CHAPTER 1: Rebellion Uprising
The four moons of Aiur, each at their fullest, loomed over the dark horizon. Their gentle, silvery light cast long shadows in the endless swaying fields of lush grass, the fields which Veladia, Matriarch of the Venatir Tribe, knew with dread that she might never see again.
The howl of a Bengalass shattered the icy silence of the Protoss night.
"Return to your masters, Talleron," said Veladia. "And take with you the knowledge that my tribe will never surrender their free wills to your Conclave. Neither will I allow myself to succumb to the Khala!"
"Matriarch," said the Zealot. " You face exile if you do not follow the Conclave's wishes!"
The glare that the old Protoss gave him spoke for itself. Talleron silenced himself and shrunk back, before being dismissed by a slight wave from the Matriarch's hand. He bowed respectfully and made off towards the awaiting shuttle.
Veladia turned to gaze at the cool night sky. The four moons that hung low over the horizon seemed to emit a cold, harsh light, along with a sense of utter foreboding. Gone was the gentleness that she had felt just minutes ago.
Soon. she thought.
The Matriarch turned to face Raszagal, a 500-year-old female who would soon, indeed, inherit the leadership of the ancient Venatir Tribe. "Raszagal," she said. " I sense that my end is near. You must be prepared to rule my tribe. Go to nothing but the bitter extreme to save our people from the Conclave's will!"
Raszagal nodded silently in acknowledgement. She would do her duty.
The four moons of Aiur, each at their fullest, loomed over the dark horizon. Their gentle, silvery light cast long shadows in the endless swaying fields of lush grass, the fields which Veladia, Matriarch of the Venatir Tribe, knew with dread that she might never see again.
The howl of a Bengalass shattered the icy silence of the Protoss night.
"Return to your masters, Talleron," said Veladia. "And take with you the knowledge that my tribe will never surrender their free wills to your Conclave. Neither will I allow myself to succumb to the Khala!"
"Matriarch," said the Zealot. " You face exile if you do not follow the Conclave's wishes!"
The glare that the old Protoss gave him spoke for itself. Talleron silenced himself and shrunk back, before being dismissed by a slight wave from the Matriarch's hand. He bowed respectfully and made off towards the awaiting shuttle.
Veladia turned to gaze at the cool night sky. The four moons that hung low over the horizon seemed to emit a cold, harsh light, along with a sense of utter foreboding. Gone was the gentleness that she had felt just minutes ago.
Soon. she thought.
The Matriarch turned to face Raszagal, a 500-year-old female who would soon, indeed, inherit the leadership of the ancient Venatir Tribe. "Raszagal," she said. " I sense that my end is near. You must be prepared to rule my tribe. Go to nothing but the bitter extreme to save our people from the Conclave's will!"
Raszagal nodded silently in acknowledgement. She would do her duty.