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// Prologue - Reflections 
// Story: A Realm Of Strange Creatures 
// by Delvius 
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	The engines of the massive inter-stellar warship roared, propelling the giant hunk of elegant Fleticium across the empty void of space. The spear-shaped tip along with the sleek, segmented body would have made it look like some kind of giant spear flying through space; a sight not uncommon to any who live on worlds within the Empire, but dreadfully terrifying to those who do not. In fact, sightings of the Indaari ships have spawned many ridiculous legends among primitive alien tribes about 'they who turn light into death'. These legends may have been backed up by the fact that, hidden beneath the retractable tip of most Indaari ships, was a weapon that fired concentrated rays of gamma radiation. 

The fighters emerged from their holds; not that there was any danger to the ship at the moment, it was just routine. The nebulae swirled around the massive ship's form as it flew into the mass of star-forming cloud, the fighters maintaining close proximity. This ship was not actively fighting; quite the opposite, it was heading back to one of the core worlds for resupply and re-synchronization with the Indaari networks. For you see, Indaari took being connected with one another very seriously, and as such being in a place where there was no connection with the rest of the Empire scared any Indaari to death.	

It was almost lunch time, according the very large clock in the middle of the ship's mall. Yes, it had a mall -- a very wide area with a domed white ceiling with an oculus in the middle of that, and the shops and stores were built into arched structures along the walkways. Indaari were like that, always being able to blend together combinations of things that shouldn't work. Social networking programs built into their soldier's visors so they could communicate in a personalized manner as they battled along side each other, standard program-making and media development studio software built into their HUD's so they could work on personal projects while out in the field, and even business conferences could be held right in the middle of a fight -- all these were just some of the things Indaari did.

The flora and fauna added life to the large cafeteria, the animals and plants seamlessly and harmoniously interacting with their caretakers. Quite the opposite of what you would expect, the animals were actually given first priority when it came to food on that ship -- it was a philosophy, one that had its basis in the belief that if the soldiers of the Empire fought monsters and ancient evils in the name of living beings everywhere, then surely they could, and also should, give them first servings when it came to food. It was not a widespread philosophy, but nevertheless it was the dominant one on that ship. 

One Indaari soldier had finished his lunch, and after having shared his most recent activities with his closest compatriots, departed for his chambers. And as he walked down the brightly illuminated hallways, he could not help but feel that that day was going to be different somehow.

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Andelius sat on his chair next to his desk aboard the ISC Haldius, looking out of the window and into the endless depths of space, at the twinkling stars and distant arms of galaxies. His chair stretched beneath his weight as he leaned back, staring off. His desk was a mess of crumpled paper and eraser shavings. His bed was unkept and the pillow was on the floor, but he didn't care. He just stared off, occasionally focusing his sight back to his reflection in the blast windows -- at his obscured physical body, hidden beneath two inches of power armor and bionic mechanisms, and at his azure eyes, the only part of his body visible through all his protective gear. Really, he would have liked to take off the clunky armor and heavy knight's helm and just use the detachable holographic HUD interface to communicate, but regulations stated that all troopers were to be ready for battle at all times, unless actively in leave (which he was not, technically).

In his power-armored hands was his notebook -- something which his fellow knights, either below him or above him, teased him about. For you see, notebooks were considered, among many things, primitive and inefficient, just like his methods of producing drawings and sketches. Why take down notes when you could simply store important memories in an impervious mental safe where memories could be accessed even if your conscious mind forgot them? And why draw when you could simply produce a mental image of what you deemed as art?

He closed his eyes and exhaled, an action which fogged the visor of his helmet for a short moment. He didn't mind what his fellows told him; he just liked to write. In his spare time -- when he was not spending a century or two assigned in a metaphysical realm to protect it from chaotic influence -- he wrote. Short stories, poems, letters, even novels and trilogies when he could. All of these he sent back to Ralvain, the Indaari Empire's home world.

It was for that reason that he was going to do what he was about to do next. He carefully opened his very old notebook (he bought it from a merchant stall on a barely used road on a distant planet, some five thousand years ago) and flipped the pages one by one. He had entries of his previous exploits -- of times when he was still an initiate, and even of his first mission. As he flipped the pages, letting his armored door muffle the sounds of his suited comrades stomping about in the halls beyond on their own business, he remembered every moment. Every horror, every truth, every beautiful epiphany -- every moment.

At last he came upon the last page; it was still empty. The rest of the notebook was full; literaly, as even the very sides of each page were marked with black ink.

'I shall need to obtain another notebook,' he thought to himself, letting out a little chuckle as he did; a chuckle of happiness, though why he was happy he didn't know. Surely, after having had so many adventures and making a name for himself in the cosmic halls, he had plenty of reason to be. Everything was fairer when you look back at them from the present, he always thought.

Then he understood why he was so happy. A subconscious part of his head had remembered a fond memory of his, a time some centuries back. A time when he was assigned to a little nation in the far reaches of a barely touched galaxy.

'It could make for a good write,' he thought, musing over the memories of his experiences there. Of his time with an inquisitive unicorn, a brash pegasus, a timid pegasus, an annoyingly energetic pony, a hardworking and honest pony, and a rather posh unicorn. He shook his head and smirked; the universe was a vast and diverse place, yet the mere image of four-legged equines ("Or was it 'ponies'? Such a strange name," he always said to himself whenever a small memory of his experiences there came back up.) still amused him more so than it did others.

Then he laughed some more; the memories his experiences there brought back to him were good, some of the best he had had in many years.

"Oh yes, it could make for a good write," he said aloud, smiling underneath his helmet as he summoned a pencil of light out of the column of golden energy that swirled next to his desk (the column was actually his night-light, but it was far more useful than that).

He rolled his chair over to the desk, straightening his back as he did. He felt his suit's comfort-hardware massage his sore spine as leaned forward, placing his notebook onto the table and flipping to the last page. He lightly pressed the point onto the fragile paper.

"Now... where to begin?" he asked himself softly.