The Throne of Armageddon is the leading production involving my articulated storytelling. I have completed a novel previous to starting ToA. After that, I had achieved a 150page deadpoint in the Augostradia line. Following that were several attempts at MFTG novels.
TOA will reach an estimated ~1800 pages upon completion, divided into 4 major segments. It is currently not planned to be published or publicly released.
Out of the current 400 pages only 20 or so are edited. The editing process will expand the page size by about 25%, along with correcting things like typos, bad grammar, repetition, and some minor inconsistencies.
"All teams, execute battle plan!" he yelled into his com. Like clockwork Zelconian in charged rifles swung over the ledges of the garrison walls, firing before their feet fully landed. Safely above the line of sight the Cyclops tanks had, their firefight was between them and the Legion phalanx. As they opened fire, they drew attention from the center of the courtyard, where the Mantis-class sentinel fired from its lowered ground, projecting a arcing ball of light through the air, and into the ground. As the light impacted the unmoving Legions with a mind-numbing roar, Zelconian dashed from both sides of their protective walls and opened fire into the structure's entrence. The plasma exploded, its chains release as it contacted the DyiithJhinn, and flash-melted many of those too faithful to step aside.
The Cyclops tanks were already firing, but their Nano-Fusion projectiles were disrupted by the plasma – until it exploded. Soon a hail of white fireballs raked the courtyard once more, every shot creating a yellow-red pothole the size of a building, splashing molten ash-stone in all directions, often taking Zelconian with it. Grenades went off, rifles traced their shots, and several of the Cyclops tanks went down. One final tank and its three remaining defenders stood strong. The Legions used their very bodies as shields for the vehicle as its enormous six-barrel weapon fired non-stop, the barrels aflame with rage. More Zelconian entered the fray, and soon the Legions' bodies heaved under the constant rifle fire, and the Tank was left bare. Several more grenades went off, and the tank exploded into a mass of glassy metal that showered the molten battlefield.
Abriar picked himself up off the smoldering ground, and looked ahead of him. He had scarcely dodged a Javalin aimed directly at him, something he credited to his Galorian-style training. Before him laid a hundred meters of white-hot slag, burning corpses, and pieces of metal. The cost of his attack had been horrific, but he had no choice but to do what needed to be done. The Zelconian waited as the ground cooled, then quickly traversed the still-smoking ruin of their brother's graves, towards the ash-caked entrence of the DCC. The teams on the walls swiftly descended their positions and joined the advance.
An eternity of silence. An eternity of darkness. This was his curse, his blessing, his fate. A thousand blades, a thousand storms, a thousand meaningness ages. He held not the memory of how it all began, merely a distant recollection of an infinite distance that was the past. A distance he did not dwell upon often. When he gazed in his reflection upon the dimly-pulsating panels that encircled him in his multi-role tactical assault ship, Gal`Sennmus only saw an empty shell staring him back. This was his curse. His blessing. His fate.
He did not know truly why he had the impulses he had. The impulse, the desire, the will to find one soul among a meaningless million. It was so empty to him, the quest he was sent upon, but he served with no less care. His mind barely operated at all – the scarce thoughts that pulsated from its tortured depths were little more than commands to his ship. He was not in a medition, but rather a dead-state. His blackened robe and cowl were no warmer than his soul. With every breath his half-mechanical body let out, the consoles around him dimmed a little more, their energy drawn by his mere presence.
He was far beyond the minds of most of the others, now. A time where he could immerse himself in absolute nothingness. Become a part of the Abyss itself. This was when he was at peace. He was tempted to remain here for an eternity, to embrace the absolute meaning of nothingness. Yet, every time he was forced to answer the call of the blood that flowed through his forsaken veins, it caged him that much more. He loathed the Abyss and all it stood for. He loathed time itself. He knew, though, that he'd never be free of it all, no matter how much he tried.
Sennmus only derived mild pleasure from the souls of others. To his empty mind, they were but a momentary sustenance that, while pleasing for the first while, would eventually run out. He existed not then to serve the desire of those that bound him to his mission, but himself. He was angered now, though. He had foreseen a possible manner in which he might end it all, but it had been snatched from him, right from under his nose. His one hope of nothingness, stolen from him. It was this that brought him to his darkest of minds. It was this that would bring the darkness down upon the world.
Sennmus was not as much a commander, a leader, as he was a simple figure that few unfortunate individuals would never wholly know before their own end came. He relished in the dying moments of others, dreaming of when he might find a creature that can deliver such a fate to himself. The priest was never to find such an individual, cursed by his own power. Thus, he would wander the wastelands of the Abyss, damned to sleepless immortality by the very power that he had willingly become.