[A powerful force appears, fronted by legions of once dormant Bolenas, the giant frog takes control. All who stand in the way are destroyed or enslaved. A cult forms around Nog, its followers unaware that they are controlled by thought-influencing devices known as Boxes, kept in a secure location unknown to all but the most formidable telepaths. The Box quickly and silently takes control over the warrior classes whose strength is in their physique, leaving the resistance primarily up to weaker humans and other highly evolved creatures such as the 4 winged, dragonfly-like humanoid Sels, one of the results of 22nd century genetic engineering]

first we need to destroy all the nuclear weapons - then we need to make sure all cars have electric/gasoline hybrid engines - then we need to begin recycling everything we use in our daily lives - and then, then, Nog will come - - he walks forward not testing the ground but the limits of his mind - mistakes blown past catatonically serve your self sacrifice - serendipitous slug stomp - no palette from which to work, he is blind - but for his mind is a 10in. razorblade - slave killer fares well against his enemies - when fallacy leads to a crevice in the escape route kneeling down to crawl between the rocks - his legs buckle under the loveless seclusion, heart sinking into the mud - rendering him helpless to the insects that thrive in the cave - he brought what really mattered to fight them: the light - now emanating from his knapsack told him the crystal was active - able to squeeze the breath from the antennae of his attackers - releasing with the pain of 1000 years gathering, crystal kills bugs instantly and he is off on his way once again once again - once my talent rears its ugly head in a direction suitable for distraction - i know my patience will be a-tested, rape rape rape the lovely sky with the nails sideswipe the clouds - not far enough to stop the rain from its ruin - lords take up the mud - don't mind being the victims of careless metal mobiles - for what their ancestors called honor - it is boredom that now drives them to their death - up from the depths comes Nog - lashing out for a meal, tongue sticking to the flying Sels - useless is the talent of their flight to overcome their impending doom - then up comes the largest Bolena yet capable of growing in the pull of sphere gravity - daggers easily unleashed slam into unwilling flesh - gross degeneration of swamp life corrodes the old trees - graves are no longer necessary just as transportation had already become - gas up the rockets, ditch the sphere and go off looking for another one - maybe a merchant's star system sells cheap for this time of galactic year - Corelian fidelis pterodactyl planes - everyone knows everyone and no one has names