Woosh!
The Arjuna soar through the clear skies. It is a warm day, a holy day. The sun basks the Lita Temples in glorious sunshine, a favor for their fervent adoration of the gods. Crafted and chipped from marble into a marvelous piece of architecture, perfect for worship.
They resemble sirens, save for their more highlighted bird-esque features—beaks for mouths, talons for feet, wings for arms. Golden-featured acrobats of aerodynamics, they effortlessly glide in the Troposphere for hours on end. They must, for below lies a boundless swirling of blackened clouds—a storm of lighting, thunder, and death. The temple lies just above the eye of the ceaseless cyclone. But they pay no mind to it, for today was a day of worship.
Glub, glub, glub.
The Cerelikite swim through the calm waters. While waves crash and thrash above them, they find peace in the depths beneath the chaos. They lazily float in the water, enjoying the feeling of the current sweeping them along. They wave to one another as they pass through neighborhoods of reefs and corals of the Craymatara Seas. They smile with jagged teeth and wave with their webbed hands. They are fish-like beings, having gills along their necks, a tail for legs, and film over their eyes.
Today is a special day. The queen of the Cerelikite has given birth to a princess! All are invited to the royal coral castle to offer gifts and bestow blessings. Some bring pearls from Coraely Clams, while others bring shells from Scaloris Scallops.
"May the queen and the newly, beloved princess reign and prosper forever more!" they all shout from below the depths.
What a joyous day.
Heave, ho!
The Mozecks fling their pickaxes into the wall. Rock by rock, chip by chip, they tunnel their way through the Mystalia Mines. They are looking for Mystal, a beautiful, durable crystal found only in the most tenebrous places in the mines. It is jet black in color, blending in perfectly with its surroundings. Though, camouflage only fooled beings that relied upon sight.
The Mozecks resemble moles with their clawed hands, keen sense of touch, and poor eyesight (not that sight mattered when dwelling in the dark). They skitter their faces along the walls with each swing of their picks, letting their tentacle-like protrusions grope a feel for the rocks and minerals around them.
Too brittle, most likely Iroc. Too soft, probably Golium.
Their snouts detect a newfound sense of heat, and a smile curls on their faces. One of their own has found a rare ore; and is smelting it with the heat of their planet's core. It will soon be powerful paraphernalia to further their mining operations.
What will happen when they finally find the Mystal crystals? Who is to say? They would probably just use it to craft another tool for mining. It was an enormous planet, after all. But how would they know, with their faces so snug against the dirt?
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A change happens in all their minds. They all become hyper-aware of one another, inexplicably, concomitantly. They can smell the thinned air of the Tropopause from the Lita Temples; smell the saltwater of the Craymatara Seas; smell the dirt and smelting metal from the Mystalia Mines. They peer into each other's souls, finding an estranged emotion in each of them.
They all hate one another. They have all never met. They have all never known of one another's existences prior. And yet, they all hate one another. They desire each other's death.
They don't quite realize it. They may never realize it. But the war to end all wars has already begun. And they are zealous volunteers. Maddening, is it not?
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ɹǝɥʇoɹB. M̶y̶ ̶s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶,̶ ̶s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶ ̶b̶r̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶.̶ Ｗｈｙ ｈａｖｅ ｙｏｕ ｆｏｒｓａｋｅｎ ｍｅ？rehtorb raed ym ,enog uoy evah erehW? .. .-. - / .- .-.. - -. . .-.-.- ɘnolɒ yɿɘv ,yɿɘv oƧ. Ⓛⓞⓥⓔ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇ. i wAnT YoUr lOvE! ⁱ'ᵐ—ⁱ'ᵐ ⁱⁿ ˢᵒ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ᵖᵃⁱⁿ. wON'T YOU HOLD ME, DEAR BROTHER?