24From the perspective of other galactic powers, the Krogan Empire—with its monarchist ideals and martial prowess—is often labeled as primitive. However, the Krogan themselves don't take offense at this characterization. In fact, they see it as an advantage, allowing them to be underestimated and granting them more freedom.
The empire's structure was shaped by the Krogan's historical tribal customs. This means that individuals aspiring to become king must demonstrate exceptional strength, intelligence, and might to ascend to the throne. The kingly title is not easily given. Its power is coveted by many; for many, a challenger would graciously challenge the king to earn the right to call themselves said king.
To thrive in this world, individuals must wield strength, diplomatic acumen, social finesse, and unwavering loyalty to their people. Such qualities define a true king—the ruler of the people!
In the Krogan Empire, the reigning monarch bears the title of High Supreme, often simply referred to as 'Supreme'. Said Surpreme is currently in his lavishly adorned quarters, where his attendees skillfully prepare extravagant meals, delicately massage his bare shoulders, and meticulously maintain the cleanliness of his chambers. Guards, loyal to him alone, stand outside, awaiting orders from his mouth. Near his throne, female Krogans—slender and graceful—sway to an ancient rhythm, their melodious voices weaving beautiful songs that caress his ears.
Startled by the cacophony echoing down the corridors, he grumbled, thoroughly annoyed that his peaceful resting had been disturbed. The doors burst open with a resounding crash; the guards powerless to prevent the intrusion of unwelcome visitors. Fools, he thought disdainfully, incapable of halting even a mere messenger's entrance. What good would they do if they were actually enemies? Nothing; that is what he thinks. Sighing, he dismissed his masseurs. He rises gracefully, his luxurious robes carefully draped over him by his attentive attendees.
"Why have you disrupted my rest?" he says, his voice tinged with evident annoyance. As his voice resonates, the messengers bow deeply, the echoes of their armor reverberating through the chamber.
"Sir! I am sorry to disturb you, but i have come with news." The messenger's voice rang out, both loud and respectful. The king gestured to him to continue. "Overlord kerdak has sent word that your vassals' fleets are in position, awaiting your order." The messenger continued, proceeding to stand as he spoke. "This is not news messenger," the king spoke roughly, his tone filled with irritation. "My spies have told me the things you speak of." The king continued. Descending the stairs, the king confronted the messenger, his eyes squinting in concentration as if searching for something amiss.
"If i am correct, you are Count Grould's son, yes?" The king asked. The messenger, surprised by the king's unexpected question, gasped in astonishment. Whispers, barely heard over the messenger's gasp, erupted from the female krogan. It is of no surprise, Groulds spawn are coveted for their extreme wealth and tendency to be of extreme beauty.
Anticipating the king's impatience, the messenger hurriedly spoke up, not wanting to keep the monarch waiting any longer. "Yes sir, I am." The king found it intriguing and pondered further on the matter. Why would Grould place his son as a lowly messenger to the king? Was that not for servants, or other lowly positions? Surely not for an heir?
"Tell your father the invasion will begin shortly, the council will no doubt be mobilizing, it is best to be quick and catch them while they are weak." The king said, his arms casually falling to rest behind his back. Pacing back and forth for a brief moment, the king wondered, not for the first time, is this the right thing to do? He of course understands that they are not at fault, they needed living space, and the only place that is currently available is and was Lusia. It was a world within the terminus, the assumption that there would be no trouble—just the usual casual pirates and raiders—proved to be incorrect. The council, in fact, was quite furious.
Surrendering was out of the question; it would only tarnish his image. A king must never appear weak. These vulnerabilities could be exploited by rivals or opportunistic enemies seeking to attack the king during a moment of weakness. The king is determined to fulfill his duty by guiding his people to victory, a responsibility he will execute with utmost determination.
...
Primarch Selendus the first of his name, was a primarch of little renown. Describing him as quiet, meek, and lacking in assertiveness. Selendus was often dismissed as more of a babe than a man, perpetually squeaking in fear at the slightest of provocations. His peers grappled with the strangeness of his thoughts; if they could truly understand, fear would surely consume them.
Yet Selendus stood apart—the first Turian to master the art of preserving and storing memories within the recesses of his mind.
Now, skeptics questioned this remarkable ability, wondering how such a seemingly meek young boy could possess such power? Well, it is simple; he did, and that is that. They accepted it as it was, believing him at face value. These are the qualities that the Council of Primarchs appreciates in Selendus, his knack for effortlessly persuading others to accept his words without question.
Given the council's favor, it comes as no surprise that he ascended to the position of primarch swiftly. Despite being affiliated with different political parties, his colleagues show a willingness to cooperate with him.
They listen to his thoughts and ideas when he proposes resolutions to the council. It is of no consequence really; the council always gets things done, for they are nothing more than the people's puppets.
As Selendus strolled through the corridors of Akira station, its unparalleled beauty captivated him. The walls displayed images of pivotal historical moments, including a depiction of a grassland-covered planet with scattered mountain ranges—a snapshot of the world known as "Hablim." This planet's fall during the Second Unification Wars marked a significant milestone in Turian history. So, it had a right to be placed upon Akira station.
Selendus's thoughts shattered as a voice intruded, prompting him to leap back and emit an undignified squeak. "Captivated, are you?" The voice, with a sultry and feminine allure, teased him mercilessly "Pamala do not scare me like that. You almost gave me a heart attack." Selendus squeaked out, adjusting his dirtied formal attire, hands fidgeting nervously. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he confessed, "And yes, they are quite captivating." His swooning tone betrayed his fascination. "Anyway, Pamala, what brings you here? I thought you had business with the collective." As he resumed walking, Selendus kept his curiosity in check.
Pamala, struggling to keep pace, caught up with Selendus and grasped his shoulder to slow him down. "Perhaps you should work on your exercise routine, Pamala," Selendus quipped mockingly. "Rude, but anyway, regarding your earlier question, I didn't fare well. I was rejected even before I could set foot in their territory, the bastards" she confessed, her cheeks flushed, and mandibles trembled with frustration.
Selendus hummed in acknowledgment, his formal robes swaying in the wind as he walked. They continued until their destination came into view: double doors adorned with carvings depicting epic battles, their navy blue Metalica paint visible within the carved sketches. Guards who recognized Selendus nodded and proceeded to open the doors, revealing blinding bright lights beyond. "Well, this is where we part ways, Pamala," he said, smiling and bowing slightly in respect toward the people inside the room. "Yes, of course. I'll see you soon," she replied, also offering a respectful bow before swiftly departing.
"You are late" A deep, rugged voice resonated from within the room, its tone akin to a disgruntled child. "My apologies, I was distracted" Selendus replied, causing the people in front of him to frown. "Selendus, as a primarch, indulging in such lowly physical distractions is beneath you," the voice continued, glancing toward the departing female. Selendus, cheeks flushed and heart pounding, quickly clarified, "No, no. I wasn't distracted by her. It was the beautiful paintings and photos in the hallways."
Before the voice could retort, another interrupted. "Can we get down to business?" The other voice interjected. "Oh, yes, of course, Arieon. Interrupt me why don't you," the first voice grumbled. Arieon, now identified, retorted, "Oh, hush. Selendus, come, sit."
Selendus complied, moving toward the chair where Arieon indicated he should sit. These men were familiar to him; years of collaboration had forged that bond. The childlike figure was Brutin, while the other—distinct from the Arieon who initiated meetings with the Zerg—was the Arieon present now.
Brutin's voice dripped with annoyance as he spoke. "The bastards on Tartarus are on the move once again," he said. "My spies tell me that the old shrew has dispatched someone to find the brothers." His arms rested casually on the table, fingers tapping rhythmically. Arieon's voice held a threatening edge as he grumbled, "The ones we released not long ago—the ones meant to be in your custody?" He continued, "You were entrusted with their protection, you fool!" Arieon struggled to contain his frustration.
Brutin's patience waned, and he was on the verge of blurting out a retort when Selendus interjected. "Patience," Selendus said, feigning casualness, his mandibles trembling with concealed fear. "This situation could work to our advantage. Why not allow them to find the brothers while we patiently await their return? Then, we can claim them for ourselves."
"Selendus, that plan demands time—time I frankly don't possess. My acceptance ratings are lower than they should be, and I anticipate being replaced by year's end," Arieon replied, sighing. He glanced at Brutin, annoyance etching his features. "Could you please cease that incessant tapping?" Arieon gestured toward Brutin's restless fingers on the table's surface.
Brutin's smirk widened, and he persisted in tapping his fingers against the table's surface.
...
In a dimly lit room, three adult Salarians sit around a circular table, their faces concealed by masks. One of them speaks with unwavering conviction: "Victory is assured."