A day in the desert. A goliath scorpion scuttled languidly past sunbathed rocks the colour of blood. The air shimmered with intense reflected heat, as the sky, devoid of clouds, is occasionally broken by the lazy flight of a vulture.
In the midst of this great expanse of sand and rock, stood several tall, black spires. Piercing up into the sky, they seemed to be trying to draw blood from the heavens. Many warriors have attempted to climb them using only their wits and their limbs.
Many have failed.
The cost of failure is death.
As we watch, yet another man strived to conquer the obsidian watchtowers of the desert. His hands, bleeding and bruised, searched for another handhold to use on the way up. His arms, aching and sore, protested at every new command from his brain. His legs, tiredly supporting some of his weight, were as heavy as lead. His lips, dry and cracked, struggled to draw more oxygen into his lungs to sustain his torturous ascent.
By sheer force of his will, he continued his painstaking, lonely way up to the summit of the spire he was on.
Moreau's Dagger, they called it. Where Ethan Moreau had gained many of his visions and goals for the future. Where it could be rightly said that the true origins of Clan Goliath Scorpion lie, and not on some forsaken training ground on Strana Mechty. Where humanity first witnessed the potent power of the gift of the Goliath Scorpion, contained within its sting.
The climber nears the top, and just barely maintained his grip as he was buffeted by the strong desert wind. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the temptation to just let go, to let the wind carry him within its deadly embrace. No, he told himself. He had gone through too much, too far, and for too long to give up now!
He finally reached the small piece of flat ground at the summit, flinging an arm over the edge, as he pulled himself off the side of the spire. Looking out below him, he could see the entirety of the desert he had traversed for the past several days. One could easily sink into sleep and exhaustion at this point, but this man had other ideas. Trained from birth to be one of the finest warriors ever witnessed by humanity, he had almost inhuman constitution and willpower.
Unslinging his backpack from his shoulders, he proceeded to built a small campfire with the wood he had brought along. It was not long before the flames were flickering strongly atop the spire, as night fell upon the desert, bringing with it the dangers of intense cold.
The man sat in a meditative position, staring at the flames in front of his eyes, as he struggled to make sense of the twisting path the fates had chosen for him. Everything he had undergone, every battle he had fought, every trial he had endured, had led up to this moment. His destiny, surely, must be close to revelation now!
Did General Ethan Moreau know what he had set in motion, more than two hundred years ago, when he had shouted Nicholas Kerensky’s name, the name of the ilKhan of the Clans, from the top of the spire? Did he seek answers to the many questions that must have plagued him with the destruction of the 81st Division, nicknamed the Devils of Devil’s Rock, or more importantly, his command? Did the former Star League Defense Force Gunslinger ever regret his decision to remain behind on Babylon, contributing to its ruin?
The warrior knew none of the answers to these questions, but they ran through his head nonetheless, whispering doubts in his mind. He shook his head vigorously, driving away the extraneous thoughts. They were of no use to him.
A bottle of bright green fluid was placed to his right, as a black pouch was laid on his left. Never taking his eyes off the fire, he reached out with his left hand, and dug inside the pouch for an item.
It came out with a piece of blackened mech armour, torn off his mech by a missile from his enemy during his initial trial of position. He had gained the rank of Star Captain in that first battle. The armour piece was fed to the flames.
The hand went into the pouch several more times. As the relics of past battles during the clan invasion were tossed into the fire, he could feel a deep sense of loss, as though he was slowly expunging all physical traces of his past from his present. There was the remnants of a shattered ammo crate from the supply camp on Tukayyid, where he had witnessed such slaughter that even today, he still struggled to comprehend the complex feelings the horrendous campaign stirred within him.
Though it had been fifteen years, he had not forgotten the screams of his men, as the Com Guards swarmed their defensive position in the Losijie District in a singular wave of death, the endless shrieks of autocannon fire, the hoarse roar of massed missile launches, and the thunderous explosions of falling artillery shells shaking him to the very core of his soul.
The next item was a tattered unit patch of the Otomo, the personal bodyguards of the Coordinator of the Draconis Combine, who had fought with such shining courage during the Battle of Luthien. In the end, he had been defeated by a red and black Archer belonging to the Kell Hounds.
A piece of myomer muscle, from the Atlas he had defeated on Avon. The Atlas pilot had surprisingly become one of his most faithful companions, accompanying him on his meandering way amongst the clans. There was no one else the warrior trusted more to cover his back.
There were more sacrifices to be made. The vineers of his career as a Nova Cat warrior were just the beginning of the story.
Now his hand came up with a piece of white bone. It was clear to an observer that the finger bone was too large to be that of any human, even an elemental. The massive claw at the end of it only confirms the fact. A piece from the ghost bear he had killed in a desperate duel for his life, during that clawing ritual years ago, when he was abtakha to Clan Ghost Bear.
A lock of hair from the fiery mane of a hell horse, when he had led his branding party, against all odds, to success and glory. He had been much hated then, within that clan of stouthearted warriors, although he had barely spent more than a year with the Bears. The ancient feud between the Horses and the Bears could never be resolved.
A piece from a hellion mask, taken from an Ice Hellion who had challenged him when he was in that clan of hot heads and hotter tempers.
A coyote tooth, taken during his one month sabbatical in Clan Coyote, where he had hunted alongside the ferocious beasts that were the clan's namesake.
A bent maltese cross, bequeathed to him from a dying comrade when he was with the Cloud Cobras. The Cloisters had started him on the road to better understanding of himself, and the world around him. He would be eternally grateful to ecKhan Peyes Mannix for opening his eyes to the fallacies inherent in the universe.
A patch of wrinkled, shed skin from a star adder, picked up during his Trial of Bloodright in the jungles of Arcadia. Then, he had been with Clan Star Adder, and fighting for his bloodname in an unaugmented battle. The piece of adder skin he had stumbled upon had proven to be a lifesaver.
The fire was now blazing with a frightening intensity, as it eagerly devoured the vineers the warrior had thrown into it. He gazed into the flames, watching the memoirs of his life shrivel and warp in the intense heat of the inferno. Tired and drained from the efforts of the past few days, he felt a bit lightheaded, and had to center himself to prevent himself from falling into unconsciousness.
There was one last thing he had to do, as all his vineers had been used. The ritual he was performing was the first, and probably the last of its kind. The vineers he had sacrificed were unique to each clan, an identifier of their strengths and weaknesses. He had experienced life as a warrior in no less than eight clans, probably a record in the history of the clans since their founding by Nicholas Kerensky.
Now cradling the bottle of green fluid in his arms, he proceeded to unstopper it. A strong, slightly nauseating smell drifted up to his nostrils. He quickly fought against the wave of vertigo that had suddenly threatened to overwhelm him, and barely succeeded.
Necrosia. The name itself invokes thoughts of ambrosia, the drink of the gods, and necromancy, the magic of death. And for good reason. The drink of the Goliath Scorpions is deadly and yet possessed of frightening gifts that are bestowed onto those who dare to consume it.
The warrior had to argue long and hard with his superior officers for the supply of the toxic fluid he had obtained before they relented. Normally, when a warrior imbibes necrosia for the first time in his life, it was to be in a strict ritual, with medical care close at hand. More than one Goliath Scorpion had failed the rite of imbibing the toxic fluid, proving the unworthiness of their genes.
Famed for the visions it could bring, as well as the incredible sense of focus it could confer on the drinker at times, the warrior had brought it along specially for his vision rite, where he hoped it would improve his scrying of the future. The original vision rite of the Nova Cats was already very potent and draining, and could sometimes even kill the person undergoing it. By drinking necrosia in the hopes of attaining something even greater, he ran the risk of dying in his endeavour.
He glanced once at the bottle of thick bright green liquid, then flung his head back as he chugged down the entire contents of the bottle in one swallow. He threw the bottle away, and turned his eyes back to the flames. He could already feel the intoxicating effects of the necrosia dulling his senses, beckoning him to rest. He gritted his teeth and strove to stay awake, waiting for a message in the flames. He remembered hearing that visions came easiest when a person was situated in the middle of dreaming and wakefulness.
His resolve sustained him for barely a minute, when his body convulsed from the effects of the necrosia. He collapsed onto the hard black rock of the spire, clinging onto consciousness as he continued to stare into the flames.
Unbidden thought begun to stray into his mind again, as it begun to drift through his memories. He saw in the flames a large building, metallic and forbidding, where a group of children were trooping out. Looking closer, he could see the sibko patch of the Burning Tooth Sibko on the clothes of the children, as they were led by a grizzled, limping warrior to a waiting hovercraft transport.
He remembered…
Seek out the past; it is your future.