Minos…

Minos is my name…

Others call me by a much longer name….

But I find it troublesome….

I like being called Minos….

Its simple….

Like me…….

Weaving gracefully through sky-high corridors of sharp purple leaves Minos gracefully pranced around untouched as he made his way to his desired destination.

Etherial hands of black grass made way for his passage, as purple leaves bowed in presence.

Lead by an invisible tether the bull made haste, as it knew it would soon come into contact with conflict.

Yet even while moving with haste, Minos the Minotaur of Silver and Gold maintained a strict decorum and grace.

For although he was on the way to smash bugs into a bloody paste, there was always a need for a bull to keep face.

Unlike many of his brethren, Minos viewed himself as a refined Minotaur with elegant taste.

A trickle down from the one who had created him perhaps, but when blessed with a body of chiseled marble, it was only natural for Minos to keep an aesthetic grace.

Simple as his mind might have been, the views of Minos the Minatuar of Silver and Gold were quite refined for his race.

And so, taking a few moments here and there to enjoy the sweet smell of eldritch flowers, Minos pranced towards those who would defile his domain with great haste.

For if there was one thing that a Minatuour was good at, it was putting intruders in their place.

---------------------------------

The broodlings of Sar-Narkaleptof had not seen much in their few days of existence.

Dark caverns adorned by lakes of inky blackness and the whispers of space were all they had ever known.

Although that wasn't to say they were soft in any way.

The soft malleable shells of their brief childhood had long been hammered away. The soft thoughts of a mother's love had long been snatched from their hearts. The idea of a soft easy life had long ago been snatched from the tips of their sythes.

The Hive had no use for softness, instead, preferring harsh ridged angles.

With Sar-Narkaleptof being the exception, most Hive matriarchs would revel in bladelike architecture. Adorning their inky black throne pools in thousands of thin flowerlike blades.

Perhaps it was a natural reaction, in an attempt to distance themselves from their weakest moments directly after birth. Perhaps it was a strange fascination that had just managed to spread throughout the Hive, growing in prominence as the years went by. Or maybe, just maybe, it was some sort of strange posturing, in an attempt to make themselves out to be stronger than they really were.

The reason for it all had soon lost all meaning. Because by the time the Hive had spread their song to the far reaches of the Universe, the razor-thin blades that they so adored had become cemented in their culture. Never to be forgton. Never to be replaced.

The Hive despised anything that wasn't sharp. Especially if it was soft. They were all once soft. They didn't like that.

And so from the moment these brooding had risen from the depths of inky black pools, they had been forced to fight for their life.

Forced to gain sharpness.

Forced to abandon their softness.

Forced to learn the songs of strength.

Against each other, and against the cruel unforgiving nature of space, these broodlings battled.

All for the sake of sharpness. All for the sake of hardening their chitin.

And now once again they were cast into a strange and hostile environment.

All in the pursuit of becoming sharper. Of becoming stronger.

And it was working.

As the broodlings desperately crawled against a raging storm of oppressive pollen and whiplike grace, they grew.

Only encouraged by the sharp-pointed leaves that surrounded them, the broodlings charged forward. Hardening and gaining experience as they went.

And soon. Quite quickly indeed. The voice of the system spoke to them.

Offering strength the likes of which the broodlings had never wielded as a reward for their agony as it had done many times before.

The broodlings couldn't help but accept.

It was all in the name of getting sharper. Getting Stronger. Growing faster.

And perhaps....

Just maybe.....

If they did grow stronger...

If they did grow sharper...

They might eventually.....

Fleetingly...

Possibly...

Earn a small fragment of their mother's affection.

The affection of Sar Narkaleptov the seventh daughter of Savaroth, conqueror of stars.