Crimson

Chapter Fifty-Three

"My Lord Zilterra, please." Queyan said, pleading softly; his lighting mechanism betraying his anger, flickering violently it resonated as he soften his tone towards his new, petulant Baron.

"What I have sthated, musth be done. Do not disthobey me." Baron Zilterra stated with his speech impediment no longer expressing a hint of humor. Now it expressed its true predatory nature, his carnal ambitions apparent as his scales seemed to shutter with pure delight as he delegated his lascivious proclivities.

"My Lord," Queyan said using the honorific title loosely, stressing each word carefully. "You must reconsider. This course of action is a betrayal to the clans! Leaving them now would only spell certain doom for the Ak-Wo! We are nearly overrun by the Torsons! Please, they need our lot! The Imperial Legate will come down hard upon us, in retaliation, if they survive!" He said attempting to bring logic into his conversation.

"Thatsth right. If they sthurvive. He he he." Zilterra sinisterly mentioned.

"My Lord, this will end in the death of us all! The Supreme Commander will not tolerate such direct insubordination."

"She does not command me! How dare you bring your name into this! They are far from here, preparing to fight a losing battle!" He bellowed in the dank office, overlooking the training grounds.

Rubbing his orbs and the tired scales surrounding his temples, Queyan breathed deeply as his frail thorax shallowly inflated. Everything hurt him at his current cycle of living. The permanent death state soon would follow, swallowing him into the land, taking him to be with his ancestors or so the scrolls foretold the Erons. Providing the sweet peace, he so wished would embody him.

"I only wish I would be swallowed by the land, sooner." Queyan said looking back up at the new Baron who stood atop his lofty portal, his back turned to the older advisor, as he let his guard down fully.

His chest puffed out, his head held up high, adorned with dark crimson wrappings laced with teal ribbons of fragments, his small frame seemed larger now padded by the bindings. An inner strength radiated from Zilterra as his dreams of power swelled within him. Standing in the same place, he pushed his predecessor to their doom, he viciously grinned baring his fangs at his new cathedral of strength.

Watching as Zilterra stood in front of the porthole, glancing on in agony, wishing upon all of the ancestors for the strength, Queyan wish he possessed to end this beast's tyranny. The strength to rid the Legion of this blight known as Zilterra. The monster who now held the Legion of the Erons within the totality of his grasp. A little push is all it would take to thrust him from the dank office lit by a few plasma patches. One, sadly, he could not muster with his, current limited and feeble ability.

Defeated, he looked on as he awaited his new Lord's wish. Secretly praying to the ancestors to for divine intervention, Queyan prayed, in vain. Knowing any divine force did not answer his wishes and secret pleas, powerlessness enveloped him. A hopelessness, which stabbed at his gut, dense and hard.

Gasping, the sensation seemed to double before a pop propelled out of his abdomen. Pain circled everywhere as a torrent of emerald life fluid poured down his legs. It's gooey torrent oozed downward as it dampened his scarlet wrappings. A twisting and wrenching left Queyan's equilibrium struggling to hold onto something, anything. Grabbing before him, his feeble talons grasped the wrappings surrounding Zilterra's abdomen.

Queyan's vision blurred as bright flecks of light popped and danced around. The pain continued to swell within him, white-hot agony. Gasping for air, his breathing sacs seized as he heard a soft laugh before cackling filled the room.