[hider=Tacking on more shit]
[center][img]http://66.media.tumblr.com/402cf15221e1f9c6bac10732dd4537fc/tumblr_o8rjgeiPvk1u5gf80o3_1280.png[/img][/center]

Clones in vats.

Encased in a vehicle identical to what had been lost, old Stitches paced the dim grey working floor of the side project that had now become priority. Oxygen vents still bubbled and ventilation still hissed, though nothing bathed in the tubs of exotic slime anymore, even the largest, thirty metres wide. Only diagrams remained. 

Etched on the side of the first vat, precise lines in the lustrous surface, was the labelled anatomical illustration of a spherical being. Inorganic and yet living, with a smooth surface marked with a simple, curved design. Alloyed organs within a titanically heavy shell, all of that not-quite-solid amorphosity of metal.

[i]The stone folk found the molten remains of their grove and did not weep, for though their years in its kaleidoscopic shade were short, they had been happy. What had been lost could yet be regained. They had watched the lens rise to maturity, and would see it do so again. Only their youngest child, an unveined pebble named Joy, found his eyes dusted with gritty tears.

A stranger awaited them by the toppled Holy Stones. They knew it as a Maker, even though it was circled by no faery ring, for despite its strangeness it bade them come in their own language. It stood upon a pile of unusual stone, and with a short, single sign it offered them a chance to eat, and they did.

They shared fellowship with the seldom-speaking creature, and spoke little themselves. It offered them a tiny lens-tree from gods knew where to begin the orchard anew, and told them that the Iron Star that had reduced their sacred meeting place to a slick of molten glass had been struck down by Callused Hands, their creator-god, who had come to protect them after many lifetimes of protecting others. It told them there were more.

The stranger did not remain long. When dusk came it spoke to them as one. The Maker said that Spiral Palms had seen the destruction, and that they, too, saw fit to stand against the Iron Stars. One Urtelem from among their number was needed for a terrible and awesome destiny. That one stoneman would never again read a poem or solve an equation, or chew an ore, or speak with their family. They would live as if in a sleepwalk, guarding the heavens as their folk now guarded the earth, and be joined with others of kindred spirit. One day this family may look up from a peaceful world and see their child soaring among the clouds.

And the Urtelem looked among themselves, and looked at the stranger, and knew that it had always been their lot to protect in silence. Knew that if there was any chance among them that they may prevent such violence from happening again, they would take it. And six pairs of fists rose in answer.

A spirit of guardianship was thus collected.[/i]

Heartworm walked on between the empty craters. The fluid in the next vat was particularly viscous, and the cavity itself was small. A collection of holographic screens hovered around it, complex detectors now blank. At the side of the device was an inscription. 

This etching was difficult to interpret. A long, wavering cord, humming with unseen essences. All around it were insets, swirled diagrams of transnatural energy dynamics.

[i]The wind raced, chilling the mountain mice that crept among stunted weeds. It made only what sound could be expected of it. A forceful, rushing breath. 

Not far from here, a ring of hollow black bones protruded from the mountain face. There alone did the wind have a chance to sing as it skimmed the top of the oversized ribs, producing a singular, softly melodic note from each one. The organ that broken cage had supported was long gone, torn apart and cast down from the cliffs to rot.

Curious, that this first, tentative creation of the Emaciator should have brought so much violence. It wondered if Basheer was still alive, or whether some larger elemental had consumed him or enslaved his will, as they did. Heartworm had no emotional weight resting either way. The slaughter of Sculptors only weakened the cult, and it intended to avoid the coming of the Sorority.

Life is cheap, and all things are temporary. Only consequences matter. Heartworm's single act of callous torture had brought many consequences, none of which affected it, only piquing its curiousity enough to watch.

Some consequences, however, were useful. The wiser elementals avoided this place, and they were the larger ones. No such superstition prevented the sparking of new Flickers. Small and dumb, they played and ate here, and were eaten in turn when they grew large enough to wander far from the valley of the broken cage.

Thus we see a quirk of the Djinni. Even tiny, even isolated and mute, the growing Flickers war and defend. They claim what they see and know themselves to be no less than what they are, and perhaps much more. Each one unique, and yet each one also forming part of a broader whole of identity, a bell curve. They are alike in a way that is not mere culture. It is something written deep into their very being. Something that they will fight to emulate- Something supreme. 

Heartworm gathers their fragile soulless forms one by one, knowing what they will, given the slightest hope of a chance, be.

A spirit indomitable was thus collected.[/i]

Pacing further, Heartworm only distantly realises that its steps are mapping semi-random paths around the tubs, finding the most efficient one by elimination. It is the closest thing it can feel to boredom. There are plenty more projects to commence. This one, however, is an investment that dwarves the rest. It bears pondering.

Another chemical bath, unique in the room and a little larger than human size. Another inscription beside it, barely labelled. It could be mistaken for a mural. Depicting a single curled pattern, not unlike a silky feather with no rigid quill, the shape of the plume appears to be fractal, and designed for agile forwards movement. Another memory.

[i]She has walked long and flown longer, and her golden hair, already matted and splashed with black, is now damp with sweat. This morning she saw a rabbit at its warren and skewered it on a dart of light, roasted it unevenly under what fire she could build, but her wounds have still not healed. After that the fallen angel cut her hair raggedly to make sure it wouldn't distract her if the wind blew when she spotted another rabbit. Maybe the thrill of the kill would help her keep going. It had before.

The Valley of Peace was north-east. She wasn't going that way. She didn't know where she was going, but she wasn't going back. That life was over for her. Forgiveness would only lead to guilt. The battle at the village had been lost, the horde with it, and everything she had sold her life for with that. She did not consider herself lucky to have survived for so long. How many people who knew her name were still alive? Did she even know it herself anymore?

It would be easier if the violet fiberling, at least, had fallen with her when the hain shot her down. They were company. Mute, hesitant company that had intrigued her so. No one who saw them would believe they were a dumb animal. Something deep swilled in that freak's mind. Now exhaustion and bitterness swilled in hers.

Something she had passed off as a heat shimmer moved oddly, and the fallen angel backed away in shock, a ray of sunlight resolving into a spear in her hand. Then she stood her ground. The air distorted and stretched, allowing a gleaming white-and-grey machine of a creature to step into existence on lanky legs.

They looked at each other, a demigod and a mortal ready to kill to defend a life without value.

"What are you?"

[color=f6989d]"Redemption,"[/color] answered Heartworm. From unclean and unforgiven hands, the spear lashed out at its mark.

A spirit vicious was thus collected.[/i]

Three types of spirit, one each for the spheres, the cords and the plumes, residing in bodies manufactured from Urtelem, Djinni and a single angel. There were forty-four spheres, and enough cords and plumes to give them life. Three sets of ingredients to form a fleet of composite beings. If souls defined mortal life, then the metaphysical aggregate animating the Bludgeons that hovered and spun in the vast hangar of Mirus marked them as truly alien.

An airlock hissed, the calibrated atmosphere of the cloning room equalising. A figure that would have been heavy in stronger gravity appeared. Help had accepted almost no grafts since they began life as a technician of Mirus, and what they had was entirely subdermal, hidden under plates of bone. Limp in their huge arms was a figure far too ordinary for its surroundings.

Tauga's head was heavy on her neck, held up by Help's thumb. To a human, she may have looked healthy, but any hain would recognise the way her eyes were drawn into her cranium, her shell misaligned at the joints, having lost too much weight inside to support her own skin. Her eyes were open but her tongue lolled on the verge of starvation coma.

Help's head was cocked slightly. It was easy to see that she had puzzled out the answer.

[b]"You were waiting for me. You [i]knew[/i] she followed us."[/b]

[color=f6989d]"Correct."[/color]

[b]"Did you hold open the portal, too? Just long enough to make sure she was lost in the maze?"[/b] Help knew that the Lord Mutilation was barren of remorse, but habits developed from a life spent with mortals are powerful. [b]"And, no doubt, you directed the portal into the upper south wing, where you [i]knew[/i] she would see everything. Everything but me."[/b]

[color=f6989d]"Yes."[/color]

God had given, and given, and given. Now it took away an equal abundance, all the debt focused on this one, innocent life. Help lowered their head, a crack showing through the façade of composure. 

Yah Vah and every part of it was animal. Gods have no souls, no more than weeds. Morality is empty to them. They simply [i]happen.[/i] Yet even a force of nature can be hated. [b]"Tauga's body might recover, but she can [i]not[/i] stay here after so long alone. She needs to go back, or else stay in stasis until that's viable. You wanted her alive. That's your only option."[/b]

[color=f6989d]"Correct."[/color]

Help delicately adjusted their grip on Tauga and turned back to the airlock, knowing that it was unwise to allow themself to look at the avatar any longer. The tap of a metallic hoof on the laboratory floor fixed their attention back. Heartworm was eyeing them. Its vocal range was limited, but it seemed to be reminding them of something.

[color=f6989d]"She needs to go [i]back,[/i] Help."[/color]
[/hider]