Disclaimer: My first real attempt at writing a sort of fantasy story. In this version of Earth, vertebrates never made it past fish, for whatever reason - evolved, humanoid insects have risen as the dominant species, while specially bred horseshoe crabs are used as beasts of burden, and warriors slay giant centipedes. The characters and setting are mine, but I'm more than willing to share.

There's some odd terminology thrown about - I'll either get around to doing a webpage for this universe, or posting a glossary and guide of some sort. All of the new terms are plays on an existing term for the anatomy or species in question, so some are self explainatory, but here's a short list in no particular order:

Anten - Antenna
Lepidian - Race of butterflies and moths.
Domen - Abdomen, the thing hanging where an arse would be on a human. Abo is crude slang for the same thing.
Roche - Race of cockroaches.
Dibules - Mandibles, grinding mouth-parts that are set on the cheeks of some races.
Sects - The insect version of 'man' or 'person'.
Beetil - Race of beetles.
Karace - The firm covering that acts as a skin. It's no longer really an exoskeleton, varies and thickness from race to race, and has some feeling in it.
Probus - Proboscis, a long tube that acts as a prehensile tongue some of the races have.
Kokuun - A thing exclusive to Lepidians. I bet you can figure it out.
Senta - Centipedes, the dragons and monsters of this world.
Tarsi - feet, or rather, the joints and claws that make up an insect foot.

Character Art:
It doesn't want to post this here, so check out my bio.

Age of Insects
Episode 1: Violet Eyes and Strange Designs

With a horrific shriek and a clacking of its foot-long dibules, the enraged senta launched itself at the Beetil warrior. Despite his bulk, he was quick on his feet, and the endless beast reeled past him, countless pairs of legs kicking up a small storm of dust. One forearm covered his eyes, while his other three hands gripped the shaft of his warhammer tight.

The senta, failing to taste blood in its bony jaws, writhed its segmented length and turned to face the warrior once again. This time it rose, high off the ground, until it loomed thirty, forty feet above the young Beetil - it bellowed a threatening call that shook his organs and resonated along the lengths of his anten, but he stood fast within the shadow of the beast, grinding his own dibules with determination. He glared into the monster's beady black eyes, daring it to strike.

And strike it did, like lightning, its bloodstained dibules opened wide, thorny edges seeking to stab and crack through his outer covering - but once again, the Beetil whirled to the right. He swung his hammer in a great arc, the studded metal whistling through the air.

CRACK! It struck true, smashing through the wild senta's chitinous side. The momentum of the beast only worked against it, and once the hammer was embedded within its white innards, its teeth dug in and dragged through the remaining length of the creature. There was an explosion of dirt as the senta was sent tumbling over the ground by the force of his blow, and another hissing scream - this time, one of agony.

The dust settled, and the Beetil shook himself off, trying to shed the spilled gore his weapon had sprayed onto him. The senta had landed in a twisted, bloody knot, its many segments piled up against a large outcropping of rock.

Enrik the Beetil strode towards the head of the downed, bleeding senta, as it wheezed in pain. Leaning down, he spread his own great dibules and tore off the head of the wild monster with a solid snap, lifting the head of the beast that had terrorized his family for so long and letting out a clacking victory cry of...

"IMITE!"

The young Lepidian yelped in surprise and quickly shoved the book into his lap, folding his midarms over the hard-bound volume and hoping it would remain hidden beneath the table. He looked over at the cockroach standing on the threshold to his bedroom, who was scowling at him.

"How many times have I told you to leave books in the library?" Kitter's tarsi clicked on the floor as he walked across the marble. Imite looked up at his tutor sheepishly and shrugged. "Too many," the Roche answered for him, "Really, Imite. You know how the other boys that live in your - the lordship's palace are - no respect for literature."

"I know," Imite conceded quietly, staring down at the book he held. Western Legends and Literature. "But there are so many people downstairs, and the library's not as quiet as it usually is..."

"Nevertheless." Kitter looked down at the seated caterpillar that was dressed in slave rags, and continued in a softer tone, "Your mother's down there, why not go help her?"

Imite's anten perked, and he stood up. Part of him scowled, self-conscious of his height, or lack thereof - even though he was almost 14, he still couldn't meet the relatively short Roche eye-to-eye. Kitter didn't seem to notice, and ushered the caterpillar towards the door.

"Go on, don't make the poor woman work by herself," Kitter chided Imite, "I have a wedding to prepare for."

"You're going too?" Imite frowned slightly, looking behind himself at the Master of Studies.

Kitter nodded, "It's the wedding of the warlord's oldest daughter. This marriage will seal an alliance with one of the Monarch's more favored houses, and hopefully get the emperor to back off from his attempts to discredit this House. All of his staff are expected to attend. Well, barring slaves," he added, looking at Imite sympathetically.

The quiet caterpillar nodded as they headed into the hallway, shaking a few bangs out of his face. "Here," Kitter gently removed Imite's spectacles and folded them, setting them into a hidden pocket on the slave rags, "Can't be running around with those on, can we?"

"No," Imite mumbled, holding the book to his chest, "Slaves don't wear glasses."

The cockroach frowned at his dour attitude. "Trust me, Imite," Kitter smiled slightly, resting his forehands on Imite's shoulders, "you will have a far better time organizing books with your mother than you would sitting at some stuffy ceremony. I'm envious of you."

Imite looked back at the Roche with a fraction of a smile. Kitter patted his shoulder, and Imite left him to his preparations.

***

Imite didn't usually give much thought to his lot in life, but today, life was rubbing his face in it. He glanced around at his somewhat opulent surroundings as he made his way down the empty hallway - pottery, paintings, crushed velvet, sculptures made of jade and cherry wood, all of these lined the honey-colored pine walls of the oriental palace. The lord's wife had expensive tastes.

The caterpillar came to the top of the stairway. The sound of festivities, music and chatting, the smell of a feast, drifted up to greet him, but he knew those participating wouldn't be nearly so welcoming. He shook his head and descended into the fray, casting his eyes to the ground. This, combined with his dull, ragged clothes, succeeded in making him invisible to the aristocracy and nobles attending the gala.

His short stature helped, too, as he ducked through the crowd, muttering various apologies and deftly managing to avoid stepping on any of the dragging kimonos or brushing against any wings. But unfortunately, he wasn't invisible enough.

"Servant!" a sharp voice called to the back of his head. He quickly hid the book he held within his ragged coat and turned around respectfully.

It was the warlord's wife, a butterfly noble with glistening blue and black wings and an expensive robe. She narrowed her eyes when she recognized Imite.

Imite flinched. The warlord's wife hated him with a passion. She was haughty, even as butterflies went - they made up the bulk of nobility. The fact that the warlord was a moth caused some political friction that Imite was only vaguely aware of. It wasn't his business. He was just a slave, albeit a strange one.

"Do you think you could possibly carry out the simple task of refilling my glass, you little grub?" She hissed at him.

He nodded meekly, "Y-yes, ma'am, I would-"

She thrust the glass into his hands roughly. "Then do it!"

And now he was a slave with kitchen duty.

But he would have to return this book first. It threatened to drop out at any time - and the last thing he needed was to look like a thief. He continued to worm his way through the crowd.

The library seemed to command a perpetual quiet that muffled the activity going on in the hallway just outside. The familiar room helped to lift his spirit - tall book cases, stuffed with texts of both Eastern and Western perspective, small shelves with scrolls tucked within, stacks of heavy, dark, hard-bound books weighing down the old wood. It was his sanctuary, where he could escape into the world presented in a book, whether that world was a distant land or pure fantasy. It was where Kitter tutored him in secret. And it was where he saw his mother.

She was currently replacing a stack of books on a shelf. The moth looked far too frail to be lifting such bulky tomes, but her thin frame belied her strength, both physical and mental. She was a true slave, not subject to the same set of perks and allowances Imite was - but there was something mysterious about her, an otherworldliness that set her apart from the other slaves. Part of it was just her appearance, her long, black mane in contrast to the silver hair most of the citizens of Khrysalis bore, and a fair, purple coloration that was rare among butterflies and unseen among moths.

But it was more than her exotic looks that set her apart. She was humming a strange, hypnotizing tune, and as Imite silently approached her, it sounded more like a soft chant spoken in a language he'd never heard.

"Isis, Ishtar, Diana, Hectate, Athena, Kali, Inanna..."

Imite's anten raised. Not a language, but rather, names - and he recognized a few from the books of mythology he had read. His mother seemed absorbed in her quiet singing, her wings hanging limply at her back, long, feathery anten swaying to the rhythm of the chant. A smile crossed Imite's face, and he reached over to tap her shoulder and surprise her.

But she turned around and calmly took the book he held in his midhands, as though she'd known he'd been there all along, never pausing in her melody. She looked down at her surprised son and smiled warmly, her sapphire eyes alight with a fire that never seemed to waver, despite the years of slavery. Her name was Aletta, a name as exotic to Khrysalis as her appearance.

"Thank you, little one," she turned and set the book back on its shelf, her voice just as lyrical even though she wasn't singing.

He put on a scowl at the nickname. She didn't have to remind him, but he really didn't mind, just as long as she was the only one that used that name. His mother laughed at his pout. "I'm sorry, Imite. I'm sure you won't be so little for long." She smiled, brushing his bangs out of his face - bangs that were just as black as her own hair, "I'm certain kokuun is coming for you soon."

"Really?" He stared up at his mother with a questioning expression. He was a late bloomer by far - still a caterpillar when most boys or girls his age had had their wings for a year or more. He was small and weak, and the other children seemed to delight in reminding him of it. He had apparently inherited his mother's alien aura, and it had earned him a life as an outcast.

"Really." His mother kneeled down and straightened out his shirt.

Imite wondered, tilting his head, "What were you singing earlier, mother?"

"That?" She chuckled and shook her head dismiss the question. "It was nothing, just a little tune I picked up when I was a child."

"Who were they... those names?" Imite pressed on, his curiosity piqued.

His mother considered her reply and sighed. "Imite, it's -"

"WHERE IS MY DRINK?!" A voice shrieked from the entrance to the library, shattering its blanket of silence. Imite jumped, remembering the glass he held.

He leapt to his feet and started towards the door, pinning his anten back. "I'm sorry, ma'am! I had duty in the library and -"

"What is there in here that could possibly be more important than attending the warlord's wife?!" The butterfly noble growled, flaring her wings and grabbing Imite by his collar, "I will accompany you to the kitchen myself if that's what it takes to get service!"

Imite yelped in surprise, but managed a shaky reply. "Y-yes, ma'am..."

The lord's wife dragged him back to the main room. Imite was well aware of the conversations that halted at the sight of him, the stares and muffled laughter, of how when the conversations resumed, they turned to the topic of commiserating about their own unreliable slaves. His face felt warm, and closing his eyes didn't do much good.

After what seemed like miles, the humiliating journey ended as the noble shoved Imite into the kitchen. He stumbled and rubbed his throat, where the collar of his shirt had been roughly yanked.

"Well, look 'o it is."

Imite glanced up at the voice. The kitchen was full of slaves, mostly moths, a few ants and several cockroaches and crickets. Most of them didn't regularly work in the kitchen, but today it needed extra staffing. They all stared at him, and most had a smug expression on their face.

"What's the matter, had to actually do some work for once?" One of the ants, a few years his senior, sneered at him. The fuzz on the back of Imite's neck rose and he squared his shoulders defensively, his eyes still trained on the ground.

"I just need to refill a drink," he muttered, "please let me by."

"Such a workload!" One of the female moths laughed and tossed her tangled hair, "Next they'll be makin' you fluff the pillows, or do a li'l dustin' if they really feel like workin' you over!"

Imite's anten lowered. Most of the other slaves were bigger than he was, and his mother was the only one in the entire palace that liked him. And now they were surrounding him. "I just want-"

"Listen, you spoiled little pet," the older moth continued, her voice going from haughty to vicious, "we've all been down here working our abo off for this lot of stuck-up nobles an' the Master's daughter since sunrise, and we ain't seen your face down here 'till now. Just because you're the son of the Master's little harem bi-"

Imite's eyes flew open. "Don't you dare call her that! She's not-"

"Not what? Tell me, little Imite-" She emphasized the last part of his name, as anyone did when they wanted to annoy him, "what is her job, then? She doesn't work in the kitchen, certainly doesn't work outside..."

"Shut up!" Imite snapped in an uncharacteristic display of defensiveness. This was why he avoided the other slaves - they never seemed to tire of making up lies about his mother.

"Oh, you're going to start ordering us around too, eh? You feel you're too good to be a slave?"

"I don't know why they treat me differently," he mumbled, returning to his usual quiet self. "I didn't ask for..."

"You worthless maggot!" A familiar, screeching voice jarred his anten. All of the other slaves immediately went back to their places. "I ask one simple task of you, but that's simply too much of a strain, is it?!"

The lord's wife lifted her gown with her midhands as she stalked into the kitchen, not wanting it to drag on the filthy floor. "Now you're starting fights, too?! I ought to sell your miserable self to one of the plague-ridden Western cities-"

Imite's anten dropped to the side of his head and he quickly made his way to the cabinet where the alcohol was kept. One whiff of the glass told him she had been drinking sake, so he rummaged around for the bottle as she ranted.

Suddenly, a deep, commanding voice sounded out and silenced even the noble's ranting. "What's going on here?"

Imite froze, and remained crouching behind the open door of the low cabinet. He had never heard that voice so close to him before.

"Dear," the butterfly dramatically changed her tone to something far more graceful, "this little.. slave here has been acting up horribly. I feel he deserves a whipping, at least." For some reason, the word 'slave' had sounded loaded and almost accusatory.

It wasn't a tone he could imagine anyone speaking to the warlord in, much less speculate why.

Himoto Saturni sighed wearily. "Which one?"

"That one."

Imite's blood froze in his veins. He desperately wished he could've hidden in the cabinet somehow, but even he was too big for that. Heavy footsteps approached him and he found himself paralyzed.

"Stand up, boy."

Imite's legs seemed more willing to obey the warlord than they did his own mind, and he stood up slowly, shakily. He held the bottle of sake in one hand, and the half-filled shot glass in the other. And utterly forgetting himself, he looked up from the floor at the source of the voice.

The moth who had rose through the ranks of the military from the lowliest foot solider to the general who had conquered the entire south-west region of Khrysalis, subdued the barbaric rebels there who had long stood against the Monarch, and then fought the Empire itself for the right of his title stood before him. He was dressed in full black and silver regalia, a decorative version of his old uniform, and his long hair had darkened from silver to grey with age, banded with black and tan like the rest of his coloration. His wings supposedly had a span of 15 feet, and his abilities with a war-scythe were legendary. As was his mercilessness.

Outside his own House, Himoto Saturni was known as the Reaver, among the Empire and its enemies alike.

His eyes were dark violet. Eyes no slave could possibly be worthy of looking upon. And they looked ever so slightly surprised.

Not nearly as surprised as Imite's own were, though. He remembered himself and quickly returned his wide-eyed gaze to the ground, but it seemed like the damage had been done. But that he done something so offensive hadn't been what had shocked him the most.

He had never seen the warlord this close before, and even then he had respectfully kept his eyes downwards. He didn't know the lord of Saturni House had purple eyes.

"Lock him in the look-out tower. He will remain there until the festivities are over. See to it that he gets no food."

That was his punishment? Others had been put to death for doing less. A few of the other slaves grabbed him roughly, and once again he was being paraded out of a room.

But this time, he was too stunned to care.

There was only one other person in the entire palace that he had seen with eyes that color...