Jump to content

The Throne of Guanar - A Short Story


  • Please log in to reply
1 reply to this topic

MrConway #1 Posted 13 January 2016 - 11:23 AM

    Community Coordinator

  • WG Staff
  • 54
  • Member since:

The Throne of Guanar squats beneath the Hierarch’s Residence in a massive chamber below the capital city of Chordata. The path to the throne is labyrinthine and shrouded by the ancient roots and vines that interlace the foundations of the Sakkra’s oldest buildings.


The Throne itself is even older than the legends surrounding it, which say it was forged by the First Hierarch Guanar after he took control of the Sakkra race. The throne is a living thing, the roots and vines of the oldest plants encasing and replacing the original wrought-iron frame, long since eroded with time.


The Hierarch sat heavy on the throne, his head resting on a massive fist. He blinked slowly, his disinterested double-lidded eyes calmly watching the dissent below. His Consorts sat in smaller thrones around him, metallic helms covering their faces. They served not only as companions, but as a deadly last line of defense to any who might dare to approach the Hierarch. The Consorts hissed low whispers to one another, watching vigilantly for any who stepped too close.


As always, the Throne Room was filled with Sakkra politicians, warriors, and community leaders seeking audience with the Hierarch. Today’s audience had been called by the Hierarch himself to witness the nomination of a High Lord to oversee the development of a new colony planet in a nearby star system.


The honor was not lost on the crowd below the throne, swelling with frustration and anticipation. The Sakkra are a crowded race, spilling out from overpopulated cities and overworked farmlands. Tribes on Sssla, the Sakkra home world, are forced to constantly be on watch for usurpers trying to wrest control of their lands. A new world meant new lands to be claimed and the High Lord would oversee it all, reporting directly to the Hierarch and granting land and mining rights as he saw fit.


The crowd stood in clusters according to their Tribes. Each Tribe carried a distinct banner and wore the ritual paint of their ancestors. They waited as patiently as possible, with only a few smaller scuffles disrupting the relative calm. The air in the throne room was heavy with humidity and violent tension. 


The Lords of two dominant and rival Tribes stood in the center of the crowd, their chests expanded wide. The younger of the two, a scarred and battle-hardened Sakkra by the name of Citro, slammed his claws against the hard earthen ground. “You dare to insult the tribe of The Hundred Knives?”


His opponent, a slightly smaller but just as scarred Lord named Maelia, was circling around Citro. Her eyes were narrowed and her Tribe surrounded her, painted in heavy black mud. “We of the Bloodletters know honor and dignity. Can your writhing hatchlings say the same?” The Bloodletters Tribe began a low, ominous hum that caught the attention of nearby Tribes.


Many smaller arguments rippled out from this larger one, the entire crowd seething with menacing tension. The Hierarch looked to his primary security outfit of personal Brood Raptors, armed to the teeth and confidently relaxed despite the rowdy crowd. He let out a deep and rattling growl, no more than a whisper among the chaos of the crowd.


The Tribes and Lords fell silent, turning their attention to the Hierarch. A few still slammed their bodies against each other, but the Lords set the example for their Tribes by focusing totally on the Hierarch. The Hierarch’s voice, loud without strain or effort, reached across the hall. “I’ve made my choice for the High Lord of Dhira Prime.” He leaned back in the Throne and nodded to himself, “Tymon, Lord of The Night’s Guard.”


With that sentence, the crowd rippled with murmurs and shifting attentions.


Tymon, standing near the front, let out a growl and nod of acceptance. His Tribe, The Night’s Guard, smashed against each other, howling with approval. Tymon stood dignified amid the turbulent crowd. The other Lords seemed to accept this nomination; Tymon was one of the eldest and most glorified of Sakkra generals. Tymon had once led a planetary assault against the Silicoid and was said to have shattered one of them with his massive claws alone.


Citro and The Hundred Knives began a low hiss that silenced the room. The crowd pulled to the edges of the hall like tidal ebbs, leaving the center of the room open for what was about to happen. Citro moved to the center of the room, pounding his heavy fists into the ground with every step.


The Hierarch remained unmoved, his lazy eyes watching the conflict unfold with the patience of a stone.


Tymon stepped forward, The Night’s Guard in their dark blue paints quietly circling behind him. “You question the Hierarch?” His voice was low and unafraid, the voice of one who has led from the front, confidently guiding soldiers in countless battles.


The room looked again to the Hierarch, but he remained silent—thereby giving his approval for what was to come. Citro growled to Tymon, “I doubt you, an old veteran who has sat on a cushion for too long!” Citro turned to his tribe and sneered, “They think this clone will rule a planet?”


Before The Hundred Knives could respond, Tymon lunged forward in a devastating bull rush. Citro dodged Tymon’s momentum, sending the other Sakkra careening into half a dozen onlookers. Tymon recovered and spun back to Citro, letting out a series of guttural clicks.


Tymon, a mighty fighter in his youth but untested in recent years, puffed his chest forward. “You challenge me then, in front of these witnesses?”


Citro took a fighting stance as a response. “If beating your pathetic hide is considered a fight…”


Tymon lowered his body into a crouch and hissed, “I accept the challenge!”


Citro looked confident as he waved the rest of his tribe away from the battle. Even in the heat of combat, the Sakkra knew the rules. A formal challenge had to be fought between the challenger and the challenged, no one else. In order for Citro’s battle challenge to be accepted, he alone had to kill Tymon. If either challenger received any aid they would forfeit their life and their claim. Should Tymon be unable to defend himself against a challenger, then he was not worthy of the prestigious title of High Lord.


The crowd began to cheer and scream as even the most dignified of the Sakkra Lords were swept up in the bloodlust. For the first time since the start of the audience, the Hierarch sat up in his chair and slowly leaned forward, his nose sniffing the heavy air of the hall.


Tymon paced forward cautiously, body held low. He flexed his huge claws out, baring his teeth to Citro as a series of short, sharp grunts exploded from deep in his chest. The Night’s Guard was hissing behind him, the sound like steam escaping from the shifting muck of the Sssla swamps.


Citro charged this time, his titanic body lumbering forward with impressive speed. His lowered shoulder impacted with a direct hit to Tymon’s torso as an earsplitting cracking sound filled the hall. The crowd was shouting and some in the roaring crowd began taking bets.


Citro and Tymon grappled, each seeking an opening through which a claw could reach the thinner hide of belly, flank, or throat. After several seconds they pushed away from each other and began to circle again. Chants from the spectators merged into a continuous roar, trapped by the mossy and earthen walls of the hall. The Hierarch stood up from the Throne and pounded his chest, caught up in the heat of the fight.


Tymon charged again, but at the last minute went low and swept Citro at the knees. The sound of Citro’s body hitting the dirt was a loud thud, followed by the scrambling sound of his short limbs trying to right himself. Tymon was too quick, on top of him again after an agile sliding turn. The crowd was so loud it was dizzying, with Citro’s Tribe howling for him to rise and Tymon’s supporters screaming for the killing strike.


Tymon opened his mouth wide to reveal teeth that had been sharpened to dagger-like points. His tongue, scaled and black, ran across his teeth with a grin. Citro swung his fists at Tymon’s body, but the impacts were absorbed by the massive frame.


The crowd was hysterical for the inevitable. Tymon took a moment to smile at the packed onlookers, his teeth flashing in the dim light. Citro’s Tribe, the Hundred Knives, barely contained themselves at his arrogance. Then with a single, jagged movement, Tymon’s wrapped his heavy maw around Citro’s throat and clamped down.


Citro made no sound, but the crowd was alight with passion. Money and valuables were passed around, bets were honored, and many Sakkra were manic with the need to fight. Tymon rose from Citro’s body, viscous dark-green blood running down his face and neck.


Tymon spit some of the acrid fluid, something he had tasted many times before, down on to Citro’s body. “Any more challengers?”


The Hierarch sat back down on the Throne with a dull thud, a crooked smile across his old face. The crowd was pulsing with energy, but the general consensus was clear—High Lord Tymon’s assured and brutal victory had cast aside any doubts.



Gamling_JB #2 Posted 14 January 2016 - 09:46 AM


  • Players
  • 26
  • Member since:
Awesome! I wish you can get some of that Sakkra culture be visible in the game. What made for instance Alpha centauri stand out was the personality of the enimies.

Also tagged with Sakkra

1 user(s) are reading this topic

0 members, 0 guests, 0 anonymous users