The Orukali Tribe
Twenty-Five Years Prior to the War
Orukali Komodren Reservation, Liberty Forests
Sovereign Republic of Liberty, State of Liberty, CSA
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow across the wild, untamed lands of the Komodren reservation. Nestled deep within the State of Liberty, the Orukali Tribe lived in peaceful communion with nature, their homes blending into the landscape as though they had grown from the earth itself. Tall, sturdy trees embraced the reservation, their branches swaying gently with the breeze as birds flitted between them, singing songs of the day's end. The smell of fresh earth and wildflowers filled the air, while the distant cry of forest creatures echoed in harmony with the land’s heartbeat. The laughter of hatchlings danced on the wind, a joyful chorus that echoed through the fields as young Komodren chased each other, their bare feet barely touching the ground. Their scales glistened in the fading sunlight, a reminder of the resilience of their people. They darted between rows of crops, careful not to disturb the lush greenery that provided for the community, yet driven by the excitement of play that only youth could summon. Amid their laughter, the distant roar of a majestic waterfall could be heard, tumbling over ancient rocks into the river that wound its way through the heart of the reservation. The river was the lifeblood of the Orukali, a source of water, food, and connection to the world beyond their sanctuary. The reservation itself was alive with activity as the Komodren prepared for the evening’s gathering, their movements slow and deliberate, filled with the calm confidence of a people who had long lived in harmony with the land. Smoke curled gently from the chimneys of their homes, made from the very stones and timber of the surrounding forest. The scent of woodsmoke and freshly baked bread mixed with the floral air, giving the whole scene an almost dreamlike quality. The setting sun bathed everything in a warm, golden light, casting long shadows that danced across the earth like ancient spirits watching over their descendants. Elder Tarai, the matriarch of the tribe, stood at the edge of the village, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Her scales, dark as polished stone, shimmered in the fading light as her deep eyes reflected the wisdom of nearly two centuries. She held herself with the quiet strength of one who had seen much in her time—joys and sorrows, peace and conflict—but her heart was full of love for her people. Today, however, her thoughts were with the child that had come into their care years ago, a child that did not belong to the Komodren, yet had become one of their own. Tolas, the young Lacerta hatchling who had been found adrift in the Anagonian Ocean, was now a part of the Orukali Tribe, raised among the Komodren as if they had been born into it. Tarai remembered the day the emissary had brought the child, swaddled in soft blankets, their tiny claws barely peeking out as they slept soundly. The Lacerta, an ancient species, had once roamed the lands of Anagonia, though few Komodren living today remembered those times. Tarai, however, had lived long enough to recall the stories passed down from elder to elder—stories of the Lacerta's nobility and strength, and their long-forgotten ties to the god Melkos, who had blessed them just as he had the Komodren, and other similar races. As the sun’s final rays kissed the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, Elder Tarai turned from her contemplation and began to walk back toward the village. Tonight would be a night of celebration, as the tribe prepared for the Harvest Festival, a time to give thanks for the earth's bounty and to honor the balance between their labor and nature’s gifts. It was a night where stories would be shared, laughter would ring out, and the bond between the Komodren and their adopted Lacerta child would be reaffirmed under the watchful eyes of the stars. But as Tarai moved through the village, her heart heavy with the weight of the ancient stories she carried, she couldn’t help but feel that Tolas’ journey was only just beginning. The Lacerta’s origins were steeped in mystery, and though Tolas had found a home among the Komodren, there was an undeniable pull toward something greater, something beyond the reservation’s borders. Melkos had blessed the Lacerta, even if they did not yet know it, and Tarai sensed that one day, Tolas would need to face that destiny, whether they were ready or not. For now, though, the sun had set, and it was time to return to the warmth of the hearth, the laughter of family, and the stories that bound them all together. Tomorrow, the future would wait. But tonight, Tolas was safe in the arms of the Orukali Tribe, and that was all that mattered for the young hatchling.
Fifteen Years Later
Tolas stood at the edge of the Orukali reservation, the familiar scent of pine and wildflowers mixing with the cool breeze that rolled down from the mountains. The fields where he had once played as a child stretched out before him, the crops swaying gently in the wind, as if waving their own quiet goodbye. His golden eyes, once wide with the innocence of youth, now reflected the weight of years and the uncertainty of the journey ahead. It had been fifteen years since the Komodren had taken him in. Fifteen years of laughter, learning, and love, shared with the family that had made him one of their own despite the difference in his appearance. But no matter how deeply connected he was to the tribe, there had always been a part of him that felt incomplete. The stories that Elder Tarai had whispered to him in the quiet hours of the evening, tales of the Lacerta and their ancient ties to the land, had planted a seed of curiosity and longing within him. Tolas had always wondered about his origins, about where he truly came from. Though the Orukali had given him a home, he had never known the place where his ancestors had walked, nor had he known what it meant to be Lacerta. And now, the time had come to find out. The village was quiet this early in the morning, save for a few distant voices and the rustling of leaves overhead. Tolas stood beside Elder Tarai, the wise matriarch who had raised him. She was older now, her movements slower, but the fire in her eyes remained strong as ever. She had known this day would come; it was written in the lines of fate that Tolas would one day leave the sanctuary of the Orukali to seek his true heritage. Yet knowing did little to ease the ache in her heart. "You have grown into a fine young warrior," Tarai said, her voice soft but steady. "I am proud of you, Tolas. And no matter where this journey takes you, know that you will always have a place here. You will always be family." Tolas shifted, the weight of his travel pack pressing against his back. He looked at the elder Komodren, her dark scales gleaming faintly in the early morning light, and felt a lump rise in his throat. "Thank you, Elder. For everything. I wouldn’t be who I am without you, without the tribe." Tarai smiled, a warmth radiating from her that soothed his anxious heart. "You will find your roots, child. The Lacerta have a long and noble history. But never forget—who you are now is just as important as where you came from." Tolas nodded, his eyes misting as he looked out over the reservation one last time. The familiar sounds of the river flowing, the birds calling from the trees, the distant laughter of Komodren children—it all felt so close and yet so far, like a dream he was about to wake from. "I don’t know what I’ll find out there," Tolas admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "I don’t even know if there’s a place for me in Seclya, or if I’ll understand what it means to be Lacerta." Tarai placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding him in the present. "You will find what you need in time, Tolas. Trust in yourself, and trust in Melkos' guidance. Your path will reveal itself when you are ready to see it." Tolas took a deep breath, the weight of the unknown settling on his shoulders. The pull to rediscover his roots, to understand who he truly was, had grown stronger with each passing year. He had wrestled with it for so long, not wanting to leave the only home he had ever known. But now, standing at the edge of the village, with the sun just beginning to rise over the horizon, he knew this was the right choice. With one last look at Elder Tarai, Tolas offered a small, respectful bow. "I’ll come back. I promise." Tarai’s smile widened. "I know you will."
Tolas turned and began to walk down the narrow path leading out of the reservation, his heart both heavy and light at the same time. The road ahead would take him far from the wilds of the State of Liberty and into lands unknown, back to Seclya where the Lacerta still lived. There, he hoped to find answers—answers about his people, his heritage, and most of all, himself.
The wind picked up as he walked, carrying with it the scent of the fields and the familiar sounds of the place he called home. But Tolas didn’t look back. The Orukali had given him everything, but now it was time to discover who he was beyond the borders of the reservation.
As the village disappeared from view, the sun finally broke free from the horizon, bathing the world in golden light. And with each step, Tolas felt a growing sense of purpose, a call that had been waiting for him all his life. He was ready to answer it. Ready to rediscover himself and the legacy of the Lacerta.
The future, once a distant whisper, now beckoned to him like an old friend.
Syva Aethel, Seclya
Many Years Later - Modern Day
Tolas Vekaranor stood on the balcony of his small, stone-built home, the cool night air brushing against his scales as he looked out over the vast plains of Seclya. The city, Syva Aethel where he now lived, was a mixture of ancient and modern—a place where towering spires of stone and glass rose from the earth like great dragon’s teeth, surrounded by the lush greenery of gardens and parks that sprawled throughout the urban landscape. The Lacerta, though steeped in tradition, embraced the tools and technology of the modern age. Their cities buzzed with life and progress, where sleek vehicles sped along roads made of polished stone, and the hum of modern machinery was just as familiar as the ancient songs of the past. It had been eight years since Tolas had left Anagonia, and the life he had built in Seclya was a far cry from the wild, communal peace of the Orukali Tribe. Though he had been adopted into a Lacerta foster home shortly after his arrival, integrating into this new life had been no simple task. The Vekaranor family had welcomed him, offering him a place among their own, but Tolas had struggled with his identity—torn between the Komodren values he had been raised with and the Lacerta's deep connection to military service and technological advancement. His foster parents, Verak and Sala Vekaranor, were respected figures in Syva Aethel. Verak worked as a designer of cutting-edge military technology, creating weapons and armor for the Lacerta military forces, blending sleek modern designs with their ancestral craftsmanship. Sala, a historian and scholar, worked in the city’s central archives, preserving the stories and records of Lacerta history. Though Tolas had found a home with them, he had also sought his own path, joining the Lacerta military to better understand his heritage and serve his new people. Tolas had found his place in the military, but it hadn’t come without challenges. The Lacerta forces were among the most advanced in Seclya, blending their natural strength and agility with the latest in combat technology. Tolas quickly rose through the ranks, excelling in both traditional hand-to-hand combat and the operation of cutting-edge weaponry. His natural resilience and honed discipline made him a valuable asset, but there was always that quiet part of him—an echo of his Komodren upbringing—that questioned his role in a society so focused on war and technology. The military had become his family in a way, providing him with a sense of belonging he had once feared he might never find. His comrades respected him, not just for his skill but for his unshakable loyalty and his calm demeanor under pressure. Yet, despite his success, there were moments when Tolas would retreat into his thoughts, wondering if he had truly found what he was looking for in Seclya. Tonight was one of those moments. He leaned against the railing of his balcony, his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the dark silhouette of the mountains rose against the starry sky. Below, the city of Syva Aethel glowed with the soft, ambient light of its streets and buildings, a living organism of energy and progress. It was a place of endless possibility, a far cry from the quiet reservation where he had grown up, yet there was still something in the wind that carried a hint of nostalgia—of the simpler, more peaceful life he had once known. Tolas let out a slow breath, the memories of his past mixing with the reality of his present. He had learned much in his time with the Lacerta—about his people, his heritage, and the weight of the name Vekaranor. But the questions that had driven him to leave Anagonia still lingered: Who was he, really? And where did he truly belong? His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his communicator buzzing on the small table behind him. Tolas turned and picked up the sleek, metallic device, glancing at the screen. A message from the barracks. Urgent briefing at 0600. Tolas frowned slightly. It wasn’t unusual for the military to call sudden briefings, especially with the tensions rising between Seclya and its neighbors. There had been rumors of unrest, whispers of old grudges threatening to spark into something far more dangerous. Tolas had tried to stay focused on his duties, but it was clear to everyone that the situation was becoming more precarious by the day. He set the communicator down and turned back to the city. The wind had picked up slightly, carrying with it the scent of the sea and the distant murmur of life below. Tolas’ mind shifted, preparing itself for whatever lay ahead. The calm of the night belied the storm that was brewing—not just in Seclya, but within him as well. Tomorrow, he would go to the briefing. He would follow orders, just as he had for the past eight years. But tonight, he allowed himself a moment of reflection.
The air in Tolas’ quarters was thick with the silence of the night. He lay half-asleep, letting the soft sounds of the night guards patrolling outside ease him into deeper rest. Just as his mind began to sink further into slumber, a soft knock echoed through his chamber. His eyes snapped open. Sitting up, Tolas squinted toward the door. He hadn’t been expecting anyone, and the knock had been unnervingly gentle. Hesitantly, he rose from the bed, his Lacertan form moving silently through the darkened room. His scaled hand reached for the door handle, and with a firm pull, it swung open. Standing in the doorway was a figure, draped in a dark, hooded cloak. The being’s presence was unnatural, sending an icy chill creeping up Tolas’ spine. His instincts screamed to close the door, to call for help, but before he could react, the figure vanished—disappearing like a wisp of smoke. “Tolas?” The sound of a familiar voice startled him, pulling him back to reality. A night guard stood a few paces away, his torch casting flickering light across the hallway. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Tolas blinked rapidly, his heart still racing from the strange encounter. “I… thought I heard something,” he stammered, unsure how to explain what had just happened. “But it’s nothing. Just the wind, I think.” The guard gave him a skeptical glance but scoffed lightly. “Go back to bed, lizard. Your imagination’s getting the best of you.” With a nod, Tolas closed the door and leaned against it, exhaling a long, shaky breath. The guard’s footsteps echoed down the hall, fading into the stillness of the night once more. Just as he began to step away from the door, a prickling sensation ran down his spine. In the dim light of his quarters, there stood the figure once more. This time, it was waiting for him, standing near the foot of his bed. Tolas’ eyes widened, terror gripping his chest as the figure stepped closer. The room seemed to darken with each movement, the air thickening like a vice around his throat. Red eyes glowed ominously beneath the hood of the cloaked figure, their brightness cutting through the dim light like molten embers. He opened his mouth to scream, to call for help, but before the sound could escape, the world around him shattered. The space fractured violently, as if the very fabric of reality had been torn apart by an unseen force. Time itself splintered around him, the fragments twisting and spiraling into chaotic shards. For a moment, everything slowed—each breath, each heartbeat—as the universe around him was pulled into some unknown void, suspending him in a frozen limbo. He was cut off, isolated in a dimension where nothing and no one could reach him. The air felt heavier, oppressive, and yet… silent. His muscles tensed, frozen in place, as though his body were locked in an ethereal stasis. Tolas’ mouth remained open, but no sound came, his voice caught in a strangling stillness. The figure, still draped in shadows, took another step forward. Then, with deliberate slowness, it reached up and pulled back the hood. The movement was unhurried, precise—each flicker of motion felt as though it carried the weight of worlds. As the hood fell away, it revealed the creature beneath. Tolas had heard tales of what stood before him, Drekamythians from distant histories and tales from other tribes and such, but this… this was different. The being that stood before him was both familiar and alien, like a shadow of his heritage draped in untold power. Its obsidian-black wings were folded against its back, a faint, otherworldly glow emanating from them, casting an eerie light into the fractured space. His Lacertan instincts screamed danger, but the sight of the wings—and their unnatural energy—held him paralyzed, both in fear and awe. The being’s skin shimmered in the half-light of this suspended reality, almost reflecting the fragments of the broken space around them. Its eyes, two burning rubies set deep within its angular face, bore into Tolas with a gaze that transcended mortal comprehension. There was a timelessness to the creature’s presence, an authority so profound it seemed to warp the air around it. The High Drekamythian stood tall, every movement carrying an overwhelming sense of command—of absolute dominion over this realm and beyond. As Tolas’ mind scrambled to make sense of what he was witnessing, the being’s crimson eyes flared with intensity. The light from those eyes poured over Tolas, a pressure so immense that it stilled his breath and silenced his rising scream. The sheer force of its gaze was enough to crush any mortal resistance, and Tolas found himself frozen—not by fear alone, but by the overwhelming power this creature radiated. He could feel it seeping into his bones, a weight of pure will that pressed him deeper into this fractured reality. “Be not afraid,” the High Drekamythian spoke, its voice a deep resonance that vibrated through the frozen time around them. The sound reverberated in Tolas’ very soul, an echo that seemed to ripple through both the broken shards of time and his own mind. Each word held a power that was undeniable, a force that settled deep into his core. The terror that had consumed him moments before was suddenly lifted, replaced with an eerie calm. The command was not a suggestion—it was a statement of fact. His fear had no place here. Tolas’ trembling breath slowed as his wide eyes remained locked on the towering figure. His mind raced, trying to piece together the impossible situation he now found himself in. He had heard stories, ancient tales whispered in the darkest corners of his tribe’s past, stories of Melkos’ servants—beings crafted with precision and nurtured for power. But never had he thought those stories to be real. The power radiating from the High Drekamythian was palpable. The air seemed to ripple with its presence, bending and distorting as though reality itself struggled to contain such immense force. Around them, the time fracture pulsed, the fragments of space reflecting images that made no sense—glimpses of Melkos' beach, its pale sands and dark waves shimmering on the edges of the broken world. The reflections danced off surfaces, hinting at a realm far removed from this one, yet not fully manifest. It was as though they stood on the boundary of two realities, where the rules of nature bent to the will of this creature. The High Drekamythian stepped closer, and with each footfall, the fracture pulsed again, expanding slightly as if time itself recoiled from its presence. Its wings shimmered faintly, casting faint light across the darkened room, though it felt like an entirely different place now. Tolas felt his heart hammering against his ribs, though his body remained frozen by the creature’s will. The sheer magnitude of its power was suffocating, the very air thick with the weight of its authority. “I have come with a warning,” the creature said, its harsh yet soothing voice lowering but still commanding every fiber of Tolas’ being to listen. The words seemed to echo in the shattered space, their meaning heavy with cryptic danger. “You are now involved in events far beyond your understanding. Darkness stirs, and it will find you.” Tolas blinked, his mind reeling. He could scarcely understand the full weight of what this being was telling him, but the words sent a cold chill through his blood. “W-what do you mean?” he managed to stammer, his voice trembling despite the unnatural calm that had settled in his heart. His brain could not register, nor fully appreciate the gravity of whatever was manifesting around him. The High Drekamythian didn’t answer right away. Instead, it moved closer, standing just a few feet from Tolas now. The fractured time bubble around them shimmered, warping the images of Melkos' beach reflected on the jagged edges. It was a disorienting sight—one foot in reality, the other in a place far beyond his comprehension. The creature’s wings flared slightly, casting a dim glow that illuminated Tolas’ face. “Your path intertwines with that of Melkos,” the High Drekamythian finally said, its voice now a low, almost whispered tone, but still carrying the authority of a divine command. “Be vigilant, Tolas. The dangers ahead will test everything you are.” Tolas swallowed hard, trying to steady his nerves. He felt small, insignificant, in the presence of such power. And yet, there was no malice in the creature’s words—only a warning, cryptic as it was. The High Drekamythian’s red eyes never left him, and though the fractured world around them remained a shimmering, surreal landscape, the being’s message rang clear. Something was coming. Something far greater than Tolas could ever imagine. The fractured time bubble shimmered one last time, the surreal reflections of Melkos' beach—unknown to Tolas in the slightest—warping and swirling, before slowly beginning to collapse. The distortion in reality shifted like waves pulling away from the shore, and the once-shattered fragments of time and space started to knit themselves back together. Tolas could feel the weight of the moment pressing against him, as if he were being drawn back into the world he had momentarily left behind. The overwhelming presence of the High Drekamythian lingered, yet Tolas sensed it retreating, like the tide pulling back from the sand. His muscles loosened as the ethereal hold on his body released him. Tolas’ legs nearly buckled beneath him, he nearly stepping on his tail over himself as he sought balance, his breaths shallow but free. The air felt lighter, as if the immense pressure that had locked him in place had finally eased. He blinked rapidly, trying to reorient himself to the normal flow of time, but the weight of the High Drekamythian’s words clung to him like a shadow. His chest heaved, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but somewhere in the depths of that fear, a spark of courage began to flicker. Tolas glanced at the figure, the High Drekamythian standing tall and still in the center of the room, its wings half-spread, radiating an undeniable authority. The red eyes remained fixed on him, unblinking, as if waiting for something more—perhaps the courage it had mentioned. Tolas took a step forward, his legs trembling but carrying him closer to the creature that had bent reality itself to its will. “I…” Tolas began, his voice shaky but growing steadier with each word. “I don’t fully understand what you’ve told me… or what’s coming. But if it’s Melkos’ path… then I have to know.” He swallowed, his courage steadying. “I need to understand. Why me? Why now?” The High Drekamythian’s eyes softened, though its power remained palpable, surrounding them in an aura of untold strength. "That is not for me to reveal," it said, its voice calm but firm, like a distant storm rumbling across a darkened sea. "Your place in these events will become clear in time." Tolas nodded, feeling the weight of destiny press down on his shoulders. Whatever this darkness was, he was part of it now, whether he understood it or not. But a question gnawed at the back of his mind—one that, in his growing courage, he needed to ask before the creature vanished again. As the High Drekamythian began to turn, its wings shifting with an ethereal grace, Tolas found his voice once more. “Wait!” he called out, taking a bolder step forward, his hand reaching out as if to stop the being. The High Drekamythian paused, its gaze returning to him. Tolas’ breath caught in his throat, but he pressed on. “What… what is your name?” For a brief moment, the room seemed to still once more, but this time it was not due to the creature's overwhelming power—rather, it was a pause, a moment of consideration. The High Drekamythian turned fully to face him again, its red eyes locking onto Tolas’. The air itself seemed to hum with energy as the being slowly spoke. “I am called Vaedros,” the High Drekamythian answered, its voice carrying a weight that echoed through Tolas’ soul. “Servant of Melkos, guardian of the lost, and the harbinger of fate.” The name resonated through the air, embedding itself in Tolas' mind like an immovable truth. Vaedros. A name both ancient and powerful, one that would not be easily forgotten. Tolas felt his heart beat harder in his chest, as if that single word carried a burden of history far beyond his comprehension. Vaedros’ wings unfurled slightly, casting one final shimmering glow across the room as the last remnants of the fractured reality snapped back into place. The figure began to fade, slowly, as if slipping between dimensions once more. Before he was entirely gone, Vaedros' voice reached out to Tolas one final time. "Be vigilant. Your time will come sooner than you think." And with that, Vaedros disappeared, leaving Tolas alone in the room—his heart still pounding, the weight of what had just transpired settling in. The world had returned to normal, and Tolas found himself slipping into pure darkness as his body—weakened by sleep and the manifestation he experienced—collapsed into his bed. End Scene Music
Syva Aethel, Seclya
The Next Morning - 0430 Hours
Tolas awoke with a sharp gasp, his heart pounding as his alarm blared, pulling him from the strange, intense dream that lingered just beyond reach. His mind swirled with the remnants of it—fractured images, an ominous figure, and one name: Vaedros. He sat up, his body tense, the dream slipping away but that name remained, etched deeply into his thoughts. With a groan, Tolas swung his legs off the bed, his tail brushing the floor as he stood, stretching. The early morning chill prickled against his scales as he made his way to the small bathroom adjacent to his quarters. The hot water of the shower helped wash away some of the lingering unease, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that what he had experienced wasn’t just a dream. That name, Vaedros, was burned into his memory, and no matter how hard he tried to push it away, it stayed. After the shower, he dried off quickly, feeling the familiar weight of duty settle in. He had a briefing soon, and there was no time to dwell on dreams—or whatever that had been. He slipped into his uniform, the well-worn fabric fitting snugly over his muscular frame, his tail flicking slightly as he adjusted the gear on his belt. One last look in the mirror—green scales, sharp eyes, and a face hardened by years of service—and he nodded to himself, pushing aside the night’s oddities. The streets of Syva Aethel were already buzzing with early morning activity as Tolas stepped out into the crisp air. He moved with purpose, making his way toward the briefing area, where soldiers of various races were already assembling. Lacertan troops, like himself, stood at attention in their neat ranks, their reptilian forms built for endurance and strength. Nearby, the slender Saahein elves were gathered, their ethereal grace and magical prowess evident in their disciplined stance. The darker-skinned Lashein, with their sharper features and watchful eyes, moved among them with quiet intensity. Tolas fell in line with his fellow Lacertans, his posture stiffening as the tension in the air thickened. This was more than just another routine briefing. He could sense it in the way the officers moved, in the undercurrent of whispers among the ranks. Something was happening—something big. His mind wandered briefly to the events of the night before. Vaedros, the High Drekamythian… The memory of that name clung to him like a shadow, though the rest of the dream was fading quickly. He wasn’t even sure it had been a dream anymore, but there was no time to dwell on it now. The commanders were gathering, preparing to address the troops. As the briefing began, discussions of rising tensions, potential mobilizations, and reports from the Silent Sea filled the courtyard. Tolas stood at attention, absorbing every word, though part of him remained distracted by the lingering presence of that name. He didn’t understand it yet, but deep down, he knew it was important—far more important than he could have realized. For now, though, he would focus on the orders at hand. Whatever came next, he had to be ready.
