[center][img]http://66.media.tumblr.com/402cf15221e1f9c6bac10732dd4537fc/tumblr_o8rjgeiPvk1u5gf80o3_1280.png[/img][/center] Help watched with an eyeless gaze as the quarry camp burned. They listened with earless attention as, even high on the cliffside, the sound rang clear of people screaming the Sculptor's name. There would be no help, and soon there may very well be no Help. The obsidian blade of a khopesh was laughable before the fires of Heaven, no matter how quick its wielder. Somewhere down there where the smoke was rising from a blaze of white, Nguxhil, with staff in hand and pack on back, was burning through the gaps in her shield of fae. It was cold, they knew, to abandon Nimble to her fate for a slim chance to hide. But what else could they do? A faint [i]clack.[/i] Stepping back from the thick brush that hid them, Help turned to check on Tauga. The hain had stopped watching a while ago. Now she slouched against the marble outcrop, staring at the sky wide-eyed. Her beak slowly slid open again, as if her jaw was too weak to hold it. [i]Clack.[/i] Tauga clenched it shut and the process repeated. [b]"We should go, child."[/b] "Child." Tauga bit her tongue and gulped. "You sound like a kid and I act like one. But we aren't kids anymore, huh, are we?" Reflexively she ran her fingertips along her hip, where, three years ago, she had moulted the shell of childhood. She was whispering. "Pervert. That's the last thing he said to me. He called me a pervert. My own father. Just a pervert, he said, same as everyone else did. Same as they did for you, right?" Her head lolled in Help's massive palm. "That's all I am now, huh? I'm a pervert and you're a monster. This is God, you know that? This is the moon-fire of Lysiuh." Incoherent. "All my sins." [b]"You can't stay here, Tauga. You need to run. It's dangerous to be near me."[/b] "Yeah. I know. That's your fault, isn't it? Thanks, Help. You piece of shit." Help knew what had happened to Tauga, and would keep happening. She was sick. And she needed help. But Help could only keep Tauga alive by abandoning her. The destroying radiance had come for them and them alone. The old Sculptor cradled Tauga's head in their hands and gently tapped their grim grey mask against her forehead. She clenched her jaw again at the kiss, the movement dislodging a tear. ... Abruptly Help reared their head and crouched, gripping the hilt of their khopesh. Something had moved. Just enough to let them know it was there. [b]"Come out."[/b] The thing with the glassy black face on two lithe and absurdly tall legs obligingly stepped into view from the thin air it was hiding behind. Tauga looked at it in stunned confusion. It was one of fair folk, no doubt, a disciple of Yah Vuh, and yet it raised no alarm in her mind. That scent had been purged from it, or masked. Help had already leapt to conclusions, leaving Tauga far behind. [b]"You're the rogue it talks about. The lost envoy."[/b] [color=f6989d]"Correct."[/color] And quite astute, it might add, but Heartworm never [i]added[/i] anything much, and there wasn't time. [color=f6989d]"There is safety among my workers."[/color] [b]"And my apprentice?"[/b] [i]Apprentice?[/i] Tauga had thought of Help as a friend, but when she looked, they had already raised a finger in her direction. [i]Am I being claimed?[/i] [color=f6989d]"Yes."[/color] [b]"That does not involve the end of her natural life?"[/b] [color=f6989d]"Yes."[/color] [b]"Let's go."[/b] The Emaciator disappeared into the steadily clotting cut in the air. "I'm not going." Help turned. Tauga looked back at her with hesitant eyes. "...I'm not going!" Deftly and silently, the Sculptor pulled their scabbard sling off their shoulder and handed it to Tauga. She held the heavy khopesh in two quavering palms. They nodded one last time, and stepped through the portal, leaving the hain alone with a sword, an overgrown hideaway, and the approaching cries of refugees. "...Wait!" [center][h3]* * * * *[/h3][/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 in all the time 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 routed the portal into the south wing, where you [i]knew[/i] she would see everything. Everything but me."[/b] [color=f6989d]"Yes."[/color] God had 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] [center][h3]* * * * *[/h3][/center] Tauga's feet tapped at the crudely fused dust where there had once been a quarry floor. She cocked her head at the black stain where something had once been made of wood, and scraped it with the tip of her boot, trying to see if the charcoal was loose. A faint shadow passed over the sun and disappeared again. The caustic taste of lye hung thick on the air. Her mask filtered out the scent, and but for its bug-like goggles, her eyes would be burning by now. She could still taste it, though. Tauga could taste and feel everything around her, every moment a hundred soft little taps and touches as if her tongue had left her body and flew around her like a flight of butterflies. With a little effort she could see why. Not that she needed to. Lifting up her hand, gloved in dark hues along with every other inch of her body, Tauga could see something else lift up with it. Faint, fainter and less corporeal than even the shadow that periodically swung over her, Tauga's tentacles rippled around her, followed her every thought and flex. She could feel all of them, an aura of movement and awareness with her solid body in the center. If not for that sense of touch marking them out, they would be all but invisible. Something dimmed the sun again and Tauga looked up at the gigantic Bludgeon orbiting itself above her. Two spheres, each maybe fifteen meters wide and covered in a dense, cloud-like layer of glowing white plumes that darted over their surface, several bodylengths each. A constant distance was maintained between them, numerous times their own width, where a transparent cord too thin to be seen held them together. For a creature with the mass of a city, the Bludgeon flew circles as lightly and placidly as a feather floating in a puddle, humming a low note with every pass. As she craned her head to follow the entity's movements, the scabbard at Tauga's shoulder began to slip, and she pulled it back by the strap. What had been a scalpel for Help was a two-handed sword to Tauga. Insofar as her untrained eye could tell, the fragile glass blade hadn't been altered since she'd last seen it. Hah. It might just be the only thing. Somewhere on this scorched slab of marble lay the shattered shell of Tauga's family and a dozen others. All else turned to smoke, but hainbone remained. She'd seen fragments. She'd kicked them, then wondered how she could bring herself to do it. Not very hard, but she'd wondered. The answer, like so much else, was obvious. She was a freak. Tauga the pervert. Maybe it had started early. She'd never been afraid of anything, much, anything beyond the Jaanic stories she now found herself living in. When she started working with Help, Tauga had cleaned vomit, cauterised gangrenous wounds while their patients moaned in a drunken stupor, broke the news to families when their sick failed to survive. These things she could weather. Always had. Jaan she could not. Whether she had somehow pushed all her insecurities onto that one point or strengthened everything else to compensate for it, the balance was always tipped. And now? Now she'd seen Hell. Now she'd died in the maw of Yah Vuh and been resurrected. Tauga had felt a lifetime worth of fear and an eternity worth of despair. Now she felt nothing at all for Horror, and what did that make everything else? One of the fragments looked suspiciously like a beak and she picked it up, stared at it. What was death? A few bones? Who cares? She tossed the remnant and it clattered. She stretched her arms. Something had been done to her, one way or another. Tauga knew that much. It was all too easy, and it had been made easy. She was wearing some kind of Jaanic machinery as a suit and tasting the air of her mothers' grave with her tentacles, for the gods' sake, this shouldn't be so simple as dusting herself off and walking to the next village to look for a meal. It was absurd, and it was absurd that she felt nothing of it. Someone had something to gain from letting her run free like this. She knew who, just not what. At least it was pretty clear what she was supposed to do. Everything until now had been perfectly tailored to her intuition. The only landmark left for her to navigate by was the Bludgeon. Might as well. Tauga stretched out her open palm towards the space between the Bludgeon's bodies and curled it, feeling her unseen tentacles follow, linking up with the cord. The Bludgeon stopped spinning and hovered, tilting patiently from side to side. The hain tightened her scabbard's strap and repeated the gesture with the other hand. Tentatively, she lifted up one foot and rested it in the air, felt tension. When she lifted up the other foot Tauga was immediately yanked forwards by her extremities, and unnatural reflex alone saved her from a tumble. Stupid. This time she gripped the cord with all the tendrils of her back and upper body, testing the balance of the reins, and when she jumped, the Bludgeon carried her several metres before she lightly set herself down. Too damned easy. It only took her another try to achieve flight. Within seconds Tauga was comfortably soaring behind the gargantuan creature, its plumes billowing out behind it to reveal the metal spheres, as responsive to her intentions as the tentacles she held it with. She decided to fly around for an hour or two and then look for a settlement. Tauga was skimming off the tops of trees when the white streak of the Realta spotted her, and adjusted its course. Ah. Taking a guess at its speed- And her guesses had become eerily accurate- Tauga decided it would be pointless to run. With that in mind, she took advantage of the stark lack of panic that lay hollow in her gut, banked towards the Realta and started to build speed, holding it in the path of one of the spheres. The Realta hesitated, rolled to one side, and was clearly intending to circle around the Bludgeon and test its agility, too late. Caught in the sphere's magnetic field, the Realta blazed past far too close to the sphere, dragged across its surface far too quickly, and spun wildly as it overshot its target. Rivers of plasma caught in the magnetic net around the sphere and played games over its surface, pulsing waves of hot air at Tauga. The sensation of fiery heat rushing over her tentacles as the bludgeon spun to change direction and flung her right to the edge of her grip on the reins was enough to kick a flow of adrenaline into action where the fear of death had failed. The Realta swept back its wings and dove at her from above, and the fight began. [hider=tiredpost] Three sections. [b]First section.[/b] Help and Tauga watch as the camp where Tauga's family laboured is incinerated by a Realta on the hunt for Nimble. Help advises Tauga to leave while she can, but the hain is too stunned by the events. They share a goodbye which is interrupted by Heartworm, who offers Help sanctuary in Mirus. They accept. [b]No points spent. Emotional section of Help and Tauga, interrupted by Heartworm.[/b] [b]Second section.[/b] Heartworm examines an empty laboratory, having completed a major project. It relives the memories of gathering Urtelem, small elemental spirits, and the fallen angel that was Violet's friend, cloning and fusing them into a small squadron of massive creatures called Bludgeons, which will later become its military agents in Galbar and elsewhere. Help enters, bearing the starving body of Tauga, who somehow found her way into Mirus. [b]1 Might each to create spheres, cords and plumes, the three components of Bludgeons. 3 Might total on about twenty individuals of that species. A flashback section, featuring Help interacting with their god.[/b] [b]Third section.[/b] Tauga finds herself on Galbar exactly where she left it, alone with Help's sword, dressed in a flight suit made of a curious Jvanic substance as a Bludgeon hovers overhead. Heartworm has experimented with using her as a proxy for its own defense, making her a Hero whose primary power is the ability to control and 'ride' airborne Bludgeons. Tauga's ordeal in Mirus seems to have burned her out emotionally, and she can no longer bring herself to fear or even feel strongly about much. [b]1 Might used to modify Tauga into a hero. I wrote this section on Sunday night while exhausted so I really can't guarantee it reads well.[/b] [b]Jvan 1 Might Ambient 5 Might in Ovaedis 2 Free Points 2C / 0D Level Five Tauga 5 Khookies Level One[/b] [/hider]