Shepard is dead.
He has been dead for just over two years. I imagine he died panicking, thrashing in the vacuum of space as the SSV Normandy violently blew out its guts into the void. A meaningless speck in the cosmic darkness. Silently screaming, wresting with an invisible, unstoppable foe, watching helplessly as his suits precious oxygen supply escaped into the void, turning his shield against the elements into his coffin. Knowing that there was no-one and nothing to save him from the end, to forestall the inevitable.
I often wonder what – or who – he thought of, in his final moments.
As it happens, the unsettling manner of his
Isaac woke from his deep, drug-induced slumber, feeling a sharp pang of claustrophobia that made him panic for a split-second before his augmented brain became fully aware of his surroundings and situation. Cold metal surrounded him, bathed in dull amber as the standby lights above him flickered on. He sighed as the respirator mask retracted from his face, coughing as the oxygen-carrying tube slid itself out of his throat with a wet gurgle. He breathed in, tasting the stale air as the air recyclers kicked in with a low hum.
He glanced around his cocoon, his head and neck locked in position, his eyes sweeping over his arms and legs, immobile,
She ignored the pain as the telekine gripped her arms with both hands, using his mind to knit together the broken and splintered bones, and looked up at the black haired figure standing before her, illuminated by the fire in the corner. "Quickeners?"
"Thats right," he said. "Quickeners. You sound like you've never heard of them." He took the tobacco-stick from his mouth and exhaled a cloud of greasy grey smoke. He tapped his foot impatiently on the concrete of the cell. "How long you gonna take?"
"Almost done," the telekine replied, kneeling on the floor next to the female prisoner, his white gloves and tattoo on his face
Name: Kaledor Vaulkhar
Height: Six foot
Weight: Sixty kilograms
Build: Slim, lithe
Eye colour: Left eye is light green, right eye is crimson-red
Hair: Long, black,straight
Complexion: Very pale, almost white
Status: Current Patriarch of the Dark Clan (unofficial)
Drachau of Karond Kar (capital of Dark Clan)
Other: His left arm is heavily scarred after an encounter with a wild wolf-steed when he was young. As a result he keeps his left arm hidden unless in the company of close friends, such as Hauclir who, incidentally, was the one
I am your future, master of your mind,
Your God of flesh and steel, intertwined.
Machines and muscles, bound as one,
For this new era, they shall be the rising sun.
Lay down your faith, without it be free,
Sacrifice your soul, succumb to me.
Purge your body, forge it anew in fire,
Lest these flames become your funeral pyre.
The flesh is weak, it rots and dies,
The brain is full of confusion and lies.
Submit to me, and I shall see,
That you be freed from this tyranny.
Become one with the metal, pure and cold,
Soulless iron, malice you hold.
Unthinking, unswerving, flawlessly clean,
Now you have bonded, with the machine.
A Beacon in the Dark
There will be times, where light will fade,
And darkness seems to reign.
Where shadows lie in wait for you,
And all you feel is pain.
Where the sun is dead, the sky is black,
And nothing pulls you through.
Sorrow will live, love will die,
No hope for me or you.
Chaos roams free, unavoidable as death,
Ponderous, moving closer.
Doom stalks your every step,
Survival seems ever further.
Anarchy is loosed upon the world,
Darkness grows even stronger.
Without the friends that we hold dear,
We will surely falter.
Its times like this, we must be strong,
We all must stand and fight.
The faithful must be truste