Directly following the Battle of the Black Sun, The Sunsations would soon awaken to a mechanical world utterly foreign to them...
A shrill, ceaseless ringing drills through the mind. It is not heard so much as felt — a pulse against the bones. Smells of antiseptic, ozone, and scorched metal cling to the air, thick enough to choke. The world is a slow, twisting blur: silhouetted figures move in and out of focus, their faces hidden behind gold-and-black porcelain masks, the gleam of surgical steel catching the cold light.
A dull pressure clamps down upon the chest. Limbs feel like lead.
Whispers drift across the void — warped, mechanical.
"Stability nominal. Vitals .. returning."
"Begin phase two calibration."
Time bleeds away. Memories splinter.
The Eclipse. The Tomb of the Twin-Spirit. The fall of the Avatars. The seething shadow of Valekith.
And then — six figures, indistinct and terrible, their silhouettes woven from the darkness of their lucid dreams...
The Imperial Ward
Light floods into the world. A cacophony of hissing hydraulics and whirring clockwork fills the sterile chamber. As vision clears, the Sunsations find themselves in black-gold medical gowns, their bodies sheathed in intricate healing harnesses — devices of whirring gears, ticking valves, and glowing blue conduits.
The floors are brushed steel, cool and merciless beneath their bare feet. The walls hum with a low, mechanical heartbeat, etched with shifting sigils of unknown design.
The doors groan open.
In marches a figure of chilling authority — a towering warforged in radiant silver-gold armor, his red-shouldered war-cloak whispering across the floor. His face is an expressionless mask of burnished steel, his optics a piercing blue.
Behind him follow six armored knights, their black-gold plate faintly shimmering with Rift energy.
Admiral Aegis salutes with a fist to his chestplate.
"You must be disoriented," he says, voice clipped and crisp as a blade. "But you are safe. For now."
A beat.
"These warriors pulled you from the ruin of the Tomb. You owe your lives to them."
He pauses, voice heavy with unsaid meaning.
"You are welcomed to the procession of progress. The Immortal Emperor summons you. Come."
The automaton surgeons retreat in flawless unison, and the way forward lies open.
March of the Machine
The Immortal Emperor’s most trusted instruments — a cadre of knights who are at once wardens, executioners, and sentinels of the Imperial Will (see: Knights of the Krakenstone).
- Lord Commander Lucius Wargrym
A towering goliath clad in imposing full plate of blackened steel, his scarred visage etched with spiraling war tattoos that coil over his bald head and down his broad shoulders. His right eye, clouded and dead, bears testament to countless battlefields. He wields a colossal kraken-forged greatsword, each blow striking with the inevitability of a crumbling mountain.
- Ser Mathis Braun ("Emperor's Blade")
Shrouded in pale grey plate, Ser Mathis Braun moves with a spectral stillness. His flat, expressionless steel mask betrays no emotion; blind, yet utterly precise. Draped in a black cloak pinned with the Hand of Judgment sigil, he carries a towering broad-bladed glaive. Where words would be spoken, he speaks only silence — and brings death with him.
- Ser Grigori Von Stein ("Emperor's Fist")
An iron colossus clad in thick plate, a blood-red gauntlet marking his right hand — both a weapon and a warning. His horned helm and ashen flesh bear the legacy of House Von Stein’s cursed bloodline. Rumors whisper of bloodlust barely contained beneath his rigid discipline. His massive double-bladed war axe, "Bloodtide," cleaves through flesh and steel alike.
Encased within masterwork black-steel armor bearing the silver rearing stallion crest of House De Montfort, Dorian is a walking arsenal. Rift-charged gauntlets pulse at his hands, a Rift-core hums and whirs upon his back, sheathing him in kinetic barriers. His every step is a hymn of mechanized dread, a fusion of noble lineage and cold industrial fury.
- Lord Inquisitor Albrecht Kaine ("Emperor's Edict")
Clad in a black leather longcoat embroidered with gold filigree of the Kraken, Albrecht Kaine moves with the deliberate confidence of a man who has judged—and condemned—more souls than he can remember. His twin Riftforged revolvers, "Judgement" and "Deliverance," never miss their mark. His golden kraken mask reveals nothing; only the cold gleam of purpose burns behind it.
- Captain Sylas de Vayne
A sleek stalker among wolves, Captain Wagner wears elegant black-and-gold half-plate etched with the faint glimmer of constellations. His starlight cape shimmers like the night sky, and at his side rests a starlight rapier and a void-black dagger. A master of infiltration, assassination, and silent kills — it is said he can cross a battlefield without ever being seen.
The black-and-gold carriage rattles forward.
Beyond the reinforced windows, Bastile unfurls before the Sunsations like the iron heartbeat of a machine given life.
Gothic spires claw at the heavy clouds, their facades crusted with statues of krakens, chained suns, and the silent faces of dead kings. The cityscape rises in dizzying layers—iron, onyx, and gilded brass—cut by crisscrossing bridges and arched thoroughfares suspended in the misty air.
Victorian nobles, cloaked in velvet and adorned in mechanical augmentations, lean from gilded balconies. They cast petals of marbled white and blood-red flowers onto the streets below, their laughter a brittle thing carried on the wind. Beside them, clockwork courtiers flicker and twitch with mechanical grace, steam hissing from their joints.
Above, the skies groan with the passage of dozens of Bastilian imperial airships.
Each frigate's silhouette is hulking and predatory, spotlights sweeping the city like the searching eyes of leviathans.
From their decks, Kraken Rift-Marines stand silent vigil—golden kraken masks concealing their gaze, rift-rail cannons humming with latent energy, the faint crackle of Rift containment coils trailing behind them like banners of lightning.
On the ground, thousands of imperial soldiers and Rift-Marines form living barricades along the cobblestone boulevards. Clockwork automatons clank in perfect lockstep, their polished bodies gleaming under the erratic flicker of violet Rift-lanterns strung along the streets, casting long, surreal shadows across the early afternoon fog.
Battalions of Rift Tanks, heavy iron beasts, roll down the grand avenues alongside artillery pieces and walking constructs powered by rift-reactors—marching in serried ranks around the Sunsations' procession. The earth quakes with every mechanical footfall, every thunderous tread of progress.
And yet—beneath all the grandeur, a current of tension ripples unseen.
In the throngs of polished citizens, among the banners and golden rain, the Sunsations catch furtive glances, tight-pressed lips, and the tremor of hands too accustomed to cheering yet weighed down by fear.
The carriage climbs the final cobblestone ascent, the cheers fading into an awed silence.
Before them loom the grand wrought-iron gates, twisted into the form of a monstrous Kraken, its golden crests gleaming even in the weak light. The arms of the Kraken form the circular road ahead, each curling tentacle paved with inlaid obsidian and silver.
At its center—
A vast onyx citadel, rising like a crown of jagged teeth against the coastal cliffs.
The Imperial Palace
Its brutalist architecture pierces the sky, adorned with stained-glass windows depicting the Immortal Emperor, always wearing the golden kraken mask—his hand outstretched in judgment, his dominion eternal.
The gardens that surround the palace are a marvel of manicured perfection—exotic flora, clockwork gardeners tending every leaf, and armed Rift-Marines hidden among the topiaries, ever-watchful.
The carriage creaks to a halt before the Grand Vestibule.
The six Knights of the Krakenstone dismount first, their cloaks snapping in the cold wind. Lucius Wargrym, the goliath captain, gestures sharply, and the Sunsations are escorted out under the impassive gaze of a thousand mechanical and mortal sentries alike.
As they pass through the great bronze doors, the palace swallows them whole.
The white marble floors shimmer like starlit glass, golden inlays tracing ancient constellations whose names only the oldest scholars now whisper.
Onyx pillars, carved into spiraling kraken forms, line the hall. From their outstretched arms hang silken banners emblazoned with the Golden Kraken sigil.
The murals adorning the vaulted ceiling speak without words:
Conquest.
Dominion.
Manifest Destiny.
Indomitable Will.
Ahead—
Upon the black iron throne, as though born from the mountain itself, the Immortal Emperor waits.
His armor is gold chased on black, his presence a singularity of silence and terror.
From the back of his golden kraken mask, hundreds of cables slither like living things into the intricate mechanisms of the throne—feeding him life, or perhaps feeding on him.
The air hums with Rift energy, vibrating in their bones.
He does not move.
He does not breathe.
He merely waits—
A monument to dominion made flesh and steel.
The Sunsations are compelled to kneel by a force heavier than gravity itself as the Knights drop to their knees and recite an ancient oath...
"By will and steel, we endure.
By oath and blade, we prevail.
By blood and flame, we ascend.
…In the name of Bastile"
The colossal hall falls to silence as Admiral Aegis advances before the throne, the dim violet gleam of Rift-lanterns casting stark shadows across the marble floor. His voice rings out, metallic and immutable:
"Behold: the Bastion of Bastile, Savior of Tolria, the Golden Kraken, the Immortal Emperor—Caeus of the Endless Reign."
"He who forged dominion from swamp with steel, for the sake of our fallen. Stand now, Sunsations, before the Will of Bastile."
The great figure seated upon the throne stirs at last.
Cables hiss and retract. Gears unseen grind into motion.
The golden kraken-mask, expressionless, tilts forward, and when he speaks, his voice is not merely sound—it is a force felt in the marrow of the soul.
A layered resonance of organic rumble and mechanized choir, the voice of a god that chose to become more.
"In the beginning, there was nothing."
"The southern reaches of Tolria, forgotten by our forebears and scorned by gods, were little more than pestilent bogs where broken men died in putrid squalor. Yet from that festering mire, we rose—not by fortune, nor by divine favor, but by the singular power of indomitable will."
"Through blood, suffering, and the crucible of war, we clawed upward, constructing civilization from the rotten bones of the old world. Bastile was not given—it was taken."
"Those who would lead our destiny were forged in the Iron Arena of—"
(a ripple of sound as a thousand mechanisms stir unseen)
"—where brothers and sisters cast aside kinship and life itself, until only the strongest remained to seize the Immortal Throne. Only then did the Great Line of Emperors begin. Only then did order descend upon Tolria.**"
He rises from the throne with unnatural smoothness—no stumble, no hesitation. Only purpose.
"The Free States. Ruska. Avoronia. Alpia. Zubar. All these petty sovereignties fell—not to conquest—but to the promise of something greater: unity. Order. A future carved by sacrifice, not inlaid in indulgence."
His helm turns slightly toward the Sunsations, the room vibrating faintly with Rift energies as his cables twitch.
"And now… you, Sunsations. You who bore no crowns. Who lived beneath the merciless blaze of Serrakhan’s sands. Who rose from dust and despair to shield the Prime Plane against the eclipse of its own soul."
"Yours is a story worthy of Bastile’s highest accord. For this, you are honored—not merely as warriors, but as harbingers of what might yet endure."
A long, mechanical pause.
"But you carry more than laurels. You foresee... peril."
A single gauntleted hand raises, motioning toward the darkened vaults beyond the throne.
"Talyen Dawnstrider—the Child of the sun—bears within him a crucible not of one soul, but five: Avatar Terra, Avatar Typhon, Avatar Lumina, Guy the Grateful... and Valekith."
"His spirit fractures upon itself, splintering into unchecked variables. Should he awaken fully, the confluence of those elemental forces will ignite a cascade across the Riftways and the Prime alike—an apocalyptic singularity none could prevent. Not even we."
The Emperor’s voice drops lower, colder:
"He dreams even now, but those dreams are no longer dreams. They are unstable rift equations. Unsound patterns. Echoes of cataclysm. The Clockwork Cranium's containment will not hold forever. It is but a gate pressed against a rising tide."
The golden kraken mask tilts, calculating.
"All things are equations. All lives, all fates. Inputs and outputs. Constants and failures. Variables... and anomalies."
"Talyen has become an anomaly beyond solving. He must either be restrained, rebalanced—or removed."
He takes a final step closer, towering over them now, golden and black in the Riftlight.
"Thus, you are offered a choice—one final equation to balance."
"Enter the breach of his mind. Draw him back from the edge, if you have the will and strength."
"Or stand aside—and watch the world you saved be devoured by a newborn sun."
His words hang heavy as iron.
No anger. No pleading.
Only the cold calculus of necessity.
The world waits for their answer....