- Jun 15, 2015
Terrestrial Homeworld of the Hissma
First Rotation, 2200 N.D (Natural Date)
"Stand Maggrot, if you can," the Whisperer groaned, the leafy wisps of fleshy exterior crawling up from around the Elder's neck had long curled and greyed, but the lithe form of the fungoid was half hidden beneath a tight fitting grey slattis, a long lipped fiber pulled from the great Nestor plants, that served as ceremonial gown for all Whisperers. Surrounding the Emperor were several Suramo servants, hunched by centuries of servitude with protruding shellbacks pockmarked by decades of abuse. The Emperor extended an appendage, a dozen more smaller flagella like appendages slithered free from a cornhusk like sheath and wrapped around the extended arm of Mes-Toh, the nearest Suramo servant. The servant backpedaled slowly, pulling the Emperor of the Dominion to a sitting position.
"I wish not your final breath to come here, in this decadent pit," the Whisperer added, his quartet of eyes turning to the great Viewpanel, from where optical sensors on the outer wall transmitted the image of the toxic atmosphere outside into a benign but ever shifting picture. "We must return to the Capital, from whence you came."
"No, no," Maggrot coughed, whiffs of particulate puffing from his gasping maw. "I am too weak." The Suramo backpedaled further, nearly yanking the Emperor from the cot. The Whisperer raised his arm and slashed downward, a wicked many appendages appeared and struck the Suramo's great shell. The servant released the Emperor and quite literally retracted backward, half his reptilian countenance disappearing inside his shell in a mixture of shame and embarrassment.
Megnor, Imperial Retreat of the Hissma Emperor
"He is called, my liege. He will be here with another rotation."
"Did I serve well?"
"It matters not,--"
"It matters to me."
The Emperor craned his neck to the Viewpanel, his last great view. "I united them. All of them. The subservient as well. I formed--" cough, cough, "--the Dominion itself, without gnashing or ripping or fire. They are watched over but now there are no more worlds to conquer."
"Then perhaps it is fitting this is your end," the Whisperer cooed, and the Emperor did not respond. His eyes had gone soft, the epidermis--long having greyed and shriveled from too much light--had started to blacken around his neck. The puffs of sickly green had dissipated, left to remnants on the soft Nestor plant pillow that held his head. One of the Suramo's entered back into the room and started to garble a response but the Whisperer raised his hand and waved him off. "What an end it was."
The removal of the Emperor's body was a delicate process, one of which the Suramo's were unfit for. Instead, Hissma Phalloides Guard were called in, their slender frames encased in grey breathing suits with respirators to expunge the natural bodily processes of Hissma anatomy in a practical and efficient manner. A dozen assembled in the room, with the Whisperer watching on, as they carefully lifted Maggrot's body onto a soft carrier made of Nestor. Once settled, they draped the great leaves over him and each of the Phalloides guards lifted one of the edges of the leaves beneath him. The Whispered followed behind, with Suramo wobbling into the room to begin the cleaning process.
The Beggoteem-Ku was a one of a kind ship, specifically designed to transport the remains of the Emperor. Crewed by four and without armaments, the appearance of the Begooteem-Ku was a somber sight as it crossed over the Hissma villages overhead and sprinted toward the capital. Especially concerning was it's approach by Daggagom, the sole spore of Maggrot and his heir. The Whisperer behind Daggagom, much younger and his epidermis much greener than the counterpart of Maggrot, leaned in to instruct the young Daggagom. "It appears your time has now come, Emperor."
The Hissma Dominion, 2200 N.D.