Post by Hibernal on Feb 16, 2024 15:13:57 GMT -5
General Hibernal had always returned to Arcose with fanfare. He recalled the gilded streets of Kuriza City; not the ones that he tread upon today, but the heated granite fillament-cobbles he had tread upon two hundred- or was it three hundred? -years ago. The auric lights of enterprise changed in shape, in the finer details, but never in purpose. They were the beacons that lit the path upon which his storied kind had so eagerly tred- the path of progress. The path of development.
Once, General Hibernal had hoped to pave other worlds in much the same fashion. Only Arcose, only Arcosians, his great, entrepeneurial pioneer of a race, had the power to do so. Powerful, wise; that was Arcose. That was his people. That was his home.
But General Hibernal was no more. Only Hibernal remained, and he was old, now. He could no longer remove the mask which once hid his elderly Arcosian features, his faded skin, his face, wrinkled from the exertion of a life in space. His bio-armor, star-spangled with chips and dents, held stories all on its own. Yet, in his ressurection, he had lost even that. Even the nobility of death was lost upon him. It was as though the image of General Hibernal, the once-venerable face of Arcosian expansion, a warlord, at once representative of his kind yet so unlike them- it had all been dashed upon the poles. Nothing remained, save for his reflection upon the ice, split and splitting and splintered across a thousand icebergs.
He was an old, dead fool, still living. This, he now understood. He no longer donned his regal garb. A beige hat obstructed his masked face, and an overcoat covered his hulking form. Gone was the Imperial regalia he had built with his own hands- in its place, a civilian. Yet, in the way he carried himself, in the unmistakable menace of his mask, the recognizable image of the General was forever branded upon his feeble Arcosian flesh.
It was that same mask he saw upon a statue of himself.
Regal, proud. What a life he had led. He removed his cap and brought it to his chest; a gesture of respect, respect for the man he had been, but could no longer be. He was too... decrepit. Too much metal, too little flesh.
And he had a new mission, now. Perhaps that one would be more fruitful then his last. Perhaps that one would bring him the absolution he so desired.
Once, General Hibernal had hoped to pave other worlds in much the same fashion. Only Arcose, only Arcosians, his great, entrepeneurial pioneer of a race, had the power to do so. Powerful, wise; that was Arcose. That was his people. That was his home.
But General Hibernal was no more. Only Hibernal remained, and he was old, now. He could no longer remove the mask which once hid his elderly Arcosian features, his faded skin, his face, wrinkled from the exertion of a life in space. His bio-armor, star-spangled with chips and dents, held stories all on its own. Yet, in his ressurection, he had lost even that. Even the nobility of death was lost upon him. It was as though the image of General Hibernal, the once-venerable face of Arcosian expansion, a warlord, at once representative of his kind yet so unlike them- it had all been dashed upon the poles. Nothing remained, save for his reflection upon the ice, split and splitting and splintered across a thousand icebergs.
He was an old, dead fool, still living. This, he now understood. He no longer donned his regal garb. A beige hat obstructed his masked face, and an overcoat covered his hulking form. Gone was the Imperial regalia he had built with his own hands- in its place, a civilian. Yet, in the way he carried himself, in the unmistakable menace of his mask, the recognizable image of the General was forever branded upon his feeble Arcosian flesh.
It was that same mask he saw upon a statue of himself.
Regal, proud. What a life he had led. He removed his cap and brought it to his chest; a gesture of respect, respect for the man he had been, but could no longer be. He was too... decrepit. Too much metal, too little flesh.
And he had a new mission, now. Perhaps that one would be more fruitful then his last. Perhaps that one would bring him the absolution he so desired.
wc: 416 || PL: 24,000