Micahel Acsh arrived in Diomira on the day of the vernal equinox. Noise rocked the city, shaking buildings with its strength, but as far as Micahel could see, the streets were deserted, except for a faint breeze. He followed the lead paved roads toward the roar, stopping periodically to gape at the larger than life bronze statues that flanked the streets. One statue particularly caught his eye. It was of twin figures grappling, their knees on the ground and arms intertwined, each a perfect reflection of the other. Both faces were pure rage. As Micahel took a closer look, he noticed that below the knee, their legs did not trail off into the base as he'd thought, but rather, formed an s-shape linking them at the feet after a series of impossible bends.

Soon he arrived at the edge of the commotion - a raucous parade of young and old, all with what Micahel would quickly identify as the look of the Diomira - olive skin stretched taut of the bones, light hair, red to blond, and narrow turquoise eyes that never wander. Micahel, curious as to the cause of the celebration, attempted to blend into the crowd as they shouted songs of bloodlust and glory and creation. The lyrics simple and repetitive he began to shout as well, feeling himself awash in the flow of the crowd.

After a short period of marching and singing himself hoarse Micahel realized that the parade was looped around itself in a spiral that seemed to be centered in a massive stone colosseum. As the sun neared the horizon, bronzing the sky and the city's gold towers, Micahel's part of the parade reached the amphitheater. Following the crowd he claimed a space in one of the higher sections in front of one of the many lacquered white benches that made up the colloseum. Far beneath him, on the arena floor, a maze of dancers in blue silk and bare feet swept around, cartwheeling and flying off each other, trailing purple ribbons in their wake.

The colosseum packed tightly as twilight neared and thousands of lamps lighted up, as torchbearers made their rounds, conquering the effect of the lost sun and accentuating the movements of the dancers with the fire's own swaying. Finally, the dance came to a close. By this time, Micahel had lost track of himself, no longer did he longer feel like a transient outsider. He was lost to the singing and the fire and the dance. His sole identity was as a member of the roaring crowd. As the dancing died away, a procession of crisply uniformed soldiers came through a corridor in the edge of the arena. A cart of silver and gold cast in intricate patterns trailed behind them. The cart was strange faces with spirals for eyes and massive sharp claws. It carried a giant pearlescent egg, a man tall. Even from his high perch Micahel could see it had a jagged crack along the top.

When the soldiers reached the heart of the arena, they carefully unloaded the egg from the cart, then marched away in lockstep, dragging the grotesque cart behind them. The roar of the crowd diminished, singing died away, until it was just the loud silence of thousands breathing with heavy anticipation. All eyes were on the egg as it began to rock back and forth, the crack widening in little bursts of noise. More cracks formed and the anticipation of the crowd rose. They practically stopped breathing entirely, taking infrequent short breaths in unison. There was only member of the crowd and Micahel was that member and so were the thousands of people around him. More cracks. The collapse of the eggshell. A new life.

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