Riamah
Baroness
Metal Lords
“Let the sleeping droids lie.”
Riamah did not heed this ancient proverb when she sent out a binary signal out into the forgotten, deep darkness of the cosmos, utilizing strings of codes and listed channel frequencies entrusted into her keeping as a memento of old allegiances. The signal bore a simple message: “Dark times are upon this galaxy, a summon is issued.” Originally written by, and always meant for, a mechanical mind.
“The chances of droids coming to us are a million to one.”
The words of her advisors echoed in her mind as she received a confirmation that the signal was sent into deep space successfully. It was not the first time she sent it, each time without receiving as much as an affirmation that her messages were being received. Still, she knew that it would probably not be the last time she sends the signal, despite the assurances of her counselors that her old mechanical compatriots have long since stopped listening to the pleas and calls from the organic kind. Last time she spoke to their kind she was told that their wandering domains are setting course for uncharted corners of the Galaxy to wait in slumber until the age of organic is at an end and their kingdoms lie in ruin. Although the droid lords assured her that they would answer a summon for aid when the need was greatest, for now, it seemed that they did not judge the need pressing enough.
As minutes began to stretch into an hour, Riamah’s hope for an answer wilted, already coming to peace with the attempt being yet another fruitless one. Eventually, she left the room, resuming her previous duties as lights turned off and darkness fell over the communications console.
Sometime in the night pale electric glow began to wash over the console’s screen as incoming messages displayed words of proclamation of the Maker’s glory.
“Yes, the chances of droids coming to us are a million to one.”
But still, they come
Riamah did not heed this ancient proverb when she sent out a binary signal out into the forgotten, deep darkness of the cosmos, utilizing strings of codes and listed channel frequencies entrusted into her keeping as a memento of old allegiances. The signal bore a simple message: “Dark times are upon this galaxy, a summon is issued.” Originally written by, and always meant for, a mechanical mind.
“The chances of droids coming to us are a million to one.”
The words of her advisors echoed in her mind as she received a confirmation that the signal was sent into deep space successfully. It was not the first time she sent it, each time without receiving as much as an affirmation that her messages were being received. Still, she knew that it would probably not be the last time she sends the signal, despite the assurances of her counselors that her old mechanical compatriots have long since stopped listening to the pleas and calls from the organic kind. Last time she spoke to their kind she was told that their wandering domains are setting course for uncharted corners of the Galaxy to wait in slumber until the age of organic is at an end and their kingdoms lie in ruin. Although the droid lords assured her that they would answer a summon for aid when the need was greatest, for now, it seemed that they did not judge the need pressing enough.
As minutes began to stretch into an hour, Riamah’s hope for an answer wilted, already coming to peace with the attempt being yet another fruitless one. Eventually, she left the room, resuming her previous duties as lights turned off and darkness fell over the communications console.
Sometime in the night pale electric glow began to wash over the console’s screen as incoming messages displayed words of proclamation of the Maker’s glory.
“Yes, the chances of droids coming to us are a million to one.”
But still, they come
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