Kiyama

Spectral eyes watched from the timelessness of the vast tank chamber. Imprisoned in their liquid-filled tombs, the souls of the ancient Omoro kept vigil on the wondrous spectacle of their creation. They whispered like the gentlest of breezes, their thoughts commingling. Below, in a mist-enshrouded chrysalis, their progeny slumbered, a precious creation of flesh and blood, a vital link to the past and the future. The time of awakening was drawing near. A surge of anticipation and excitement rippled through the tanks as the blue mist gradually began to clear within the chrysalis. A shape emerged, a shape that brought joy to the phantom audience. In the tank of one whose essence inhabited a lower level, long-forgotten emotions sprang from the shadow of time. As he observed the awakening, memories of his world, his people and the love he held for his children filled his spirit with elation. His jubilant voice joined the welcoming chant of his kindred. Sparks of energy flickered in the tanks like legions of phantasmic butterflies. The millennia of waiting, the grinding tribulations of the past, were quickly forgotten as a vision of hope and the shining promise of resurrection stirred before him.