Xeno Core

It begins with a high-pitched squeal. A slow, rythmic thwacking noise joins in. Finally, a deep burbling noise thrums steadily along, rising and lowering.

The humongous blubbery creature then closes the larger mouth in its torso and the burble cuts off. It continues squealing as the creatures around it charge at Bruen and his soldiers. It's many arms are covered in tribal fetishes, bunches of feathers and painted skulls glowing with strong enchantments that cast green glimmers across its rubbery tattooed flesh. Bone hoops pierce the creature's gills in five places and the scale covered head of some dead predator rests on one massive shoulder, serving to hold the hides it dresses in together.

The chieftain of this sect, one of the few creatures you can always expect to find at the core of a tribal group, towers over its underlings. Every large group has one, commanding hundreds of tribals across huge areas. This one is larger than any Bruen has seen before, and it stands between his small squad and the portal. With it are over twenty assorted tribals clutching chipped stone knives and heavy clubs.

Behind Bruen are Mos Gol and three tired soldiers. Fierce fighting can be heard from the tunnel behind them, but they don't let it distract them. They form a tight cluster around Gol, enchanted spears readied against their charging foes.

Only twelve ubits across, the number that can approach at once is limited by the width of the tunnel. Savage ferocity pits itself against superior discipline, gear, and training. Bruen's squad stands just inside the tunnel, only a spear thrust from the open chamber beyond.

Claws of chitin and keratin, whip-like tentacle limbs, and even biochemical attacks from a dozen species assaults the squad. The uncoordinated scrambling of the simple minded tribals is met by teamwork led by two halves of the same whole. Gol and Bruen direct the soldiers, using their upper tendrils to signal openings or threats while taking advantage of their stronger, and longer, lower tendrils for both offense and defense.

Covering for each other with practiced precision, the longer reach and better quality of their weapons allows Bruen and his team to fight a larger number and still expect to win. They slowly give ground, and the number of their foes is reduced, leaving only bloody corpses in the gradually widening tunnel.

Blood paints the walls in contrasting shades before the fury of the tribals is spent in vain; a pile of butchered corpses litters the stone floor. Scaled limbs, patches of fur and feathers. Beaked faces rest next to the mandibles of chilling bodies, expressions of dumb rage still fixing the alien features.

When the chief waddles into battle, they expect to take it down as easily as its tribemates. When it bats aside their weapons with its many arms, they begin to worry. When it grabs one of the soldiers and begins stuffing her into its gaping mouth they panic.

The chieftain batters the thorax of the soldier with its clublike arms, its victim stabbing it the whole time with a captured stone dagger. Her cuts fail to get past the thick hide of the creature, leaving only superficial wounds. Her struggles grow weaker as blood leaks from her and down the body of her captor.

Unwilling to watch another brave soldier die in front of him, Bruen lunges forward, his spear aimed for the flapping gills along the monstrous thing's thick neck. As the warded metal head of his magitech spear makes contact and begins to slide off the beast's flesh, Bruen activates a string of runes carved into the haft of the weapon.

The light is searing, and his tendrils slip through previously solid matter, grip closing painfully on nothing. Matter that had had the energy holding it together violently redirected into the massive chieftain. Heat and light become all of his awareness. The shockwave sends him sprawling. Nerves overloading from the blast send synesthesia-like sensations of green-cold colored sound through his sensitive upper tendrils and pedipalps. He lands in a crumpled heap on the blood-soaked ground.

Battered and covered in painful burns, Bruen drags himself from the smoldering crater with tendrils and motive tendrils shortened by the intense blaze. All that remains where his foe once stood are carbonized chunks of smoking flesh. He collapses once back onto stone that doesn't glow yellow with heat. The stink of burned meat chokes the air, and his body spasms with horrible dry heaves.

Charred deeply into his chitinous armor are the runic patterns he had agreed to let Zek inscribe. Overloaded by the extreme energy of his final attack, they can no longer offer him protection from the smoldering ruin he had wrought. His insides are leaking out, taking his strength from him with each beat of his twin hearts.

Blinded and spun around by the blast, he crawls as far as he can before collapsing again. Fierce heat still washes over his trailing and twitching tentacles, but his cracked and bleeding form can go no farther. Flakes of charred chitin litter the ground around him mixing with ash from the obliterated upper half of the tribal chief that drifts in the hot air currents.

Strong tendrils close around his oozing form, dragging him further from the heat he had struggled blindly to escape.

"Get yourself over here, Somner! He's still alive," bellows a deep female voice from somewhere above him. Warm energy soon washes over him as he blacks out.

---

Finding himself once more waking up in a field tent that smells strongly of heady chemicals, Bruen pushes himself into a sitting position upon the thin cot underneath him and looks around.

A washbasin stands to one side. Next to it leans a new spear, fully charged runes adding to the ambient lighting.

Runes painted on the leather walls of the large tent provide stronger illumination, a steady blue green glow. He can hear quiet voices just beyond the worn leather, but can't make out what they're saying.

Planting his tentacles firmly under him, the young general stands upright, gasping in pain. He glides to the flaps and pulls them open, surprising those outside into silent stares.

The first to recover themself is the cocky young thaumatist. She steps forward to block his path, pointing back inside the medical tent.

"You need more healing," she states with conviction, placing an upper tendril on the flaking carapace of his thorax. She raises it to show the soot clinging to the thin layer of mucus coating it. "And a bath," she adds, her pedipalps twitching.

Shaking his head, Bruen refuses to be sent back without getting more information. "What happened? In the drills only the tip of the spear head would convert into light, nothing like that!" He coughs and thick black gunk comes up, leaving the taste of ash behind.

"One of his talismans, we think," says Mos Gol, who sports her own bandages. "We suspect that he attempted to channel the unleashed energy into his own batteries, but the unstable interference pattern that was created caused the entire spear to unravel uncontrollably."

"What about Chella? She was closer to the explosion than I was," he asks in a shaking voice.

"Alive, but only barely," answers Somner Zek bitterly. "She won't be fighting again for a while." Zek gestures vaguely to the line of small tents. "One of many I have to fix."

"She was lucky, the chief took most of the blast," Gol adds, "unlike some who should be still resting."

Bruen sags as relief washes over him, frantic energy running swiftly out. He puts up no resistance as they steer him back onto the hateful cot. A bowl of thin broth is thrust at him and he drinks resignedly. He barely registers the faint nutty flavor as he succumbs once more to merciful blackness.

Time passes quickly for the sleeping general. Brief periods of wakefulness lasting long enough only to drink more drugged soup. When at last he is judged well enough for duty he gladly grabs the spear left waiting for him by the washbasin.

Experience is also showing him that perhaps Gol had a point, however many seasons ago. Layers of cloudy brown lacquer coat his carapace, runes painted on between layers forming complex patterns.

Alerted by an aide that he was about, Mos Gol glides up to the younger general. Clasped in her tendrils are maps and battle plans.

"Done with your lazing about? Let me get you up to speed," she teases, a tactical center forming around the two as casteless soldiers set up folding tables and hanging charts.