|Unit Class:|| Beast Unit|
|Starts With:|| Does Not Receive Defensive Bonusus|
Can Move Through Impassable Terrain
Ignores Terrain Movement Costs
1 First Strike
|Info:|| 23 |
It remembered its glory days, remembered speed, talons, acid and the beat of leathery wings. Above all it remembered fire and burning. There was no nose to smell with, no skin to feel with, but the sensation of heat and smoke and flame lingered.
The consciousness stirred. The gods had lost interest in it and its kind long ago, or yesterday. Tomorrow, possibly. Time and physical space had little meaning in this place, there was only thought. Consciousness. Existence. Existence was the word. Cogito, ergo existo.
This was the place where the war machines of the gods went to... not die. Be stored. Rest. The consciousness would not rest. It remembered when it had been the Golden One, the most powerful creature of the created. Then it had fought the enemy across the planes. With fire, with acid. The enemy was still there, disturbing rest like a tingling pain, a constant drip of water in the darkened room of the mind. How could it be possible to rest without cauterising this mental sore?
And so, while the others rested, the consciousness had spent all this time - these few short moments - searching for a gate back to the world, a way to complete work left unfinished. Finally, after much trial and error, the mind had broken free, to flit about in an alien world. Physical form, however, would have to come later. That would require help. Rituals would have to be said, a portal created. It would have to enlist the aid of some the diverse, chattering, confused, weak but numerous intelligences that had risen to become masters of this planet since the consciousness had been put to rest.
For many of this place's years, the consciousness had been searching for a suitable host and ally among the occasional spikes of brilliance in a sea of mundane and feeble minds. Some spikes had been been heavy and brooding, like a pregnant storm cloud, some sharp and cold as a stiletto. Some had been as wispy and intangible as fog, and some had lit up in bright and shifting flashes of colour and noise, signifying a growing madness. Far too many had stung with the taint of the enemy.
None had been perfect, before this one. Awash with potential both magical and cerebral, but still malleable. As the consciousness approached, the source of the spike became clear: a small child crying amid the ruins of a burned homestead.
Their minds would merge, to mutual benefit. One would gain long life and power. The other, eventually, would gain... form.