Andromeda: We Are The Universe

5. Erazor: The Lómëthrendur

As the sun rised below the horizon, casting a brilliant array of gold and orange across the sky, Erazor, the leader of the secretive Elvish mercenary group Lómëthrendur, sat atop an anvil next to his telumbar. This structure, far more than a simple tent, embodied the pinnacle of Elven technology and artistry, designed to unfold into a vast, strong, and luxuriously ornamented dwelling within seconds, perfect for the demands of their covert missions.

His own eyes, large and golden like fierce, fiery orbs, remained perpetually veiled beneath the Oiolossë, which fluttered like a flag from the back of his head. His golden mane flowed down his massive back, adding to his imposing presence atop the hill, which provided not only the best view of the dawn but also a strategic vantage over the camp.

The Oiolossë, crafted from the finest threads spun from the twilight silks of Valinor, the capital of planet Umbarïl, was a masterpiece of Elvish craftsmanship. This golden bandana, embedded with the luminescence of crushed Elanor petals, emitted a subtle glow, mirroring the constellations under which it was woven, and cloaked Erazor's true Purpose. It heightened his other senses and guided him through spiritual visions and dreams, glimpses into realms beyond ordinary sight.

The Lómëthrendur, a covert Elvish mercenary organization based on planet Umbarïl—home to the Dark Elves and a variety of other races—operates with autonomy, though it was created by the Qu-endï Araniön, or The Council of the High Kings, in our tongue. This council established the Lómëthrendur to discreetly manage conflicts that arise, given that war or any military conflict among species is strictly prohibited within the Lyämvja-äm Sector. Despite its origins, the Lómëthrendur functions as an independent entity, not tied to any specific planet, enabling it to operate across different regions without political constraints.

While everyone else was deep in slumber within their own telumbars scattered around the hill, Erazor relished a moment of solitude, sharpening his ancestral blade with his own fangs—a practice known to all but performed by none other. A good reflection of his primal and meticulous nature. He was revered not just as a leader but as a visionary, his mask "Erazor" translating to 'Leader' in the Draconic tongue.

With the dawn breaking, Erazor cautiously lifted his Oiolossë, scanning for any unwanted spectators before allowing himself the full view. His gaze then turned directly towards the rising sun, his golden eyes trying to absorb its fiery power. His deep red scales and golden mane bristled with the energy of the dawn. Beyond his stern and commanding exterior, Erazor was introspective, wise, and strategically minded. This morning ritual was essential for clearing his mind, yet, despite the familiar routine, he felt an unusual sense of confusion. Something elusive was amiss, clouding his thoughts.

Feeling a mighty presence approaching from behind, Erazor knew it to be Zanfirum (his mask meaning "The Loyal One") by the sheer force and distinct aura that accompanied him. "I hope it's good news," Erazor mused quietly, allowing himself one final gaze at the setting sun's fiery beauty before the Oiolossë reclaimed its place over his eyes, covering his Purpose once more.

He returned to the task of sharpening his blade, Zeymahzin, a weapon so formidable that a single strike could cleave a mountain in two. This sword, crafted to be wielded only by the mightiest, weighed over 555 kilos and stretched nine meters in length, requiring a Säynxh-jör, over 999 to wield it. Its design was intricate: jet-black with runes and Draconic magic, the blade split into seven parallel slivers that increased in length towards the center, curving like the claw of a dragon.

As Zanfirum's hooves struck the earth firmly and his wings flapped to a halt, he delivered his report without delay. "There are no signs of the Rebels. Not here, not anywhere. Everything is destroyed, but nothing is burnt."

Erazor, his focus still on the blade, inquired without looking up, "Did you find any corpses? Any fallen?"

"None. There are no signs of life whatsoever, and no corpses either. Death hangs thick in the air, mingled with a dread energy," the Sphintaur replied.

Pausing his sharpening, Erazor contemplated the information, his mind racing for explanations. "Are you certain no flame touched that place? Saw you signs of fire?"

"Most certain, Erazor. This is not the Rebels' doing," Zanfirum stated with gravity.

"How recent was the assault?" Erazor asked, his tone steady and commanding, reflecting his leadership.

"Hard to say exactly without bodies, but it's likely no more than three days past," Zanfirum answered, trying to provide clarity despite the uncertainties.

Erazor rose to his full height, almost as if expecting the very act of standing to conjure the answers he sought from thin air. What a sight he was, dwarfing Zanfirum with his imposing stature as if the Sphintaur were merely a child beside him. This was no small feat.

Erazor's wings, vast and draconic, spread wide, a stark contrast to Zanfirum's more delicate, falcon-like appendages. He was a vision of draconic might in humanoid form—a true Draconid. Unlike the Dlrekyns, whose draconic traits were tempered by a lack of scales and a more exoskeletal build, lacking tails and often wings, Erazor bore the full majesty of his heritage.

His scales were like armor, seeming impenetrable. His fangs and claws were sharper than any forged blade, his wings spanned over 20 meters, and his thick tail could shatter stone as though it were glass. Crowning his fearsome form were horns capable of impaling a bull. Erazor could have been mistaken for a demon out of legend, yet here he stood, the mighty leader of the Lómëthrendur, towering an impressive 11 meters tall, with Zanfirum standing at only 7.

Only four members of the Lómëthrendur stood taller than Erazor. They were truly massive, each stretching more than 30 meters in height. However, since they weren't humanoid in form, it was somewhat of a different category.

"Where's my armor?" Erazor asked, his voice tinged with a mix of urgency and annoyance. He stood staring at the sun, now climbing higher in the sky, with Zeymahzin planted in the ground beside him, almost as if it too was observing the day. His Oiolossë fluttered gracefully behind him in the wind.

"Ghört'bak is still working on it, but I've brought your MindNet," Zanfirum responded, approaching with the familiar clatter of his hooves against the ground. He held a small card in his hands.

"Thanks, Zanfirum," Erazor said as he took the MindNet. He slotted it into its module just behind his left horn and felt the immediate rush of connectivity, linking him back into the network.

Just as Erazor was about to unleash a roar, Zanfirum interjected, "Wait! Don't roar yet. I found this in the city's remains." He handed Erazor a mysterious, glob-like substance, black and pulsating with a sinister energy.

Inspecting the strange material in his palm, Erazor sensed its importance to the puzzle they faced. "Well struck, Zanfirum. Closer now, we draw to understanding," he acknowledged with a rare gentleness in his tone, which to any other would still seem a guttural roar.

With a nod, Zanfirum took flight towards the camp below, giving Erazor the clearance he needed. Once alone, Erazor concluded his morning with a mighty roar that echoed across the valley, rousing the camp below. It was a sound that signaled a new day for the Lómëthrendur, both thunderous and awe-inspiring. Even magical.

And with that, it was time to move. Life stirred in the camp as beings began to awaken and prepare. The day's journey awaited.

Read part 6 next: The Bounty Hunter