Humanity is destroyed, a distant ghost of a memory in a region of the galaxy ravaged by an unimaginably destructive war. Entire planets lay wasted, but life begins to repopulate as travelers and the adventurous brave the ruined worlds. Over time these scavengers and degenerates establish settlements and what had once been is lost in the rubble sands that now cover the planet Forso...whose former name is long forgotten.
Two young aliens are living on this world, abandoned to the care of friendly strangers when their father is killed, begging them to look after his children and under no circumstances let anyone see them outside their armor.
For even though the children do not know it, they are Human, and the myth of Humanity is a bad one. They are the bringers of destruction responsible for the cataclysm that befell the planet, and even though no one knows what a Human looks like, rumors abound. With no knowledge of their heritage and only their father's last wishes to follow, Teren and Esna live a primitive life on a farm bored beyond measure and explore the wastelands in which they scratch out a living...including the buried ruins of ancient cities that lie beneath the surface. Selling what trinkets they find for extra income, they avoid the doom of their heritage through anonymity until one fateful day when it comes crashing down upon them with lethal force.
--------------
Excerpt from 'Lost Destiny':
“Donovan!” he called out, running towards him with plodding footsteps as his nose picked up the scent of burnt flesh even before he saw the hole in the chest plate of the full body armor the man wore. Whatever race he was his blood flowed a sickly red, a fact that he’d prefer to not have known as he leaned over and gripped the man’s shoulders, prying him up into a sitting position.
“What happened?”
A shaking hand rose up to the neck of his armor, fumbling for the latch that Yammar finally helped him with. The helmet cracked opened with a hiss and the Calavari helped him pull it off, revealing the pale skin beneath that had alarmingly become even more so, now nearly white.
“Gladers,” he said, wincing horribly as he half bent over. “Jumped me from behind. I got two of them, but the third…”
“Where’s the latch for the chest piece?” Yammar asked, pulling back the cloak that covered most of the hard plates as he looked, but the man took a death grip on his lower arm and locked eyes with him.
“My children. In the ship. You have to…please. I’m all they’ve got. They’re dead without you.”
“Where’s the latch?” he repeated, searching around with his other three hands and finally finding something that looked promising. He pressed and turned the small button, being rewarded with another hiss as a crack formed along the side beneath the man’s left arm, but suddenly that arm went straight to Yammar’s giant head and gripped it tightly, forcing him to look into the dying man’s eyes.
“Promise me. Promise me…” he said, wincing again.
“I don’t know anything about your race,” Yammar said, feeling helpless.
“Good…” the man spat in a cough but no blood came out of his mouth, though it was continuing to pour out of his chest and seep down over his waistband plates in spurts every time he jerked in pain. “Good. Don’t ask questions…just…make sure they wear armor…in public. Promise me.”
“I promise. I promise,” Yammar repeated quickly, then the death grip on his arm and head relaxed and the Calavari was able to pull the torso armor completely off, seeing the hole in the man’s abdomen when the blood-soaked, charred clothing lined up. It was a lachar blast, pure and simple, and one delivered at fairly close range by the looks of it. Probably several to get through that armor, but the last one must have hit with nearly full force. He didn’t know how his friend had survived this long, but then again he had no idea what internal organs he had or even where they were located.
“Keep them safe…” Donovan said, eyes flickering. “Keep them…aw
Two young aliens are living on this world, abandoned to the care of friendly strangers when their father is killed, begging them to look after his children and under no circumstances let anyone see them outside their armor.
For even though the children do not know it, they are Human, and the myth of Humanity is a bad one. They are the bringers of destruction responsible for the cataclysm that befell the planet, and even though no one knows what a Human looks like, rumors abound. With no knowledge of their heritage and only their father's last wishes to follow, Teren and Esna live a primitive life on a farm bored beyond measure and explore the wastelands in which they scratch out a living...including the buried ruins of ancient cities that lie beneath the surface. Selling what trinkets they find for extra income, they avoid the doom of their heritage through anonymity until one fateful day when it comes crashing down upon them with lethal force.
--------------
Excerpt from 'Lost Destiny':
“Donovan!” he called out, running towards him with plodding footsteps as his nose picked up the scent of burnt flesh even before he saw the hole in the chest plate of the full body armor the man wore. Whatever race he was his blood flowed a sickly red, a fact that he’d prefer to not have known as he leaned over and gripped the man’s shoulders, prying him up into a sitting position.
“What happened?”
A shaking hand rose up to the neck of his armor, fumbling for the latch that Yammar finally helped him with. The helmet cracked opened with a hiss and the Calavari helped him pull it off, revealing the pale skin beneath that had alarmingly become even more so, now nearly white.
“Gladers,” he said, wincing horribly as he half bent over. “Jumped me from behind. I got two of them, but the third…”
“Where’s the latch for the chest piece?” Yammar asked, pulling back the cloak that covered most of the hard plates as he looked, but the man took a death grip on his lower arm and locked eyes with him.
“My children. In the ship. You have to…please. I’m all they’ve got. They’re dead without you.”
“Where’s the latch?” he repeated, searching around with his other three hands and finally finding something that looked promising. He pressed and turned the small button, being rewarded with another hiss as a crack formed along the side beneath the man’s left arm, but suddenly that arm went straight to Yammar’s giant head and gripped it tightly, forcing him to look into the dying man’s eyes.
“Promise me. Promise me…” he said, wincing again.
“I don’t know anything about your race,” Yammar said, feeling helpless.
“Good…” the man spat in a cough but no blood came out of his mouth, though it was continuing to pour out of his chest and seep down over his waistband plates in spurts every time he jerked in pain. “Good. Don’t ask questions…just…make sure they wear armor…in public. Promise me.”
“I promise. I promise,” Yammar repeated quickly, then the death grip on his arm and head relaxed and the Calavari was able to pull the torso armor completely off, seeing the hole in the man’s abdomen when the blood-soaked, charred clothing lined up. It was a lachar blast, pure and simple, and one delivered at fairly close range by the looks of it. Probably several to get through that armor, but the last one must have hit with nearly full force. He didn’t know how his friend had survived this long, but then again he had no idea what internal organs he had or even where they were located.
“Keep them safe…” Donovan said, eyes flickering. “Keep them…aw
