resigned to be taken captive, but in no way burdened by it. "Aye." she says clearly, then falls silent and follows the Nall's instructions without resistance, moving towards another group of captives. As she passes Cottington she gives him an unreadable look. Cottington just stares at the deck, sullen and exhausted. Latimer is about to obey, but rather looks at Cottington and says, "Oswald?" A Nall with a small mic speaks into it, "The sssoftssskin known assss Cottington isss to make himssself known.", bellows out from one of the assault shuttles. Volari reaches up slowly, pulling the edges of the cowl to further darken and cover his face. He stays near Latimer's sign, eyes trailing Jasra as she moves across the deck. The president of ruin and failure, if nothing else, Cottington doesn't lift his gaze from the dreary gray plates at his feet right off. Then, he hears the Nall speak. He jerks his head a little, looks up, straightens and starts walking toward the summoning reptiloid. "I am Cottington," he calls. Shooting Latimer a look as cold as the tentacles of the Centauran, Volari falls into line behind Jasra, heading toward the other prisoners. The talon leader bobs his snout, "You will sssstay here then.", he says. He makes a strange motion with one claw, and the warrior with the mic puts it away. He looks to the others in the group, "Thesssse are your advissssorsss?", he questions, eyes darting, looking at each in turn. Cottington stops as he reaches the talon leader. He looks toward the gathered prisoners. His eyes settle on Volari and he almost shakes his head, but as he opens his mouth to speak, he says: "Yes. They are my advisors. They have agreed to yield without resistance to the occupation force." Float. Float. The Centauran's attitude towards the situation doesn't change, but it moves a few metres closer, small puffs of gas coming from the rebreather unit it wears. Tentacles now even further relaxed, it seems to be rapidly forgetting the lessons of a pulse blast in favor of the merits of scientific inquiry. Jasra returns the Nall's look frankly, then glances at Cottington as he speaks. She looks a bit surprised, but doesn't say anything, not wanting to rock the boat. Volari stays perfectly still, two eyes glinting in the flight deck's ambient lighting from beneath the cowl. Latimer sighs but remains silent at the comments. The talon leader says, "They may sssstay. You will formally ssssurender, however. The Vox'sssss perssssonal sssship will be landing ssssoon." His head darts and he focuses an eye on the Centauran, "Ssssentauran!", he yells, "You will join the ssssoftssskinsss." To accent, he levels his rifle at the being. Cottington nods agreement, silent. A rather deflated feeling, the human equivalent of 'Oh, phooey,' emanates from the Centauran, though it lowers itself and floats on over, dipping its bell in a greeting as it nears the 'softskins'. Its tentacles are agitated once more, the Centauran clearly less than happy about being put at gunpoint. Latimer draws a deep breath at the mention of the Vox, and glances over at Cottington. His normal soft accent changes a bit to one stereotypically Sivadian as he says, "Stiff upper lip, wot wot." quietly. Then he shifts his attention back to the Nall. Jasra frowns and looks to be about to say something, she opens her mouth and then shuts it again quickly, hrming to herself. Volari casts a sideways glance at Jasra, returning his focus to the talon commander. A Nall warrior escorts the Centauran to one of the groups, tapping on its bell with the tip of his rifle. His jaw lolls open as he walks, and he continues the incessant tapping. Rap, rap, rap... Xillimn speeds up a bit as it floats over, trying to stay out of the rifle's reach as the muzzle tries to wear a groove in Xil's already damaged crystalline form. The feeling of distress, and a flash of fear, is intensified, palpable to those in the room with psionic abilities. The agitation of the Centauran's tentacles increases further. The other Nall warriors continue rounding up straggling humans and aliens hiding around the flight deck, corraling them near Cottington's group. Volari moves quickly, his boots heavy against the flight deck tarmac as he moves toward Cottington. A few yards away, the Vollistan stops, turning toward the Nall commander in silence. Jasra is quietly watching the Nall torture the Centauran. . A group of Nall descend from a slightly larger transport. Each group carries a large container. The start to bring those containers over to the ship berthing. The Talon leader turns back, eyes flickering over the Vollistan, his tongue flicks out once, twice. "Your kind will sssserve again, Vollissstan.", he remarks, rifle leveled at the group. Finally, the massive carrier vessel and its escorts form a single-file pattern and begin their landing approach toward Sanctuary's flight deck. The enormous bay doors slowly begin to slide open ... Through the bay doors, the Trakral comes in and docks. Volari merely nods his head, the cowl still low over his face. Cottington glances toward the newly arrived Nall flagship. His chin lifts ever so slightly and he clasps his hands behind his back. Latimer frowns as he sees the ship pull in, "Showtime." he mutters softly, and then fixes his eyes forward. Jasra glances at the two men and then back at flagship. She sighs, "Think we can get our money back for this trip?" Down the landing ramp of the Trakral comes an honor guard of Nall warriors, led by Sinlathar, who carries an unsheathed Nall short sword in one clawed hand. Behind the warriors follows the glorious Vox Ockvril. Ockvril pauses at the top of the ramp, snout held high. His head swivels as he takes in the scene, his robe flaring slightly as he descends behind his guards. The cloaked Vollistan tenses at the approach of the children of Nalia, his lips pursed. Latimer shivers slightly, the fist at his side clenching and unclenching, with a slight tremor. He shakes his head violently once, and the motion stops. "Oh dear..." is all he says. Cottington looks to the talon leader, and seems content to wait for orders. The Centauran remains floating above the group of Softskins it has been herded to, now hopefully out of reach of the vicious, rifle-bearing tapper. Its tentacles are all curled up near its bell, and if one doesn't trace them carefully, it could be said the Centauran appears to be in knots. It, too, waits for orders, a feeling of discontent clearly broadcast at the nearest Nall. Jasra turns her green gaze towards the on coming group of Nalls. She stands with her back straight, eyes level, in a stance that is resigned to her current faith, but not lacking in hope. "Here we go." she murmurs and smiles. Sinlathar reaches the bottom of the ramp along with her cohorts, then swings her snout to stare at the cluster of softskin prisoners and the Centauran. She huffs. The Talon leader hisses sharply, then he and his talon point their rifles at the crowds, "On you kneessss sssoftssskinsss. You ssstand before Nalia'ssss glory." The other Talons follow suit, rifles leveled at the crowds. Spreading the cloak to either side of his torso, Volari falls slowly to a knee, forehead pressed to his forearm - an easy, practiced maneuver. Apparently not quite knowing what to do, the Centauran lowers itself to hover just above the softskins, and cants its bell forward, a decent mime of a human's bow. Granted, Xillimn doesn't touch the ground, but it nearly taps one of the humans on the head with a tentacle. Cottington also drops to his knee, keeping his eye on the Nall entourage. The rest of the crowd follow suit, some taking one knee, others prostrate themselves on the floor. Latimer looks as Volari knees and attempts to emulate the motion, though he is much clumsier, the Monarchy on Sivad not requiring much kneeling. He kees his eyes down, but they flicker up to take in the Nall every few moments. Jasra murmurs to herself, "Remember, he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day." then lowers herself to one knee and lowers her eyes, though she still smiles slightly. Ockvril continues toward the group, holding himself as high as possible. He surveys the bowing crowd, tongue flicking out. "Which one of you sssssoft thingssss issss known assss Cottington?", he says, still looking over the crowd. Cottington lifts his head and raises a hand, remaining on his knee. "I am Oswald Cottington." Sinlathar gnashes her fangs, eyeing the crowd warily. The blade of her sword gleams a sickly hue in the amber glow of the auxiliary lights overhead. Volari keeps his head to the floor, his eyes watching the approaching serpentine talons of the Vox approach. Xillimn floats. Really low, but it floats. Tentacles still as close to its tapped-out bell as they can be, the Centauran remains where it is, simply observing. As usual, the ring of eyes comes in handy, giving it a decent view of the proceedings here. Latimer flicks his eyes up, but then when he hears Cottington addressed, drops them again. Ockvril bobs his snout, "And you were the ruler of thissss vessssel?" He swivels his head so that he's staring directly at Cottington. Cottington nods, his eyes going to the deckplates. "Was. Yes, that is correct." There's more activity at the larger transport. Two Nall push an anti-grav lift down the ramp. On the lift is a large, metal box. These Nall have no rifles, they wear a small knife on one side and a pistol on the other. Slung over each shoulder is a satchel. "Wassss. Yesss.", Ockvril repeats, "Your sssship now belongssss to the Parallax. However, it pleasssesss ussss to let you continue running thissss sssship for the time being. It sssseemsss you ssssoft thingssss may yet be of some usssse to usss." The Centauran remains where it is, watching the proceedings with several of its eyes. One tentacle slowly, slowly begins to unravel from the core group of the other seven. Maybe Xillimn's getting lazy. Cottington nods to the Vox. "We will assist in any way we can, all I ask is that you harm no innocents. I understand your disapproval of those who resist. If you can be merciful..." Jasra remains on her knee, though now she rises her eyes. Volari grits his teeth, the phosphorescent light returning and pulsing a deep gray through the cloak that curves around his form. His head stays placed on his arm. Latimer frowns deeply into his forearm as he keeps his head down. His jaw clenches as his eyes close for a long few seconds before they reopen. The hair at his temples is dark brown with sweat. Ockvril holds up a clawed hand, "Merssssy? You have already resssieved merssssy, ssssoft thing.", he says, taking a step closer to Cottington. He points a claw toward the two Nall with the anti-grav lift, "That issss a plasssma bomb. It will be attached to the reactor core of thissss sssship. If you ssssoft thingssss become more trouble than you are worth, you will sssseee merssssy." Cottington's eyes widen as he watches the Nall working around the plasma bomb. "Dear God..." Sinlathar drops her jaw open in amusement at the reaction of the softskins. Volari rises slowly from the crouch, hands sliding beneath the cowl and pulling the garment back from his face - one that is clearly Vollistan, with ashen features and silvery hair. Speaking in perfect Nialese, he inclines his head toward the Vox. "Glory of Nalia, be greeted." The right palm emerges from beneath the cloak, facing the Vox. Tattooed on the flat of the skin is an eye centered in an inverted triangle: symbol of an inquisitor. Continuing in the Nall tongue, Volari proceeds, "At the received request, the Ungstiri and the Athena were lured to the ship under my falsification of a mythic box." He dips his head, "I am honored to enter once more into your servitude, Glory of Nalia." There's a brief flash of alarm as the Centauran registers the existance of a plasma bomb, but the creature soon enough reigns in its emotions. At Volari's Naliese, it becomes curious, but apparently remains wise enough not to float over and ask the Vollistan about the language. Cottington snaps his gaze around to glare at Volari. He jumps to his feet and lunges for him, shouting, "Damn you!" Latimer's head snaps up, "Oswald!" he shouts, nearly falling back in suprise. Ockvril points to his honor guards, "Sssssubdue the fat ssssoft thing.", he says, hissing. Sinlathar sheathes her sword and draws her pulse pistol, marching toward Cottington, fangs clacking together as her tail lashes back and forth. Volari steps back quickly, standing adjacent to the Vox Ockvrill, his eyes darkly intent upon Cottington, "As I said, Oswald. Either way, it's the end." From beneath his cloak he withdraws a single, straight line of silver that glints in the light. A weapon, perhaps, but more than that a symbol that the past has caught up with the future: a lead pipe, worn and held tightly in the Vollistan's slender hands. Cottington hurls himself at the Light Singer, trying to knock him over and grab him by the throat. The deep gray of the aura intensifies as the human-stock lunges toward Volari. Quick and calm, the Vollistan takes a half step back to stand behind Ockvril, the seven feet of the Light Singer shadowing the shorter reptilion before him. "Fools, who make effort when they have already failed." Sinlathar lifts the pistol in her clawed hand, taking aim at the back of Oswald Cottington IV as he staggers past the Light Singer. She squeezes the trigger and fires. The blast from Sinlithar's plasma pistol scorches through the president's suit, shirt and back, searing his flesh and tearing into his smoldering innards before he hits the deck, lifeless, arms and legs akimbo, eyes staring sightlessly toward the civilian vessel hangar. Latimer falls backwards as this happens, sitting rather undignifiedly on his bum, "Oh dear God..." he tries to struggle back to his knees of feet, "What have you done, Oswald." Jasra seems to watch the shooting of Cottington as if in the daze of a bad dream. She starts to stand, but thinks better of it and just breathes deeply. Xillimn does not move, now quite still, tentacles wrapped up to its torso again. It twists, slightly, to take in the President's body, the shooter, and the Vollistan, then returns to its humble bowing posture. Volari lifts a booted foot and places it on the small of Cottington's back. "Be overjoyed," Volari says flatly. "He betrayed you all by steering the ship straight into the snare of the Parallax." The Vollistan falls silent, the lead pipe held still in his hand. Sinlathar holsters her plasma pistol, then turns to regard the Vox. "I trust you are not too disappointed with the soft thing's demise. They lack durability." In Naliese: Ockvril clicks his tongue, "No matter. One soft thing is as good as another. I will have to appoint someone to run this vessel, at least until we find the Nexus. Perhaps the Vollistan will do." "If that is the request of the children of Nalia, it is my honor." Volari intones. Sinlathar bobs her snout at Ockvril, then returns her gaze to the Light Singer, sampling the air with a forked tongue. Latimer gets back to his knee, and glances up at the Vollistan, his eyes narrowing, but then he drops his head and shuts them, taking several deep breaths. Jasra just gazes at Cottington's body, either too shocked or just not sure if what she's seeing is real. Finally she turns her attention back to the Nall and continues to not say anything. Ockvril bobs his head, "Then it isss yoursss, sssservant." He pokes Cottington's body with a clawed foot, then looks over the crowd, "Your ruler hassss foolisssshly gotten himsssself killed. From thissss time on, our ssssservant,", he waves a claw at Volari, "Ssshall ssserve in hisss palsssse." The edges of the Vollistan's lips curl upwards. A smile perhaps, though his eyes are absent - distant from beyond the flight deck, beyond Sanctuary, beyond the Nocturn system. He nods curtly, removing his boot from the corpse and kneeling down next to it, his leg capturing the ash that exploded with the blast. "For the might and glory of Nalia, for the talons of the Vox." Jasra sighs, breaking the slight trance she was under. She murmurs under her breath, "Great Cottington's ghost. This truly dooms us." Latimer doesn't hear all of what's said behind him, but nods in agreement with the sentiment, otherwise remaining motionless. Sinlathar huffs, bobbing her snout. She turns her attention toward the honor guard warriors waiting by the Trakral, then swings her snout back around so she can gaze at the prisoners. "Then you have your orderssss, ssssservant.", Ockvril hisses, turning toward Volari, "You have done well, and Nalia hassss rewarded you. We sssseek the Nexsssussss and have been unable ot find it. Perhapssss thissss vesssel can remedy that ssssituasssssion. That issss your purpossssse." Volari rises, sliding the leadpipe back into the folds of his cloak. The aura surrounding the Light Singer pulses in an irregular rhythm. "And it is one I shall pursue, Glory of Nalia. Yet, even as prisoners, these are upstarts and false heroes who are not to be trusted - my experience within their worlds has taught me that ten-fold over. You will provide a guard, I hope and beg of your Glory." Jasra takes a deep breath, swallows and glances at the Vollistan, waiting for whatever should come next fron this situation. She moves restlessly, shifting her weight from one knee to the other. Sinlathar lifts her snout, claws clicking on the deckplates. Latimer grits his teeth, then looks up. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then snaps it closed and glances around the bay quickly before returning his eyes to the deckplates. His muscles flex where his jacket is pulled taut. Ockvril's tongue flicks, "Do not forget your plassse, sssservant. Of coursssse, there will be an occupassssion forssse." His jaw lolls, "And, the plassssma bomb. You sssshall have a fisssst of warriorssss, or, you shall work with a fissst of warriorssss. I will let you know who ssssshal join you." Sinlathar gnashes her fangs together, then turns her snout toward Ockvril. "Glorious one, the glowing soft thing promised to deliver the false Vox to us, as well." Volari dips his head, though the curved smile does not leave his lips. He speaks in fluid Nialese, "Of course, Glory of Nalia. It is under your command and valor that I serve." In Naliese: Ockvril bobs his snout, "You are correct." Ockvril turns back to Volari, "You will alsssso deliver the falsssse Voxsss, asssss promisssed. Unharmed. I will have the honor of ripping her throat out, myssssself." "It will be done, Glory of Nalia." Volari says firmly, his eyes never meeting those of the reptilion. "By your authority and the providence of the Nall." Jasra gives up on kneeling when it seems that they're going to be there for a while longer. She moves slowly from a kneeling position to a sitting one. Sinlathar begins pacing in front of Jasra and Latimer, eyeing them coldly. "Nalia'ssss glory sssshine on you, sssservant.", Ockvril says, heading a little closer to the crowd, "Ssssoft thingsss,", he says, contempt evident in his voice, as he turns to Sinlathar, "Have we heard from the other fleetssss, yet?" Volari lifts the cowl to cover the features of his face once the Vox has stepped forward. Silently, he follows behind the reptilion pulsing a deep gray. Latimer doesn't look up, his eyes following the clawed feet as they pace back and forth in front of him. Sinlathar stops, turning toward the Vox and bowing her snout. "Grimlahd. Vollissssta. Val Ssssshohob. All have fallen to our warriorsssss. The might of Her Glory eksssspandssss onsssse more, Honored Vokssss. With the multiversssse neksssssussss under our control, further eksssspanssssion will provide even more reasssson for the children of Nalia to rejoisssse." Jasra pulls up her knees and rests her arms on them, calmly watching the Nall move back and forth in front of them. Once she glances for a short time at Latimer, then looks back at their scaly keepers. "Yesss, Nalia'ssss clawed fissst shall onsssse more be whole, and more than whole.", Ockvril says, "No word from the other ssssoftsssskin planetssss? No weak wordssss of protesssst?" "Of that, I am unssssure, Honored Voksss," the Ur'huluth replies. "By your leave, I will return to the Trakral and acquire intelligensssse updatesss." Volari stays silent for a moment, standing forcefully behind the Vox and watching Sinlathar with solid eyes. "There has been word from Sivad, an hour before Her Glory landed on the vessel Sanctuary. The have extended an invitation to refugees of Vollista and Val Shohob." He smirks, "They are not aware, it would seem, of the might of Nalia." Ockvril's jaw lolls open. "Fear not, my ssssservant, they sssshall learn. Let them wonder when Nalia'ssss children will come for them.", his tongue flicks out, "They are weak, sssoft thingssss. They will do nothing. Let them have the refugeessss."
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