the Stone

3910 RM - Lyridia
Finally, the stone was his.

He’d crossed half the known world, following echoes of his own devising. Shadows and glimpses that less astute individuals might miss had guided him this far. First, the gloom and decay of Vârr. How many of its abandoned quarries and mines had he catalogued? How many of their discarded treasures had he sifted though, rejected, ultimately forgotten? In the black waters of Propontis he searched, wading in the ruin of dead civilizations. Across shores thick with rotten fish and other unidentifiable things he trekked. Sometime, those shores had been alive, thriving with the exchange of nature, the prosperity of cultures far-removed from the present. Yet such a time had passed, was now nought but maddening recollections, as-though designed to make the descendants of such a time bitter.

The decay of Propontis ultimately led to the Gravelfields of Ulenyat on old Nárthel. There the shambled remnants of ancient stone-offering plains survived in solitude, far from the dead shores of the Inner Sea, closer to the sky than any formation in eyesight. There he met mute nomads who showed him the crumbled palaces of the lithagogues who once ruled that place. In those ruins; further clues, another push onwards.

For years he went on: the sunken city of Ephrath; across the sea of Tiama on a junker barge; a sojourn in Solonia, city of the extinct Saoshyants, where secrets of the Demiurges and their worship were revealed to him; then east along remnants of the old merchant route known as the Great Road. Three-hundred miles on, the Black River where thousands of years past the mythic city of Carula was sacked, its library destroyed, the ink from its drowned tomes marring the river black for years later. Then the spent diamond mines of Delomig; and over a thousand miles east of Ephrat; Argea, capital of Sarastro. Bathed in decadence and surrounded by opulence, he lingered there, longer perhaps than morality dictated, making the myriad alleys and maroon pear-domes above a home outside of home, his research and passion all but forgotten. Then, his obsession rekindled by tales of a Merakhian itinerant, he continued east to the Princeps’ City, where old journals and trinkets gathered along the road were traded for a valuable codex, of which only one page interested him; a page mentioning in passing, as though it meant nothing, a great craftsman named Vorropohaiah.

Just to see that name in print had rendered him ecstatic, the folly of the offhanded comment, the dissonance of its context unimportant. That one of the Two-and-Twenty Demiurges of old – the worker-deities worshipped by the ancients – had been confused with a mortal craftsman was near-sacrilege, but it was ignored in favour of the traces it provided. A trail that had grown sterile was rekindled and Baruch was invested with the purpose necessary to carry on.

The Princeps’ City turned his journey around, and he was heading west again, back towards the Inner sea, north via Merakhi, then west along the southern coast of the Dark Sea. Through Mulciber, better known as the Snaking City; onwards to rural Phenex; Kairor and its massive temple-complexes; Dacia and its shadow-itinerants. Then north, into Lydria; the recycled troglodyte city of Amaymon.

Amaymon, where brutish peasants rubbed shoulders with mystic augur-rulers. Amaymon was truly a place of two halves. Though defiant of the empire throughout its existence, it had survived as an echo the Empire’s ways. A caste of slave-like troglodytes lived in relative frugality in the labyrinthine city, the raw materials of its construction pillaged from the ruin of a far more illustrious city that had been crippled millennia past. While the plebs and masses lived aimlessly in the city, above ruled the ubyrs and interreges; the Imperial princelings and nobles left as caretakers by a dying Empire centuries past before its departure. They enjoyed a life that the troglodyte below rarely had the pleasure or comfort to even dream of.

Amaymon, where the pagan beliefs of the troglodytes survived, carried on the backs of bucolic dynasties and generations of skull-wearing trogeins. Their rituals and ceremonies, little more than heathen theatricalities, belied a sophistication that flowed from the teachings of Lyridias overlords; the augurs, mystics and seers of near-divine renown. And at their head, the Great Sibyl, whose prophecies and forecasts had shaped the world, driving the wax and wane of nations, the ebb and flow of wars. Her shadow covered all of Lyridia and fear of her gaze was something that travellers and natives alike had to grow used to, for none could claim to never have felt the weight of her scrutiny upon their shoulders. Many in Lyridia dreamt of being watched, the distant machinations of that ancient being – queen of Lyridia in all but name – drifting into dreams, polluting thoughts and disturbing reveries. Her presence was felt everywhere, if not through the weight of legends that surround her, then the enforcement of her laws. Though a lax ruler by most accounts, her rarely-heard words remain law and those who break them are made harsh examples of.

Indeed, though rarely believing of such things, Baruch had been apprehensive since setting foot in Lyridia, even more so in Amaymon. White-robed enforcers of the augurs were symbols of the Sibyls’ reach and though they were few in numbers, their influence was blatant. Amaymon was a quiet place, its roads solemn places of contemplation and… fear. Its markets and wide arcades were serious places where trade, rather than gossip, marked the rule of the day. For a secular place, there was a lot of piety in Amaymon and the way people worked and behaved. It was unsettling.

It was in Amaymon that Baruch had found the stone. An old quarry in the southern prairies of Iblis had given up the treasure to a group of child-prospectors. The ignorant fools – troglodyte parentage painted plainly on their simplistic behaviour – had parted with it for money that, in all likelihood would be confiscated by the white-robes.

Now Amaymon sat, scrutinising it beneath his jewellers’ lenses.

“They are identical!” he repeated, the words having become more of a litany than means of communication.

His apprentice nodded absently as he sat in a corner, scrolls and books and maps spread around him. “Well, not identical, of course. That would be foolish. But the workmanship, the material, the angles of the edges, the veins in its surface. Even the shaping of the runes, the strokes, the size. All is identical. I can match this to the same region in Vârr that the others were found in, perhaps even the same mine in Hulka. Perhaps it is even part of the same rod. Amazing.”

The apprentice looked up. The words were the same whenever a new discovery was made. He had grown used to it, the swings in behaviour. Elation and amazement upon a new discovery would quickly by whittled away by time and inactivity, poor dealings, negative research, into apathy and, when funds began to run low, frustration, anger, and violence. He ignored it, for the most part, though he wasn’t churlish enough to mention it or feeble enough to let the violence pass unopposed when it migrated from the inane punching of inanimate objects into something altogether more harmful.

The vices of a genius. Or perhaps the decadence of a madman, he would sometimes wonder. Whatever, he didn’t care. All that mattered was that he received his journeyman’s papers at the end of it all, and, perhaps, tenure as an assistant in the college in Raalo.

“Makes you wonder what it’s journey was. What, if it could talk, it would choose to tell us. What a history. What things you must have seen,” he said, lifting the thing away from his lenses and holding up against the light. It was not as opaque as casual scrutiny had led him to believe. The light penetrated it, diffusing in a dark green murk through which he gazed. Its veins were thick and seemed to hang suspended in the amber-like substance as though there were some form of design involved in their creation.

Baruch shook his head as he placed the stone on its leather mat. He took notes absently, jotting thoughts and queries onto paper lest the torrent of questions and observations that came to him nullify one another. The discovery of the stone posed more questions than it answered, but if there was one thing they did, it was point north-and-west, to Vârr.

“Apprentice,” said the man, his voice suddenly louder than its usual soliloquist mumblings. “Tell the porters to gather our things. We travel to Vârr.”

The boy nodded, lifting his head from a map of the region in question, his interest genuinely piqued. “And you master?”

“Our last escorts being less than reliable, should we say… I think the need for new guards is at hand. Expect me presently apprentice, For we leave tomorrow.”

Presently, thought the apprentice? Doesn’t that mean now? He pushed the thought – a mere triviality – aside and returned to his work. There was no point rushing these things. He had grown used to the master over the years. The enthusiasm of a child. The attention-span to match. No doubt, three months down the line they would still be in Amaymon, chasing some new clue.

***

The sprawl of Amaymon was not Baruch’s idea of a comfortable stay and the quicker he left the place, the better. The locals – troglodytes, imperial texts called them (and with reason, too) – were little more than simple brutes, their features base, their culture without the artistic expression deemed necessary by scholars to quantify them as a true civilised people. They just made up the numbers of Lyridia; the body. The true heart of that nation, if nation it could be called, were the augurs and ubyrs, and descendants of past imperial occupiers. Relatively few in numbers, Baruch doubted more than a few thousand augurs existed across Lyridia. That was the way power was split in Lyridia – the so-called seers and their gold and the troglodytes, with no middle-class or merchants in-between. It was a strange configuration that Baruch could not really understand. From what he saw as he reconnoitred, the place (Amaymon) relied on outside trade. Lyridia, though not a place of opulence, was relatively rich – trogs and slaves laboured in gold mines; the raw extract of which was hoarded by the ubyrs specifically for trade. A steady inflow of foreign goods kept inflation down. Foreign merchants operating in Lyridian markets enjoyed many diplomatic advantages (in exchange for levies, of course), not least of which were cheap export prices. It was that trade, unseen by most in the Augury Halls of what few cities lay claim to that land, that kept Lyridia alive. Not that the trogs ever realised. Or cared. Or benefitted.

The place was a glorified slum, considering it was one of the largest conurbations in Lyridia. For Amaymon wasn’t truly a single city, but rather dozens of smaller settlements built in close proximity to one another, each slowly growing over the years until borders became blurred, outskirts meshed, wards mingled. The hinterlands between districts were little more than semi-permanent shanties and outcast conclaves, but the uncertain days of integration were something now consigned to poetry and literature – what passed for such in Lyridia – and Amaymon was enjoying a time of relative prosperity, even as the rest of the world crumbled around it, not least of all the Korachani Empire in the south-and-west. Still, prosperity wore various guises, though affluence was apparently not one of them.

After the places Baruch had visited – Sarastro amongst them indelibly etched on his memories – Amaymon seemed somewhat backward. Buildings, largely mud-built (strange for the latitude), hugged each other as much for support as out of cultural design, vaulted alleys leading through them. They sprawled for acres, encompassing far more land than most cities sharing a similar or smaller population. The reason? Evident in the unadventurous scope of their construction – two, three storey structures at most, and even then the norm was for low one- or two-room hovels. A few municipal buildings loomed above the petty structures, their shade lingering longer across the streets than those of others, though for the most part, Amaymon was a city of a single level.

The streets, long and narrow, were still, its populace seen and never heard. Its markets were muted occasions, the near-universal call of hawkers and vendors missing, replaced with the soulless clamour of merchandise and braying of animals that knew no better. And tying the silence together was the ever-present white-robes; slaves and soldiers of the augurs.

It was the Simontine Market that Baruch was aiming for, named after one of the Nine Watchers – the mystic Abulia, tools through which the Sibyl could perform her Art.

Shuffling figures locked eyes with his as he walked, brows furrowing with inimical stares. At first Baruch thought the looks to be envious; bitter people cursing the foreigner who, once done with the blandness of Amaymon was fortunate enough to return to his life without its disparate walls. If only they knew how dark the world had become, they would be looking upon him with pity, rather than jealousy. If they had seen a fraction of the death he had, the withering of the world, the unravelling of nature… perhaps then they would understand that isolation was not as harsh a mistress as they had come to know her as.

But, as he left streets and alleys in his wake, his trail taking him closer to the particular district he had heard of, he began to reinterpret those looks. What he had thought to be envy of a man unanchored by the augurs and the meek existence fate had bestowed upon them, turned into apprehension. No longer were they thinking ‘why is this man here, when he can be elsewhere?’ instead they were thinking ‘what is this man doing here?’

Outsiders were uncommon. Merchants from Nárthel and Pelasgos were tolerated – welcomed, even – but others, freemen they called them in their base tongue, were viewed with distrust. What unclean thoughts did they bring with them? What sorcerous secrets from without did they carry? Technarcana, Atramentism, Firmamentism even; none of those things were common or accepted in Lyridia. To make contact with such things was unwise; as decreed by the augurs. The stymie of outside knowledge was something widely controlled by the white-robes, whose purgation sermons were all that was needed to rid Amaymon of unwanted memories of without. Baruch and his apprentice had been subjected to interrogations and searches, none of which he thought were necessary, but they had to be dealt with before stepping foot in the place.

Now here he was, outsider in a land where the outside was unwelcome, walking the streets alone. Searching for escorts to help provide safe passage when they were outside again. Madness.

He found the place; an unassuming building nestled between two warehouses in a district whose name his tongue could not wrap itself around, whose purpose seemed manifold. All he could see was a large wooden door, both panes held open by latches. Steps led down into darkness, a large balcony watching over him, the glint of eyes observing him unsettling. The sign beside the door, a simple pictogram as dictated by a largely illiterate population, showed a knife and fork crossed over a simple straw cot.

Inside, the air was smoky, pungent. The only portal to the outside world was the door he had come in from. A single lantern flickered wildly above a central counter that enclosed a dark-skinned troglodyte, his thick brow and brutish arms making him look like a trapped animal. But behind the thick dome, the coarse hair, there dawdled an intellect that set him apart from animals.

The place was a sleeping hall, huge stone pillars holding aloft a roof that rested on fanning beams. Large padded chairs filled the room, most of them home to unmoving trogs. The stay was free, so long as one found an empty space and neighbours that tolerated your company. That was why Baruch had had to stay in a dwelling sponsored by a local interreges. There was no guaranteeing that he would get up after sleeping, not that he imagined he would ever fall asleep in such a place.

He approached the counter, ignored the barrels of drink behind it and gestured to the troglodyte. His grasp of their language was meagre at best, though it was so simplistic that he was still able to communicate with success.

“Men for hire?” he said, his hand-gestures as much a part of the question as his words.

The troglodyte nodded to a corner of the room. There was little to see in the smoke-laden air, but Baruch thanked the man and ventured onwards.

Immediately, he knew the man had understood his question. Where the rest of the clientele was laconic, either drinking in silence or sleeping, the men here were more… expressive. Though hardly loud, they were clearly awake, drinking, talking. Some sat huddled around a tiny table that could barely manage the mass of cards and dice arrayed on it. Others just sat, drinking, listening to the tales of others. Most smoked from stiff long-necked pipes.

Off-duty guards, porters, foreign escorts relaxing away from their caravans. Mercenaries, rogues for-hire. He knew few would give him a second thought here, where crossed glances were as often as not likely to end in brawls as they were ignorance. He surveyed the room, lifting his cloak aside with a hand, allowing a hand to brush softly against a pouch of local coin. He had heard this was the way to do it, and he wasn’t about to break tradition over something he thought was foolish. In Azazem, to go into a merc-haunt like this flaunting your money, you could call yourself lucky to leave the place alive, not to mention with your money. He thanked the Throne for local customs.

He filtered through the troglodytic brutes and spied two figures quite unlike the others. One was a true grotesque, a being of no certain human heritage; an alien, a true scion of the demiurges. He could not put a name to the features but knew the old imperial name for such creatures – therocephalids. Its face was dominated by a strong elongated nose that widened into two flaring nostrils above which a pair of wet black eyes surveyed the room in torpid glances. Gangly arms motioned lazily as the figure spoke, their ropey strength clear despite the myriad belts and straps that covered them. Its legs were thick, short, jointed in ways more befitting an animal than a man. Thick layers of hide, fur and burlap covered the being, fixed together with belts and baldrics, each stitched meticulously together in a tight but dense armour Baruch did not doubt was effective. An alien stench surrounded the creature, not altogether unpleasant but… disturbing, as though bringing to the fore the disparate nature of the beast-man. Its voice, kept low against the sombre surroundings, was deep though underpinned by a sonorous almost melodic foundation that kept Baruch enthralled.

The creature was seated on one of those long cot-like chairs, talking to a second figure. This time it was more than an outlandish appearance that enthralled the scholar. If he was right, he knew he had found his escorts. There was no doubting it. The gigantic frame, the alabaster skin, the scars, the bald head and dark eyes. The sculpted features – cheeks and chin as though of marble – and countenance of the man, if man he could be called, struck a chord with the scholar, as though he were meant to recognise him from somewhere.

He shook the notion aside and concentrated instead on the obvious. The complexion echoed a life lived under imperial skies. The body indicated a martial bent. The dark eyes looking at him, the gentle upward curve of thin lips signalled an interest Baruch hoped was more than just passing. He prayed the merc was looking for employment.

“Gentlemen,” he said, regretting the world instantly. Did mercenaries respond to such pleasantries? Or was he expected to slap their backs and curse the heathens, exclaiming upon the features of harlots and barmaids he had no experience with? Regardless, it was too late. He had their attention and as he moved towards the table saw two pairs of eyes, one perfect (perhaps too perfect, in hindsight, to be of a man born in the empire) and another, altogether more disturbing. Large, long thin lashes batting above Cimmerian orbs.

The thing snorted as the giant cocked his head to one side, eyes fixed intently on Baruch.

“Well,” said the strange creature, “the tikbalang are not known for their patience. If you are to disturb one, then make the reason good.” The vile creature laughed, its horse-like head shaking as it slammed a stunted hand on the table, its stubby fingers with their thick dark nails balled into fists.

“Money,” said Baruch, the revelation of the creature’s race lost to nervousness.

The man nodded, intrigued. His companion repeated the gesture. “Come sit and explain this money concept to me.”

Baruch nodded and sat, unsure of what the thing meant. In his anxiety he took the words at face-value and ignored context, humour, and began explaining the rudiments of monetary exchange, currency, economy.

“Does humour not exist amongst your people?” said the tikbalang. “Sit and tell us about the job. That is why you’re here?”

“Yes, yes,” said Baruch. “I am in need of an escort.”

“An escort? There’s a brothel somewhere around here, but this isn’t it,” said the tikbalang.

“Yes,” said Baruch, “Indeed. Let me rephrase. I need guards. I am planning a journey into Vârr, across Propontis. I need guards for the caravan.

“Plan on going across water or overland?”

“Does it make any difference?”

The theriocephalid snorted, a trickle of snot hanging from a nostril. He wiped it away. “Is the world dying? Course it makes a difference. A journey overland will be months longer and will take you into heathen lands – Ahrishen and the Nameless Forest. Not many paper-shufflers would like that.”

“Heathen lands?” Baruch was surprised. He had never stopped to think about his route, so consumed by the prize was he. Though technically the empire was still united, in truth she had begun to dissolve years ago, opportunistic demesnes and realms fracturing from the motherland. The logistics of keeping such a monolithic entity united were unrealistic at best. Her infrastructure was stretched to beyond breaking point. Her people were starving; food intended for the larger cities in the old nations siphoned by upstart settlements founded to take advantage of new mineral discoveries or woodlands that would be raped of their bounty until only a sterile waste remained. The inner nations, those that had lived under the imperial banners the longest, were without resources, soldiers and food; their populace lawless, withering. Trade suffered, the long routes that connected nations stretching for sometimes hundreds of miles without adequate protection. Banditry was rife. The so-called gifts of the Atramenta crippling babies before they even left the womb, were on the rise. The world was dying.

The empire was no haven. But still, it was better than the unknown; the heathen lands without her borders. Though itself fractured, slowly deteriorating, the empire of Korachan remained home as no foreign land could ever hope to be. Hers was a disease that was well-documented. Her woes were written in a tongue Baruch could fathom. The heathen lands – the ancient indifference of the Nameless Forest, the pagan sky deities of Ahrishen, the al akhi of the Grey Tombs and Thrones-knew what else besides – were something utterly alien and incomprehensible. Better the corruption and despair of within to the unknown dangers without.

“No,” said Baruch finally, “I suppose Propontis would be the better option.

The tikbalang nodded. “Where you going?”

“Rhamnous, most likely. I am not entirely sure yet, though we may need to travel farther north.”

“How far north?” said the other figure, speaking for the first time. His words were of perfect cadence. “If we are to offer our services we must know the details. Is this a trade venture?

Contraband, Food? A slaving caravan? Will we be travelling with Atramentists, other mercs?”

Baruch had dealt with caravan guards before. Normally they asked about the money and agreed, without bothering to ask much else. This man seemed on edge. He was asking too many question. In fairness he was asking nothing that, if Baruch were in his position, would not be asking. But still, the intensity of his enquiries was off-putting. “I am a scholar. The minutiae of my vocation will be of unlikely interest to you, but your questions are fair. I seek records of an extinct culture that existed here some millennia ago, before the rise of Korachan. Many months of travel and research have brought me full circle, back to the place where I began my search – Vârr. There is nothing illicit in my activities. I have full authorisation; warrants, letters of marque, proscription papers legalising my travels and research within imperial borders and those of her allies. I have the confidence of various fraternities and institutes, amongst them the colleges of Raalo in Azazem. Is seek not to smuggle food or trade in slaves. I just want the assurance of being well-guarded. I may be a man of the lectern, but I am not blind to Elyden’s afflictions. I know she is dangerous – I have travelled enough to know first-hand.”

“How far north?”

“Forgive my impertinence, but what difference does latitude make?”

The tikbalang grinned, though the giant’s features remained unchanged. “As you say, the world is not a safe place. I hear that the north of Vârr, the mountainous regions there, are unsafe.”

Baruch regarded the man for a moment. The mountains of northern Vârr featured prominently in his research. Varrachon, as the chain was called, was the site of various ruined settlements that belonged to the culture he was studying. He had to admit that it was likely that his dealings in Rhamnous might lead him there, but there was something about the giants’ eyes that stayed his tongue. He replied in the negative, saying they would likely remain in the capital or move west.

The merc nodded, the need for further words apparently unnecessary.

“I am Baruch of Raalo, aesthete and archaeologist to the governor of the fraternity of colleges in Raalo. I will be travelling with my apprentice and a handful of porters.”

“Small group. Good,” said the Tikbalang. “I am Oro of the Te loshugh realm in the Cartigia mountains. And this is Slaven, of nowhere.”

Baruch continued, giving further details, most of which were superfluous and uninteresting. He explained that he would pay them three hundred bits (a fortune to the troglodytes); one hundred to be paid up front, the rest upon reaching his benefactor in Rhamnous. A simple yet effective trick he had learnt to ensure their dedication to the job at hand – if the caravan were to fail, they would never receive the majority of their wages. “Then it is decided?”

The pair agreed.

Baruch smiled, eager to get these frustrating trivialities over with and get back to more important manners. He was about to shake hands but opted against the faux pas, deciding instead to give them his elbow; the traditional business gesture in Lyridia. The three touched elbows and Baruch departed after giving them instructions where to meet him the next day.

Slaven was silent as the pair drank. Oro eyed him for a moment, his grotesque smile marring an already alien face. “No need to look so pleased. We just gave the smile to another month of manual labour. I thought that was a good thing.” He downed his drink and sank into his chair, closing his eyes. He wasn’t even interested in his companion’s response. As long as food and drink and accommodation sorted for the foreseeable future, he didn’t care.

The other figure fidgeted, unable to make comfortable the small lounger he sat on. “It is not that. What know you of Vârr, Oro?”

“I know that thanks to it we’re employed again. I swear, not even the gilded lead of the Throne itself would get me back in those brickyards. It’s demeaning. We have a proud history.”

A proud history, thought Slaven, of subjugation and genocide that almost wiped you out. Still, he could not help but be lifted by the attitude of the tikbalang, who was uncaring where he was… too meticulous, worrying. Even in the few instances when he had seen Oro provoked into a fight, he had done so with such petulance as to make Slaven wonder if his vocation was one taken out of necessity rather than choice. Then again, who became a sword-for-hire through choice alone? In Slaven’s experience it was the world that shaped you, that carved your path. At least, he knew he hadn’t come to Lyridia hoping for… this.

No. His life had brought him to Lyridia for many reasons, none of which were the pursuit of a mercenary’s life. He had come to forget, to hide. But there was no hiding from his past. Wherever he went it caught up with him. So far the faceless crowds of troglodytes, the absence of the empire and his own skulking, had kept his presence there secret, but he knew fate had other plans for him. It was time to leave. But… Vârr. He had heard things of the place, things he did not like.

He asked Oro about Vârr again. The tikbalang shrugged, eyes still closed. “Imperial conquest farther back than I care to remember. Resources wasted in a matter of centuries, leaving the place a dry wasteland. Tough men, for humans.”

Slaven shook his head. “No. Forget that. The empire, the interreges, the regent-kings. Think farther back; ages. Myth.”

“What the… what is this about? Don’t tell me you’re brooding again. If you are, let me know so I can get a heads start sleeping.”

Slaven ignored him. “I have heard dark things about Vârr, about its past. A great evil slumbers there.”

“Well if you stop poking about, it won’t wake up.”

Another shake of the head. Slaven returned to his drink, knowing he would never get a straight answer out of his companion.

***

They left Amaymon without aplomb the next morning, leaving from its northern gate, travelling north along the banks of the great Bini river, its clear waters offering a welcome respite from the clouded water most imperial cities were forced to drink. It was wide, its waters slow flowing and shallow. The gentle undulations of the land visible for miles around.

Towards the end of the first day they encountered a group of mercs heading south across the flat plain. Both parties raised their right hands in sign of neutrality as they approached each other, their weapons visible, shouldered. Slaven had cautioned Baruch and the others before setting out – the road was dangerous. Travellers usually fell into two categories; those driven through desperation or necessity to travel or those too brave or wealthy to know otherwise. Both were tenacious and neither were to be trifled with. The dying man fought savagely for a chance to live. The merchant fought equally well – perhaps more-so – to protect his investments.

The approaching group appeared to be the latter. There were three of them, mounted, with two beasts carrying baggage behind them. Their clothes marked them as foreign men, probably from the imperial cities in the east. Wide-brimmed hats, heavy leather dusters, powderguns. As they approached, what at first appeared to be baggage was revealed to be heads; dozens of them, hanging from the hair from straps and belts on their mounts.

Bounty hunters, probably employed by the interreges to hunt absconding trogs. It was difficult enough entering Lyridian cities. Leaving them was another thing entirely; forbidden to troglodytes, who were expected to live and die in their place of birth. The punishment for those absconding was symbolic; the sundering of head from body and the display of those heads in public areas.

The hunters approached, sun-worn faces grimacing in the light cast by the setting sun. A curt nod from one of them was followed by silence. These were grizzled men, weary from what may have been weeks or months on the road, returning to Amaymon with a prize they were not willing to part with.

There was an awkward moment where the two groups passed each other and stopped. Suspicious glances were traded, examined, abandoned. If malicious intent was at work, it would have panned out. They had the riches of bounty to look forward to; there was no point in them starting fights. It was likely they were more weary of travellers; it would have been relatively easy for leftarms or outlaws to ambush them, kill them, steal their prize. Then again, they rode in open road so perhaps there was more confidence to them than Baruch had first assumed.

One of them eyed Baruch and nodded again, lifting a hand to the brim of his hat. He removed it, revealing a sweaty brow defaced by a harsh scar, the pocks of past sutures clearly visible. He wiped the brow with a filthy sleeve and replaced the hat. “Road’s safe, far as we can tell. Not likely to find any trouble before Soleas. Not trogs, at least,” he smiled. One of his companions laughed crudely.

Silence returned. Slaven nodded. There was a tangible pause before he continued. “You are the first bodies we pass since Amaymon.”

“Throne-protect you, as it protects us,” said one of the bounty hunters as he kicked his steed to life. The others followed him without word.

“Likewise,” said Oro, his words barely audible. Then, when the hunters were without earshot, “I suggest a double-watch tonight.”

The night past uneventfully, and they approached Soleas early the next day before the sun had reached its apex. The city was old, established as a religious hub and trade centre when Korachan was little more than a singular peninsula of rock, its people divided into seven city-states.

Soleas was known as the City of Sight, after the long history the augurs and their Sibyl had there. It was in Soleas that the first sibyl had rose to power, deposing the rulers of what would in later years fragment and become the states of Lyridia and Nárthel. The dawn of the age of the sibyl ushered a time of religious strength and prosperity, the centre of which was Soleas. Temples and Theastans were erected in which the augurs would orate and perform their demagogy. As time progressed and the sibyl and her augurs grew more influential, siphoning power from the old governance, Soleas lost administrative powers and became a religious base, its leadership fractured. In the void left by the withered bureaucracy stepped the sibyl and a time of unrivalled passion amongst Lyridia’s people.

Then the empire came. Soleas was sacked and abandoned in favour of a new political centre farther west. The old guard of the Lyridian religion remained in Soleas, though it suffered greatly under the imperial yoke. Trade diminished, regions fell to rot and the place was allowed to crumble into a dull echo of its once-great presence.

That was the place Baruch then saw beyond the city walls – a collection of limestone and mud-brick edifices; columnar temples and tarnished marble statues that led melancholically down hills and valleys to the banks of the Bini. There was a sadness about that place, the rows of time-worn foundations and ruins that stretched for miles outside the paltry city-walls reciting a tale of decay and collapse that few who were alive could understand. Hewn streets worn concave by the weight of time and shuffling feet cut through the city like dry veins, connecting silent buildings, bringing a semblance of life to disparate areas. There was little culture to speak of, save the oratoria dedicated to the sibyl and the Nine Watchers, whose heritage seemed to dominate all. A few spires rose tentatively above the low flat-roofed dwellings of the troglodytes, heavy bronze bells chiming languidly in the still air, beckoning soulless simpletons to prayer and veneration.

Xenophobia ran rampant in Soleas and the group had a hard time gaining entry into the place. Its walls; low wide limestone things, the design of which was out-dated centuries past; surrounded the place, their pitted surfaces barely evoking the strength of the settlement as they should have. They had been held at a verdigris-encrusted gate for some time as they awaited a verdict on their status. The guards had refused them entrance, until the arrival of a city-approved spokesperson, as was local custom. Upon the wretch’s arrival they spent hours discussing the nature of their visit, petitioning through their representative with another local administrative who had the right to approve entrance.

“The scars of war,” the administrative said, his skull-like face regarding them as little more than vermin, taut thin lips wrapping themselves with difficulty around the imperial words, “are plain to see. We do not welcome allies of the old empire. That one who has not felt the kiss of fleshy womb seeks the shelter of Soleas,” he said, turning to Slaven, “is an insult to the Sibyl and the Abulia. The right of entry into Soleas is denied.” He said, gesturing to the guards to eject them.

They slept outside the town that night, on golden hills that overlooked the solemn corpse that had denied them entry, the eyes of their refuters observing them diligently from walls they could not cross.

Oro and the porters were away gathering wood for the camp while the apprentice busied himself cataloguing the days’ events. The boy was good that way, thought Baruch. He would make a fine successor one day, when he had seen more of the world.

Baruch sat eating stale biscuits, eyes transfixed by the dancing flames. Across from him sat the silent giant. Not once since leaving Amaymon had he seen the man eat. Come to think of it he hadn’t noticed him drink, either.

The scholar stood and sat beside the giant. For some time the two sat ignoring each other, the only sound that of the fire crackling beneath open skies. Finally, his food finished, the gulf between the two unsettling him, Baruch spoke. “The official, he was talking about you, wasn’t he?”

Slaven blinked, his eyes turning from the flames to the scholar in the one motion. He was silent for some time before replying. “I know not what you speak of. The people of Soleas clearly bear a grudge against the empire. Why not? We only managed, in a few short years of battle, to ravage their land and steal its resources.”

“The Three-year war is an ancient conflict, one that few scholars know of. I only know of it through the diligence of my work on compiling the history of this land. How a sword-for-hire comes across such knowledge, I cannot fathom.”

“I have travelled more than you can imagine in my years. I have been here many times, have shared the road with many characters. You learn things.”

Baruch shook his head. “No. The one who knows not the kiss of fleshy womb; he said those words in reference to you. What did he, an official of a backwater town know about you that I have not yet reasoned? Who are you Slaven, of nowhere?”

“When we took the job there was talk of such probing. If you want us to finish the job I suggest you leave me be.”

“Surely, you must be hungry. I have not yet seen you eat, nor drink. Your pale skin, your size –”

His words were interrupted by the thump of wood on the ground. Oro had returned. “Not much I’m afraid, though there’s enough twigs and tinder to keep us going for the night.”

Baruch stared at the man, his words gone, the urge to delve deeper stifled for the time being. He nodded his gratitude (small as it was) and walked off, joining his apprentice.

“Something I said?”

“We should not have taken the job. Already the paper-shuffler suspects something.”

The tikbalang eyed him. “You? What were you expecting. He is a scholar. Granted, I doubt he’s marched with the legions but one who spends as much time as he pouring over annals and histories is bound to know more about you than plebs and trogs. Can’t be the first time it’s happened.”

Slaven shook his head. “No, it is not. And rarely does such a discovery end well. It is good Soleas would not have us.”

“Yes. Doubt they had a decent inn anyway.”

They lay in silence for a while, the highland air around them growing colder. Slaven was watching the stars, the thin clouds racing past them, when he spoke again. “I fear we march to our doom on this one Oro.”

The tikbalang raised an eyebrow. “Bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“But not unfounded. I asked you before we left Amaymon what you knew about Vârr. What know you of the Demiurges?”

“Old myths. Twenty-two slave-gods or something along those lines.”

“Two-and-twenty. And they were workers deities, not slaves. They shaped Elyden into what it is now, crafting the mountains and rivers and plains from the Shadow and the Helix at the behest of the Great Crafter.”

Oro looked around, seeing dry plains and barren hills beyond. “Nice work.”

Slaven ignored him. “The Demiurges fell from grace. They were entrusted to create the perfect world, and they did, only like dissatisfied artists, they knew not when perfection was reached, and they continued shaping, destroying the paradise they had created. Where once they had worked together, they grew dissonant, each adding more of himself into his work until the world became the discordant realm of air, rock, sea, ice that we know today. They were punished for their hubris and, shorn of their divinity were cast down upon Elyden where they became the leaders of men, their abilities still those of a god under the gaze of primitive men.

“But they yearned for divinity once more; the power to carve mountains, to set the course of a river, to shape coastlines and grant life to the manifold creatures they had devised. Some sought forgiveness. Others grew contemptuous of a punishment they knew they were undeserving of. Still others despaired, their minds shattered by the loss of their greater powers. Some theosophists liken it to a master craftsman going blind and losing the power of touch.

“Ropohaii was one such being. Some say he was greatest creator amongst those Demiurges, that his great works litter Elyden like discarded toys. Some claim the Pyrean Pyramid in northern Lyridia is of his design. The valley of Atalan and its giant monoliths. The pit of Bathanat. The Vorrohaghori. And countless others unnamed and undiscovered ruins and edifices too cyclopean, too desolate, to belong to the hands of any other.

“We march above his tomb, where vile secrets are said to be buried.”

“Myth. The demiurges might have been real, but that was millennia ago. What was real has been corrupted by time and storyteller’s one-upmanship into something else. It is the same with your empire’s god. He was once a demiurge but the propaganda of an empire that has used him for four thousand years has carved him into something that he never was.”

“I do not believe that. I, and others of my kind are first-hand evidence of that. I cannot believe that.”

“Don’t flatter your god, Slaven. The empire is capable of terrific – horrific, even – technarcane wonders though its own ingenuity, nothing more. Any civilisation that has existed unopposed for so long will rise so far above its contemporaries.”

Slaven shook his head. “No. There is divine providence at work here. And, much as Rachanael has shaped the empire in his image, so too has Ropohaii, or Vorropohaiah as he was once called, shaped his people under his own image. An image of despair, madness and decay.”

“Vorropohaiah?” Oro said. “That name, it reminds me of something. Yes; a mount along Vârr’s northern borders – the Varrachon. We camped there once, when I was enslaved in a travelling carnival. We were coming out of a dry spell in Korachan, hoping for better things in Vârr. How wrong we were. The people there are too dour, too close to death to worry about something as trivial as a carnival. We had some small successes in the larger settlements but even then it was nothing like what we needed to stay afloat. The harlequins would drink us dry. The occultists had their own list of requirements, whose costs we could not meet. I was nothing more than a slave, a novelty – freak in a cage, footnote to the Atramentists and their conjurations, the bomolochus and his jests, the archimime and his manipulation of the crowd. I was just a monster, sharing the spotlight with shadow-freaks and degenerates.

“We were following a tributary of the Ichoria north-west past Madour, heading north-east, when we first saw it; a misshapen flat-topped mountain, its sides unnaturally steep and naked. Immediately upon seeing it I recall a sense of dread overcoming me, as though dark portents crowned the place like some foul halo. I was not alone. The beasts proceeded under its shadow with great reticence and only the whips and chiding of the pack-masters would move them. The other freaks – the true freaks, who bodies were not true to their sires – were similarly agitated, braying and soiling themselves in fear. The performers, too, were unsettled and turned to the Green Fairy, as they so often did, for solace.

“Under the blood moon we camped, the performers and harlequins drinking about the camp-fire, growing rowdy. I could barely see them from my cage, but the sounds of debauched carousing had grown familiar to me and I felt safe behind my bars. When things had quietened down, the bulk of the roustabouts and performers having drunk themselves into a stupor, I remember hearing my keeper and a bomolochus talking about the region. Talk inevitably turned to that unnatural edifice that loomed over us. The bomolochus identified it as Varrachon and placed its creation in the prehistory of this world, when life was in its first iteration. He said that great mountain – its barren earth, its misshapen slopes, its aphotic crags – were the result of millennia of toil where millions of slaves and fanatics worked themselves to death ripping tunnels and caverns out of the bedrock of Vârr. The mountain is the waste-mound of that great effort, one I remember now was attributed to the whims of one of the old creator-gods.”

“Vorropohaiah.”

“Drunken campfire story.”

“We will see.”

***

A day out of Soleas they came across the ruin of the hunter’s exploits. Strewn across the base of a rocky knoll just off the road was a deserted camp. The place had grown from a temporary encampment to a shanty – semi-permanent structures built abutting the knoll, burlap tents flapping dejectedly in the dead wind. Around the settlement were the headless corpses of perhaps two dozen troglodytes. They gave the place a wide berth and continued, following the road north and west along the Bini river.

Lyridia was an insular place. People rarely left their own home and when they travelled it was never openly, for those who travelled did so against the wishes of the white-robes and always had something to hide. The road was lonely, empty, save for the memory of past times that greeted them every so-often in the form of deserted settlements and the ruins of ancient battles. They were deep in the region known to outsiders as Iblis, where the majority of true settlements were scattered. The rest of Lyridia was a collection of cave-dwelling troglodytes and their trogein mystics leading them. Though true, the place was still far from densely populated, as the ruins and open country bore testament to.

Across the river they saw the signs of an ancient battle, the bare skeletons of unidentified warriors half-buried in the hills. There was but one sign of their foe; the carcass of an imperial war machine – a steel oghur. The steel oghurs were the shock-troops and terror forces of the Steel legion. The pride of technarcane development, they were abyssal things; great lumbering constructs that married vat-born flesh with mechanical bodies and skin of steel. In action they were near-unstoppable to the crude heathens they so-often battled. Yet they were volatile things, their creation and maintenance as much attributed to prayer and hope as it was the technarcane marvels of the imperial world. They were expensive, intricate things that required legions of technarcanists and machinists to maintain as well as a steady supply of shadowstuff without which the fleshy core would wither and die. The example they saw was tarnished, its fleshy heart long since decayed, the remainder rusted and strewn across the hill, the ravages of time having clearly defeated it where legions of troglodytes had not.

“We may travel different lands and set foot in the homes of disparate cultures, but they are all tied by the same bloody history,” said Baruch as they passed the scene. They approached it early on their tenth day out of Soleas, seeing it across a bend in the river, beyond a wide masonry bridge. Immediately it stood as something different to the other settlements they had seen thus far. Where Soleas was a withered ruin and Amaymon was little more than an overgrown shanty, there remained about Vepar a remnant of its imperial history that set it apart from those pitiful places. It was the longest-serving imperial city in Lyridia and, following the annihilation of the Lyridian defences in the Three-year war, became the imperial centre in the nation. With the region’s resources abandoned and no strategic advantage to its maintenance, the place had been left in the care of the interreges over two centuries past, where it was allowed to wither. But somehow it had survived, marrying the memory of imperial culture to the encroaching beliefs of the slowly-returning Lyridians. It was one of the few places that encouraged growth and welcomed foreign trade even as other settlements shut their doors to merchants.

Walls of steel-capped stone cosseted the city from the world without, the spires and domes of imperial design rising above them in mock-splendour. For, what at first appeared to be a prosperous place was no more than another example of the worlds’ slow corruption. The imperial influence of the city served the group well and they were granted entry against a small premium. From inside they could see the state of the place. The great edifices of imperial history were little more than ruins, their walls crumbling, their steel domes rusted. Grey stone of imperial import rubbed against more recent additions; limestone hovels and mud-brick shanties that wound their way about each other like three-dimensional labyrinths, narrow walkways and stairs, skyways and public balconie leading into each other, rows of narrow doors indicating tiny homes beyond and a population that was densely packed. Roads were largely narrow, covered in filth; the descendants of troglodytic and proletariat unions filling them in droves that pushed against each other in echo of imperial cities, though the eerie silence of Lyridian culture lingered, if not to the extremes of Soleas and Amaymon.

Though the empire was gone, its traces were all too apparent. The technarcane crafts were evident in small and apparently wondrous volumes. Though present, the craft was something of an innovation, probably expensive and untrusted by the troglodytic mentality that seemed not to mesh well with change and progress. Though statues of the Undying Machine remained, they had clearly been allowed to crumble by the departing administration. Apparently the interreges were not as devout as their ancestors, as was apparent by the Abulic temples and presence of the white-robes. Still, imperial demagogues beckoned spectators from street-corners and fanatics of the Abulia walked the streets chanting the word of the sibyl. It was a clash of cultures that had long ago dispensed with rivalries and resolved to just exist together, the conjunction perhaps elevating the place above what it may have been had conflict reigned.

It was that marriage with what remained of the imperial influence that allowed them entry into Vepar. The place was a hive of activity, the actions of its residents exacerbated by the narrow streets and crowded plazas. The overarching shell of an imperial structure remained now as a market, its frame gutted of valuables long ago, covered in plaster and flaking stucco to better suit Lyridian aesthetics. Inside stood a great market, the hollow pointed arches that separated it from without bearing no evidence of their former lives as expansive stained-glass windows that stunk of imperial affluence and narcissism. There, traders and huckster, mongers and merchants, sold the essentials of Lyridian life. plants that had no counterparts in other lands lay limply from stalls, their odd leaves and tubers on display to the slaves of the interreges shopped for ingredients for the days’ meal. Livestock stood braying behind confining cells where they were auctioned off for breeding. Others of their kind were not so lucky as butchers busied themselves separating flesh from bone, selling meagre portions for inflated sums.

The sounds of a commotion drew the group onwards to a throng of people stood in a shapeless mob outside a food store, where rations of processed food were distributed to those desperate enough to push through that crowd. White-robes hurried those who had had their share along, ignoring the scuffles that erupted throughout the growing crowd. A train of filthy children – perhaps two dozen in all – passed them, large tin saucers filled with raw cloth and other materials balanced on their heads. Their blank faces, their languid bodies said as much about their fate as the chains that united them at the waist. In the opposite direction walked a man pushing a huge clay urn on a cart – a water carrier. Such a precious resource warranted a pair of minders who accompanied him, their steel pectorals glinting above their off-white robes. Others starred at them as they walked swiftly, before disappearing beyond the market. Scattered throughout the place they saw interreges-appointed censors, their technarcane-augmented bodies clearly visible on what could only be described as lecterns affixed to fanning columns, their large black eyes observing proceedings stoically. A gang of white-robes, their attire of a more imperial bent than the others they had seen so far, walked through the masses at the behest of those silent watchers.

Everywhere they looked, a sense of despair and oppression seemed to hang in the air. These people, like the land itself, were dying slow deaths. The place was stifling, with little freedom or chance for hope to survive. They bought what provisions they could in the wretched temperament of that place and waded through the streets, searching for the western gate.

And so their sojourn in the dying city was over. The hills of the Plaleph yawned from the thick blanket of fog that covered their feet, their heads glistening in the morning sun. In the distance, shrouded in a thick haze, stood the violent dyke known locally as Varen’s Back, its dark rocks protruding like a spine from the land.

They had stopped for the night on a flat boulder that stood over the plains overlooking that earthen monument. Baruch was writing, his portable desk open before him, scholarly paraphernalia arrayed on its surface. He had taken sketches of the formation before the last remnants of the suns’ influence had dissolved into darkness. Now he sat writing of his experiences in Lyridia; his discovery in Amaymon, the augur’s influence that held sway in Soleas, the decrepitude of Vepar. He paused, allowing his eyes to linger on Varen’s Back, the stark white glow of the Virgin Moon illuminating it. He had given more thought to Slaven, the accusations aimed at him in Soleas, his habits and physical properties. Physical properties, he grinned, as though the man were a mineral or ore to be examined. Memories were returning to him now, slowly, form dank parts of his mind where histories and customs examined years past had been lain to rest. The pale skin, the perfect frame, his size, the lack of appetite.

All the signs pointed towards the Legionnaires of the imperial armies, but if that were the case, what was one of the Steel Legion doing this far from the heathen crusades?

The sudden arrival of Slaven next to him destroyed any chance of further pondering.

The two sat in a palpable silence, one which Baruch felt was pregnant with a desire, on Slaven’s part, to speak. But something held the giant’s tongue. If his assumption were true, that Slaven was a legionnaire, then that would account for his brooding nature. The legionnaires had not been created to converse or barter. Their role was one of combat – stoic defence, ruthless offence, and a malleable mind that would readily accept orders. Even if he was right and Slaven was such a creature, then truly he was a flake that had fallen far from the girder.

Finally, the giant spoke. His voice was deliberate, his words premeditated. “What know you of Ropohaii?”

The words caught Baruch by surprise. For a moment he sat there, pen in hand, paper soaking up ink in a foul black spot as he stared at Slaven. “Of all the things I have thought you might be, an acolyte of our world’s mythology was not one of them.”

Slaven nodded silently, the motion subtle and almost inappropriate for one with so large a frame. “I have been to Vârr before, during the rule of the Seed of Axex. There I travelled with an esoter for some time. I learnt much from him.”

“But the line of Axex was deposed some five decades ago. That would make you sixty, at the least. It is rare for someone to live that long, let alone an itinerant. You do not look a day over twenty, nor do you bear the fatigue of the world as other do. Who are you?”

“I seek only to warn you of the path you take. Vârr is a haunted place. The echoes of dead gods linger in its valleys and quarries, poisoning the dreams of whoever travels there. I know.”

“As do I. this is not my first time in Vârr, and I doubt it will be my last. There are few extant authorities on the demiurges, yet I think I can afford the hubris of saying that I probably know more about Vorropohaiah – of Ropohaii, as most Korachani know him – than others. Why do you ask about him?”

“Vârr is the tomb of Ropohaii. Never is it good to disturb a body’s eternal sleep, but the rest of a deity?”

“I daresay we walk over his tomb already. Much is said of Vorropohaiah, as much is said of the demiurges and the myths of Elyden’s creation. Little of it is fact. Once, perhaps, before the rape of history and the corruption of loremasters and storytellers, there was a kernel of truth to such tales. That is what I do. I sift through the conjured truths, the fabricated histories and try to map what really happened. That is why artefacts like this,” he said, producing the stone from a compartment on his desk, “are invaluable to us. They give us tangible proof, something around which we can place the foundations of our research.”The scholar handed Slaven the object, who took it hesitantly. He turned it around in his hand, holding it up to the fire. The light caught the etched words through the translucent form, highlighting the alien symbols in stark lines that fascinated Slaven. “What does it say?”

Baruch smiled. “Would that I could tell you. The script is ancient, possibly a remnant of the first perfect tongue used by the Two-and-Twenty mortal tribes – which myth tells us was stripped from mortals by the creator god as punishment for their hubris; ‘never again would the mortals hold the power to work together and defy His will’. Almost certainly it is the script of the tribe of Vorropohaiah, evolved through the teachings and actions of the one you call Ropohaii. Yes,” he said, seeing the look of amazement on Slaven’s face, the first true expression he had seen the man make. “You see before you direct evidence of a demiurge’s actions; words that he propagated. This truly is his home; as the etymology of many local words show us. Vârr itself is named after him, as are most landmarks in the nation; though few are those who know it.

“What it says I cannot truly say, for this is a very primitive form of the script, one I am sadly unfamiliar with, but the roots of future words can be guessed at from these antediluvian glyphs. Though I make no presumptions as to the accuracy of my belief, I think that this is but one shard of a great monstrance or asterisk dedicated to Vorropohaiah, on which is inscribed a great liturgy, perhaps chronicling his exploits. I have managed to interpret part of the text.”

He motioned to a paper on the desk, cleared the surface, revealing clear dark text beneath which was a charcoal rubbing of the stone, the glyphs captured in negative form. Slaven read through the translation, skimming until he came across a reconstruction of the words:

… / great monuments (buildings?)… eternity stand… / great undertaking… toil… / in which we (our?)… earth which we (our?)… / eternity… / Vorropohaiah… great craft… / we (our?)… eternity… Vorropohaiah… / dreams for eternity… we (our?) / … / where the stones of our dead lie… / …

“Where the stones of our dead lie for eternity,” said Slaven aloud, the final words of the translation echoing in the darkness. “The stones of our dead. Grave markers?”

Baruch shrugged. “Who can tell. What on one hand is revealed by translations is lost on the other to syntax and context we cannot hope to know. Stones of the dead might refer to corpses, grave stones, offerings laid to rest with a body, or something altogether more… unusual.”

Slaven looked to him, questioningly.

Baruch smiled. A thing more devoid of humour there could not be. The expression faded, leaving a pale mask of indifference. “You say that the dreams of a dead god haunt Vârr. There are far more aberrant and grotesque things to be whispered of upon this dark windswept knoll. The world itself has lost all semblance of sanity. I have no need to tell you of the crumbling of civilisation; we have seen it in our travels from Amaymon, and will see more of it on the road to Vârr. In Kharkharadontis, the Atramenta grows ever closer. Plains of flesh writhe as though alive and sentient. Closer to home, the wombs of our own women produce creatures that can barely be deemed human. In manufactories across the Inner Sea, the line between machine and flesh grows ever blurred; what sanctity once rested in the temple of our bodies lost to the greed of so-called progress. In Kha