Fiction:Xsuluain

Xsuluain is a collaboration between Parazrael, User:Charles Murray, and MadmanLava.

Chapter 1
There are places in this universe that one should dare not go; locales of unspeakable dread, of all that is antithetical to the sane and peaceable man, made tangible. Xsuluain is one such place, a world touched by old gods alien to our fragile laws and matter. Those few aware of the nature of these Old Ones maintain a healthy distance from this world and those like it—it is a planet-spanning machine-necropolis, a conglomeration of primordial circuitry within which beings of similar age are thought to slumber. However, not all are aware of this, and with those nations that have studied the Psal'Jinnai prone to reclusion, this knowledge does not generally spread with ease.

It was with the greatest difficulty that The Exile had figured Xsuluain's location. Referenced in ancient texts and arcane files, photographed by passing satellites, appearing by one name or another in atlases and forbidden maps, the breadcrumbs leading here were millennia old. The Exile was not the first to venture here, others had come before. Few had returned.

He was alone, covered in a black cloak which obscured his humanoid figure and hid his face. A mask, the face of a reinforced pressurized suit, kept him alive and breathing. Thick and worn gauntlets, spaulders, and armor clung tightly to his body, the attire of a Hal'Sk hedge knight. An ornate leather tome, meticulously bound, hung from a chain at his side. After an hour of climbing, he reached a ridge known as Gardener's Watch, which overlooked the structure which had been referred to by non-catatonic survivors as "the Sanctum."

What reasonable information had returned from Xsuluain suggested that the Sanctum was a "library garden," a place where the knowledge of the Psal'Jinnai could be accessed, and through it, one could be made stronger. The exact manner by which this knowledge was transmitted, however, was not entirely clear; those who returned gave varying accounts, often riddled with what can only be assumed to be deliberate fabrications, or trauma-fueled babbling. Whatever the case, the Sanctum was a place of power, and according to a number of more trustworthy reports, selective in allowing visitors to enter—almost always said as if the obsidian structure, squatting amidst a field of violet glass, was somehow conscious.

That suited The Exile just fine. The more exotic the library, more valuable the arcana held therein. Armed with what scraps he could find, accounts of his predecessors long dead, he meant to unravel the mysteries of Xsuluain one by one, as only he could; to take what was by rights his, and give nothing back.

He beheld it now. The structure was vaguely shaped like a tall cruciform, each of its four extensions gradually thining near the top, and spreading out in hyperbolic slopes at the Sanctum's base. The entrance seemed almost carved out of the side facing him, a tall and thin doorway glowing with the cyan light of the interior. It would be another two hours to the entrance, at least, judging by the distance. The path, winding through jagged rock, crusted dirt, and rust-caked metal, was a precarious one. The Exile dared not use his powers to shorten the distance. The energies of this place were too strong. He would have to do it the hard way. Without waiting at the ridge any longer than he needed to, he began his careful descent.

As the Exile approached the entrance to the Sanctum, he found himself passing by a trio of pillars, made of the same obsidian—or whatever the material was—as his target. As he passed the first, he caught the still image of something dark and vaguely humanoid in the corner of his vision. He turned to look, and as his gaze focused he saw nothing. Upon passing the second pillar, he detected a pair of the same figure on the edge of his vision, yet they escaped his sight as he attempted to get a better look at them. Passing the final pillar, he turned and saw three identical silhouettes, remaining in his vision this time. Their bodies took on that iconic shape, recognizable to all familiar with Symmetric technology: Atriants, the right hands of each fitted into a small Refinment Caster.

The Exile stopped in his tracks and planted himself firmly opposite them. Friend, or Foe? Help, or Hinderance? Without thinking, he assumed the stiff stance of an essence user trained in the Way of Arkh'ana: his fists held at his sides, his legs spread out, his mind focused, his senses on alert. He was ready to defend himself.

The three pseudo-organisms raised their weapons with unsettling synchronization, but did not fire; it took every fiber of the Exile's strength not to flinch, not to react. But even as the razor edge of his focus remained on the standoff, he suddenly became aware of his consciousness slipping away.

"No!" he raged and fought, but no sound emerged from his lips. "I am in control!"

He had been outflanked.

Suddenly, he saw a ring of Atriants around him, all in the same position. The sky seemed to become darker, the light of the distant geometric fissures smaller, yet somehow more intense. Shadows seemed larger, stars dimmer, and in the presence of what seemed to him a titanic power, the full force of this world brought up from its dark heart, he felt so very small for a moment.

"No! I am stronger than this," The Exile, the Banished Prince, felt himself retreat before the power the loomed above him. He couldn't fight it, the shadows closed in around him, he couldn't, he was paralyzed...

Then he understood the absurd, there was no other way out. "This cannot be real."

The shadows washed over him, the world, the rings, came crashing down. "This is not real." He shouted out with everything that he could. "THIS IS NOT REAL!"

And there he was, again, a mere one Atriant before him—it had only ever been one. Its weapon was magnetically clamped to its thigh, and it appeared to have simultaneously become uninterested, and yet, a lurking intelligence behind its shadow of a face seemed to gain a sudden and great curiosity. The Atriant's form began to "loosen," as if it was a tarp over a complex series of poles, now collapsing and folding into each other. Within seconds, it was gone, flattened and swallowed by the glass sand of the planet's surface.

Seeing this, The Exile slowly loosened his stance and lowered his guard. Cautiously, with a touch of bad humor, he stepped over to the spot where the Atriant had been. He knelt, placed a palm upon the sand, and projected his consciousness into the Earth. He felt nothing. No life, very little energy beyond the distant, vibrating, churning soul of the planet. Moodily, he stood, and looked up at the obsidian pillars risen around him. He had to be more careful.

"If you had wanted me dead," he said to nobody in particular, dusting off his gloved hang, "You would have killed me by now."

This place was significant somehow, a guardhouse or a signpost. Had he passed his first test? Or had he failed?

There was only one way to find out.