"...Let us not forget the lives cast into stone by the misfortunes of fate - but neither should we dwell upon them as to be beset by the asphyxiating grip of despair; Let us rid ourselves of the guilt and accusations of that distant past - but neither should we feel ashamed of them. We must never forget that it was our loved ones who perished for the cause most righteous, our blood and burials that marred the wastelands and the great, unforgiving dunes - but let those memories remind us that the past is beyond us now. The fountain of life flows on, life grows anew - and though we have lost, we know well how much our sacrifices have gained. If it was not to be, 'twould not have been, and so the end remains the same; Blessings of Mmaro be upon you all, now and ever, and hallowed be his name..."

     With this, the speaker withdrew himself from the podium, and to the guttural groan of the throat-hymn the mass arose from their kneeling positions atop the floor; they took with them a plethora of carefully rolled, brightly colored carpets, several dozen pairs of sandals, and a silent, wholesome air of harmony. Conflicting hues bespeckled the crowd as they shuffled on by under the stained-glass visages of adorning saints, soft murmurings rustling among them as they approached the elaborate arches that separated this world from the next, those plastered marvels of engineering that had withheld the sanctity of their sanctuary from decades of the vile, decadent influences of the impure and the unworthy. The righteousness of it all was suffocating - so much so that upon reentry into the sweltering embrace of the outside air, Haban couldn't help but pause to take a long, steady draw upon his electronic pipe; what few vapors he was unable to inhale were quickly repulsed by a sharp, wheezing fit, forcing the youthful decrepit to retrieve a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket in a vain attempt to contain the reaction. His metal hand glistened in the sun with each digit's individual articulation as they cupped around his convulsing mouth - and though he closed one eye out of habit, the metallic gaze of the other gleamed on with a paranoid frenzy.

     By the time his 'episode' had run its course, the steps outside of the cathedral were stark - save for the bottom-most, up from which stared a peculiarly inquisitive young man. Older than Haban, he seemed to embody everything the cane-touting, pipe-smoking, half-dead deadweight *could have been...perhaps...in another life: Strong, tall, with with wavy black hair slicked back from a light-hazel brow and a placid expression of empathy. If only he'd been born a few years earlier...

     "...Those things'll come back to haunt you faster than you know it, bro."

     The young man's lips -still somewhat quivering- slipped around the glinting metal of his pipe's mouthpiece as its electronic bowl glowed with a sickly orange hue: "...Death's waited on me for years - he can afford wait a little longer while I enjoy my pastime; maybe more, ifh Ih chen gehth-thishh lhil' shukker uhpgrahyded." He rapped the wooden cane across the 'shin' of his articulated replacement with a fragile smile, pipe clenched firmly between his teeth, and his bald, tan head shimmering under the voracious heat of the midday sun. Telsin just shook his head, waved, and headed down the dusty, hob-cobbled lane of archaic sandstone and scrapmetal windows. Reminded of his own obligations to the watch, Haban quickly staggered off in the opposite direction; the alien hum of his electronic hip, knee and ankle joints made for somewhat talkative company along the way.