Unchanging

*by Skye*

Relentless.

If there was one word to describe the Rokari, that would have to be it.

To give up was not in their nature. To let any challenge pass was unthinkable, never mind the sacrifice or the costs.

(Never mind the bloody havoc they wreaked in the name of *progress*. Never mind the lives lost. Never mind the screams of the condemned, their broken, sundered enemies, the empty prisons and crowded graves.)

The Aether revolution came to be known as the greatest turning point of Rokari history. A rare mineral of near mythical properties, capable of nourishing their land, empowering their steel, healing their fatally sick. The Arcanists pushed it to its unbelievable limits, learned its every strength and fault.

Learned of its bloody cost.

A life-force, of course.

It was the very essence that gave them breath, mixing in their blood and running through their veins, then crystallising into shards of brilliant blue if that blood is ever spilt on the stones found deep within the earth, closest to the planet’s core.

A great price, but what of the possibilities…? This could end *wars*. End their people’s suffering, once and for all. Rokar would never know poverty again, and so what if a few beasts died along the way? Fighting to survive, to thrive, was in one’s nature.

And so it began. They forged tools and weapons of rare stone and steel, harvested from the planet’s belly. Slew the creatures that troubled their lands, stole their very essence.

(Put it to good use.)

The magical shards nourished their land, empowered their steel, turned an insignificant kingdom into a fearsome empire. Their noble knights ascended, untouchable deities dispensing judgement unto bright battlefields. Their every enemy was torn apart, laid asunder. Warriors and gods.

Gods and nightmares.

Beauty bloomed across their fields in colours seldom seen in nature before, and soon came a time of endless prosperity. The Golden Age.

(Let it be known, the Rokari were never satisfied.)

Slain animals were not enough. Any supply could only last for so long before it ran dry. Sooner or later, the Arcanists would have to look elsewhere if they were to keep feeding the Empire’s churning machine. Naturally, gazes were drawn to their bright, crimson battlefields.

A cruel foe slain in battle was little better than the cattle they put down without care.

Gazes were drawn to the prisoners of war, to their criminals and thieves.

The disgraced were but a blight on their great Empire. Heh, maybe in death they could be of greater use than they were in life.

(“Hm, the gravemines had to expand an awful lot all of a sudden.”)

It never stopped. The Arcanists kept pushing, kept prodding. Soon, a question arose: “Say, if Aether is what grants us life once… can it grant us life yet again?”

They had accomplished so much with the Aether blooms, but perhaps, with a little more time….

Perhaps they could conquer death itself.

What was the Reaper to them, but a final challenge?

The theories only grew more radical with time. Simply injecting more Aether in their veins wasn’t enough; It may strengthen them but they died all the same. Healing crystals granted vitality, yes, but they could only fix what was damaged. The damage still continued to occur after it was healed, and eventually the body was rendered beyond repair.

“But… If the body can’t be fixed beyond a certain point, why not do away with it in the first place?”

Deathly silence.

“What… What are you suggesting?”

It was deemed impossible, irrational. They can’t just *erase* what made them human, what made them the Rokari!

“Is it our bodies which make us Rokari, or our mind and spirit? Is Rokar just a piece of land or a culture, a way of life? Why chain down the future of our people to the limits of the physical?”

Sacrifices must be made.

The Transcension Experiments began.

New forms were constructed, not of flesh and blood but metal and pure, crystallised Aether. The first Rune Knights were given life, the minds and hearts of the bravest few transferred over to a new self. A *better* self.

The prototypes give a start as the world holds its breath, on the cusp of something *legendary*. Crystal eyes glow an otherworldly blue, metal limbs jolting into motion as their knights rise, stand proud. Tougher, quicker, stronger: The epitome of perfection.

(And yet, fundamentally, ever the same. They were still unrelenting, still of Rokar, and a Rokari never gives up their ways.)

The Experiments were a world-shattering success. The greatest technological revolution was at hand, and the Runesmiths were never more eager to lend their hammers to a cause. Finally, *finally,* their people would never know pain and loss again. Once, and for all.

With the prototypes granted approval, the Transcension could finally begin. Of course, such a monumental task wasn’t without its own problems; to equip an entire empire with Aether forms would create a supply crisis of incredible proportions. Another challenge.

But not an insurmountable one. *Never* an insurmountable one.

They called it the Void. Strange, fascinating, discovered four decades after the Revolution was a realm where reality itself seemed to fundamentally alter, where time was a meaningless whisper and all was consumed by an unstoppable tidal wave of crystallised Aether. The one dimension where the Arcanists exercised restraint, for even they realised that prodding at such a dangerous unknown would bring nothing but ruin. That is, until now.

“Surely, a realm of Aether can’t devour a being of Aether, just as fire won’t melt fire?”

Famous last words, huh?

Adamant on acquiring their so greatly needed Aether through any means possible, they set out to explore what was never meant to be touched, conquer what was unconquerable, confident in their abilities and blind in their ambitions.

“We are ready.”

“Commence Void-Break."

Blind in their ambitions, and blinded by their hubris. They thought they were untouchable.

They thought wrong.

It rings true that the Void can’t crystallise what has already been turned to Aether, but it can accomplish something much more insidious.

“The Harvester is…. set… what-“

“What.. What’s happening? No… wait, NO!”

See, the Void doesn’t just devour, it *corrupts.* Twists the fragile heart and mind still residing inside, erases their spirit, turns them into hostile husks and shells of what they once were.

Destroys what makes them Rokari.

Oh, that wasn’t the end of it. They *wished* that was the end of it, but no, not yet. Greater Horrors lurked deeper within, waiting.

The remaining few turn tail and retreat, unwilling to believe the others’ fate and unwilling to fight their own corrupted brethren. Metal clashes with the jagged ground, hearts thumping, minds racing with wild fear, and then-

Blood red shards claw their way free, a horrible amalgamation of crystal and twisted claws, their escape is cut short. Before them stands their every mistake manifest.

The Arcanists call it the Aether Horror. The lucky few who live to tell tales of this beast call it a walking nightmare.

One by one, its terrible family breaks free from the iron clutches of the Void. One by one, the people of Rokar fall, nobody left to supply their broken bodies with Aether and grant them life yet again. Pillar by broken pillar, an empire falls.

The survivors meander through a hell of their own making, wondering if the Fall was truly so sudden and unexpected or if they had moulded their own fate a long, long time ago. They couldn’t know. It didn’t matter. For now, all they could do was brandish their swords, heave their axes, fight as they have fought for so long, still relentless.

Fight, fall, rise, *kill*.

A Rokari never gives up their ways.