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You awaken in a bleary sprawl. The world's fuzzy, tilting, and ever so purple. So purple. Somebody selected the celestial fill tool and clicked on the ground.
Vital memories stream in single-file as your vision sharpens:
You are I-ro, an Akacian. From Akacia. I.e., not here.
You're a soldier in the employ of the Gleaming Empire.
Your ship is a heap of smoldering scrap at the terminus of a long stroke carved into the colorful earth.
Your squadmates are nowhere to be seen.
You've nothing on you but the primitive weaponry upon which you stubbornly insist: a hammer with a head the size of an ottoman, an alloy shield that's frequently mistaken for a misplaced door, and an array of secondary heads that mostly just like to bite and eat things (although you would never part with those).
The storm is nearly upon you, and in its billowing, undulating condensation and pink lightning you're quite sure you can hear laughter.
You have a mission that eludes you at the moment. Something about hunting down a powerful artifact. That can wait until your life is somewhat less jeopardized.
Prime thoughts:
>Resilience. I'm a 700 pound carapace monstrosity. What's the worst a little wind's going to do to me?
>Caution. Vyx said the atmosphere was distinctly magical. The lightning's goddamn pink. Better find shelter and gather myself.
>Focus. My squad wouldn't have just left me here, not without Warp leaving a sticky note. They might be in trouble.
