November 2nd, 1891
Voldoan Underground
Late in the afternoon

---

The past is the mold
For the clay of the future
Yet there is nothing to craft with
But the flesh of our fathers

---

“How’s Vammar doing?”

“Just fine. Haven’t had any problems with him lately.”

“Jeigh?”

“Fixed his leg two days ago, he’s doing well enough. I think I saw him wobbling a bit yesterday though.”

“Oro?”

“Ah… Oro just keeps chugging on no matter what happens to him. Proud of the old boy.”

Helena laughed. “I still think it’s so sweet how much you care for each of them.”

Thomas raised his mug of cocoa and smiled. “I know, I know… can’t help myself. I mean, I helped build them, so… I just warmed up to them and I think of them all as part of us.” He sipped his drink as his mother gave him that old crooked smile he loved so much. It was crooked because half her face was malformed into a grotesque blotch. Thomas didn’t pay it any mind, though. He grew up seeing her that way. She didn’t even bother using her long, dark brown hair to cover it up. And what amazed the both of them was that her right eye had remained perfectly intact, still a lovely blue without a film forming over it.

Thomas visited his mother’s room often, because he knew how much she would complain if he didn’t. He told her about current news, brought her drinks, all the sort. She never went topside on her own anymore, ever since about three years ago. Amazing how she, and so many other Tier III’s like her, neglected the importance of fresh air and managed to do just fine.

Most of them, at least.

“Flesh Golem fourteen down in south district.”

Both Thomas and Helena raised their heads at the sound of announcement, coming from the nearby wall-mounted speaking tube.

“Repeat, Flesh Golem fourteen down in south district. Someone go pick him up.”

“Well… there goes Jeigh’s leg again.” Helena said. She watched as Thomas drank the rest of his cocoa in one go. “Going to go see if you can get to him first?” She asked with a smirk. The moment Thomas finished his drink he replied, “No one knows that leg better than me.”

Thomas stood up from the wooden chair, setting the empty mug on Helena’s work desk. He picked up his flesh coat off of the chair and wrapped it around himself, leaving it undone like he always did. He grabbed his tool belt, made sure everything was in check, and then walked over and hugged his mother goodbye.

“Bye, dear.” She said to him, smiling. “Be safe up there.”

“I will, mum. Bye.”

Thomas closed the steel door behind him, sealing it. Out he stepped onto the steel walkways of the Voldoan Underground. He could see the layers of walkways both above and below him, more Engineers dressed in fleshy garbs going about their business. All around him were steel pipes, whirring, and dish lamps to light the way. Thomas made his way rightward, passing steel door after steel door, until he reached one of the many ladders dotting the walkway network. He grabbed on, and climbed upward, grateful no one else was using the same ladder at the time.

“…and they had to lock Sorenson up in his own room. Too sick to even work anymore.”

As Thomas climbed, he could hear two Engineers talking a couple walkways up.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“We’re handling it pretty well. It’s just a few isolated instances. Tier III’s say there’s nothing to worry about.”

“But the Tier III’s are the ones being affected by it?”

“It doesn’t spread, we know that much for certain. Just stay topside most hours and you’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“I know. I just… feel bad for them. The worst cases never even leave their rooms anymore.”

“It’s a shame. They won’t get to enjoy the festival.”

“Yeah…”

Thomas hadn’t realized he’d stopped to hear the whole conversation. He knew full well what those two were talking about… and it wasn’t a pleasant topic for anyone. Up to about a year ago, all those blemishes and mangy patches were easy enough to deal with. But now… some of the Tier III’s were starting to feel sick. Coughing fits, nausea, only a dozen ever vomited… but Sorenson being locked in his room was the first he heard of anything like that. The “Fleshblight”, as the Engineers called it, wasn’t contagious at all. Otherwise, Thomas would have caught it from his mother. She worked down in the Main Chamber, but not close enough to… well, it.

Still though… he hoped whatever happened to Sorenson wouldn’t happen to her. He brought her tonics and remedies from up top, and they always seemed to keep her from any actual sickness. But her face… it never got any better.

Thomas shook his head and pushed the thought aside. He didn’t want to dwell on it anymore, so he kept climbing.

Once he reached the top of the ladder, he stepped off onto the circular hallway. Through the portholes on the inner wall, he could see a great deal of Tier III Engineers operating on Flesh Golems lying on enormous metal slabs. When their mechanical parts ran down or they got a scratch, those were easy enough to fix topside. But when they broke something inside or lost a limb entirely, they got sent down there to be seen to by the professionals. Some of the Flesh Golems Thomas had named had ended up down there from time to time, but they always made it out after no longer than a month or two.

Thomas reached a locked elevator further down the hallway. He rustled his hand under his collar and pulled out a key attached to a string necklace. His Engineer’s Key, as all were given. He used it to unlock the gate, head inside, and lock it again. Inside the elevator, he inserted his key into the slot labeled "Workhouse" and turned it. The elevator began to rise, and he leaned against the railing as he ascended upwards to the city of Voldoa.

All the while, he was thinking about Jeigh, hoping he’d get to him first before anyone else did.

Like he said, no one knew that leg better than him.

And what of it?

These words cut through the silence of the abyss, causing the thousands- nay, millions -of tendrils, aglow in a wash of blue and green, to shudder and split.

Flesh Golem down...

As the noise faded into the background, he turned his gaze to the centre of the many tendrils, seeing one grow a dark crimson, pulsing gently, an ephemeral vein. With a subtle noise, it stretched across the darkness, reaching towards him. Nox was tempted to touch it. He hadn't seen mayhem in a long while, and his urges were great. This time, however, he felt something was slightly amiss. The tendril was jumpy; twitching, chaotic. This was not normal havoc he could sense, not a simple tug upon the fabric of time by lesser beings such as himself, or even the cry of a demi-god. No, this was a far more grandiose vibrancy that could only be described as "fate"; a word he despised in all its forms.

His musings broke free when the tendril violently shuddered and turned a bright violet. Curiosity began to crumble and turn to fear as he watched it reach out to him, its intent unfathomable. He couldn't tear his vision from the tendril as it drew ever closer.

Just as it was about to reach him, he felt something tug at the edge of his consciousness. As the tendril brushed against his form, he felt a surge of insurmountable pain- a rare occurrence for a demon -and abruptly awoke, bolting upright.

At least, he would have bolted upright, had he a body of sorts. He would have gasped for air, clawing at the ceiling for the first moments of waking from what was, for all intents and purposes, a nightmare. But he didn't.

Because he was a music box.

Well not a music box. He was trapped inside a music box, and as much as the store owner protested that he was basically a music box, he wasn't. That wasn't the matter at hand, however.

If Nox had a brow, it would have furrowed. Instead, pretty much instinctively, the music box let out a dischordant whine. Demon's dreams were oft prophetic, and this one was no different. But a violet tendril was not something he had encountered before, and the searing pain he experienced as it brushed him was incredible; terrifying, as it embarrassed him to admit. He had not felt a level of fear this great for many years. Havoc was a delightfully gleeful experience for a demon, but when the havoc extended beyond the mortal planes and reverberated through their very souls, it was no longer simply havoc. It was something more.

The fear had faded somewhat, but it remained as a splinter in his soul, and he had a feeling it would not leave so soon.

Snapping out of his musings for a moment, he focused upon his cage. With yet another dissonant chime, the music box sprouted a small, unblinking eye that began to move around, examining its surroundings.

The sky outside was dull and boring, at least to Nox. He sometimes enjoyed the sun, of course; the tales of his weakness being light were sources of endless amusement to him, as many an adventurer tried to destroy him by throwing petty torches or bolts of light, only to be consumed with little hesitation.

With a bit more focus, his weary mind forced the music box to sprout a few mechanical legs from its underside, wobbling to a standing position. He skittered over to the door, which, for some reason, was ajar, and wandered outside.

We carved so many children
From the generous pain below
The strong we sent to toil
And the weak we left to rot

---

Steam rose from the surrounding pipes as the elevator made its way upward. Thomas focused his gaze in the same direction, looking at the light gleaming past the gates at the top of the shaft. He held on to his key, fiddling with it in his hand, still a little bit eager to get to Jeigh sooner rather than later. Once the elevator reached the top of the shaft, Thomas used his key to open the gate to the Workhouse.

A single room in the entire building, about as spacious as a hotel lobby. Hardwood flooring, cracked beige walls, tall windows, and eight dish lamps illuminating it all from above. Dotting the perimeter of the room were rows upon rows of bins, lockers and canisters. They were all filled to the brim with spare tools, both familiar and alien, miscellaneous parts and salvage, ranging from steel leg bindings built for Flesh Golems, holding rods, gears of varying sizes, entire engines that ran on steam, metal plating to act as armor… The list could go on for much longer. But it didn’t need to.

Engineers were walking about the Workhouse, some chatting, some sifting through containers to find the parts they needed for whatever job they were looking to perform. Hanging over on a nearby wall were reinforced leather carrying cases, cylindrical with an open lid. Thomas closed the elevator gate behind him and made his way over, grabbed one, and then walked over to the bins marked “LEG COMPONENTS”. Jeigh was an older Golem, and his left leg had a history of inconveniences. Thomas grabbed several steel rods, two leg bindings, nuts, bolts, and some plating. Heavy load, but he handled it with relative ease. You work on Flesh Golems long enough and the meat on your bones turns into thick molasses. Not many Voldoans knew that though, because the Engineers never took their garbs off in public.

As Thomas hauled the case out of the building, his knack for unintentional eavesdropping kicked in again. Two Engineers, over by one of the counters.

“Eight tons of steel? Eight? Who the hell ordered this?”

“Tarblatt did. Months ago. And it wasn’t easy to run the deal through.”

“And it’s all in one trip? With just me and my men?”

“Look, just bring a Flesh Golem or two down with you to help with the load. You’re making it sound like it’s impossible.”

“What happened to the annual? Weren’t we supposed to get fifty tons last week?”

“Annual’s on hold for now. Silver Battalion’s starting to overlap our trade routes. Have to play it safe. Smaller loads, one at a time.”

“And eight tons is safe?”

“You’ll be fine. Load’s already waiting at the mountain base checkpoint. Just get going, you don’t want to put this off for too long.”

“Fine, fine.”

Thomas passed by the two as they wrapped up their conversation. At the mention of the Silver Battalion, he put on a bit of a scowl. When it came to people who were against the very existence of nonhuman entities, they took the top of the list as the most dangerous. The 58ers were the most brutal, the Order of Saint Derring were the most outspoken, but an entire troop of British soldiers turned monster hunters? Nothing beat that in terms of potential. They had the weaponry, the resources, the manpower… if they ever found Voldoa, it’d be nothing short of a war in its own right. They were certainly trying, but whenever they got close, the Engineers nudged them in a different direction someway, somehow. Might not work forever, though.

Thomas exited the building through the double doors. He stepped onto the patio, taking a minute to look around. The Workhouse, like many dotted around the city, lied in a circular center that led to pathways in most directions to get around easier. Thomas turned his head to see the tall, Gothic buildings and cobblestone streets, all under the darkening sky of the evening. He could see the steam stacks rising from the focal point of the city – the Grand Hall of the Engineers, where the Flesh Golems came and went. Right in the center. He could see decorations around many gates and windows and above the streets, for the coming festival. A lot of residents shared the mindset of not really caring, but some mythical beings were born for it – demons of lust and drink, maenads, ghosts and other such creatures. Whatever they may be, they all had their preferences, and they were all met here, in this city.

Many of them looked like humans, some naturally and some by will to conceal their other form, not that they needed to. Plenty more walked about outside of their shell, be it feathers or fur or a thin, slimy membrane. Men of the modern age would call them monsters, abominations, so on and so forth. Here, they were called residents. Friends. Voldoans.

If anywhere in the world were truly void of discrimination, it was this place. And Thomas was joyed to be a part of it.

A bellow in the distance made Thomas turn his head right. Through a street it lumbered, towering above the Voldoans with its head reaching over the rooftops of some of the larger buildings. Its skin was a grotesque blend of browns and blacks, with the faintest hints of red and purple. Its limbs were slender, spindly thing, with toes and fingers that looked outstretched and squirmy. All over its body were steel components that served to support its movements and keep it protected from punctures and impacts. It seemed almost like an exoskeleton, bolts driven into its skin but with no signs of discomfort or uneasiness. Its face was obstructed by a metal mask, serving no purpose but as a decoration, with a floodlight mounted on its crown. Attached to its back was a small platform built around a steam engine mounted on its spine, gears helping to turn the limbs and keep it upright. All of this came together to form one of the many Flesh Golems of Voldoa, the loyal creations and greatest tools of the Engineers.

And riding atop of it was another Tier II Engineer.

“Oi! Tommy!” He called out, looking down at Thomas. He proceed to bang a metal rod against the platform railing, signaling for the Flesh Golem to halt. It lowered itself to one knee, and the Engineer riding it kicked a rope ladder down for Thomas to climb. Once he was on the platform, he shook the Engineer’s hand and said, “Thank you, Sinclair.”

Robert Sinclair. One of Thomas’ friends since childhood. Not as much of a hard worker, but definitely not a slacker either. He was just more of a socialite than anything, commuting about town and spending afternoons at the pubs. Thomas couldn’t remember the last time he was down in the Voldoan Underground, even for sleep. He preferred the free rooms at the pubs. Needless to say, his face was completely clean. No patches or blemishes from working near… it.

“Of course, Tommy, of course! Out for a job or a drink?”

“Jeigh fell over in the south part of town. Leg must have given out again.”

“Don’t you think someone else has reached him by now?”

“Whether or not that’s the case, I want to make sure he’s alright. Jeigh’s one of my closest, you know that.”

“Ah, good ol’ Bum Leg Jeigh… right then, onward!”

Sinclair banged on the railing again. “South, m'boy, south!” He called out as the Flesh Golem rose from its kneeling position. It stood up, turned for a different street, and began its lumbering once again to help its masters save a Flesh Golem in need.

Lunatae let her back fall heavy against the makeshift booth in the sitting room turned bar; an exaggerated movement accompanied by an inflated sigh that sent pale strands quivering about her. She clicked her elongated canines and it was hard to tell if this was out of frustration, boredom or deep thought; and in truth it was an amalgamation of all, resulting in a definite restless tune.

“Can the consequences of suppression really be worse than all these restrictions?” It was one of those hopeful questions that pleaded against logic; a logic that had no hope. Suppression wasn’t a new concept to monsters; or humans and gods for that matter. But her current company was the former, and they were innately aware of the struggles with suppression.

One of the said companions, a towering burly Ghillie Dhu that went by the name of Beith, leaned across the table and through the fog of pot smoke and sage. He rested his elbows on the table between them and with their proximity limited the smell of birch swirled into the existing aroma. His race was wholly unaffected by the maenad influence so he was much calmer than the third member of their party. He was one of Lunatae’s few neighbors that could spend time with her at will; though they had very little in common beyond their persecution. There was their nature based heritage, though the Ghillie Dhu would never truly reconcile the corrosion of the Maenad birthright; Beith was much to kind to say as much. A compassionate expression crept onto his features with a curling of olive tinted lips.

“Would you like to examine that path again Lunatae?” His composure and soft way of speaking often came off as condescending, though it was simply an unintended result of birth. When describing Ghillie Dhu’s stoic was an oft used expression. The Nāgī, on the other hand, had never been described as stoic.

The Nāgī who sat at their table, a virulent lithe thing that was called Ksveda, slammed a snake scaled fist onto the table, causing Beith to blink and turn gradually towards her. When she spoke it was with a steady underlying hiss, “Sssupressssion isss out. It’sss alwaysss been out and jussst to be sssure we’ve rulsssed it out esssery time we hasss had thisss conversssation for the passst ten monthsss. Isssss tired of sssupressssion.”

Truthfully, Ksveda wouldn’t/shouldn’t even be here. She was a ferocious entity in and of herself and had plenty of struggles attempting to contain her own violent personality. She was here because in a time that most could not remember, during the Kurukshetra War, Lunatae and her had been friends. (Friend is a tricky translation for the native Sanskrit race as they had never been intimate beyond the battlefield and blood lust, but there was a loyalty there.) While Ksveda didn’t understand the want to stifle self, she did understand the particularly toxic pull of the maenad. Even now Ksveda was beginning to fidget and twitch as the thin bindings of morality wilted. She itched at her scales and began to stand to exit. The other two gave ginger nods, Beith even going so far as to rest a calming hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll see you at the festival, Ksveda? And we meet again next week?” Beith said.

Ksveda offered a curt nod before turning towards the door. Her movements recalled the slithering of a snake so prominently that there had been rumors spread for centuries about her serpentine tail, but Ksveda’s legs were suspectly ‘human’. As Ksveda disappeared out of the door Beith began to stand as well.

“You’re leaving me too?” Lunatae stated more than questioned and when Beith offered a halfhearted smile she should have guessed at the rooms newest occupant had already been sensed by the tree fae, for as Beith opened the door a smoky gunpowder smell drifted in. Following the over powering scent was its owner, a devil in the flesh, a charmer of virgins, a connoisseur of the crossroads and Lunatae’s closest compatriot.

“Oh Beitheeee, you aren’t leaving on my account are you?” slurred the breezy Loa. Beith made a face that suggested some non-stoic comment, but his nature persevered and he offered a curt nod and was gone. There were little to no creatures of the light that could bare Kalfu Loa. He would have made a disgusting and disturbing human being, as his mounts would suggest, but Beith (as always) lacked the aggressiveness to tell him as much. He, like so many others, merely avoided Kalfu.

Lunatae watched the exchange with a deep rooted pleasure. Sometimes even she wondered if she was only friends with Kalfu for the shock value, but what a denial of nature that thought was. The vein of their lifestyles was just a section of the same reservoir; feeding and nourishing the pleasure of others, giving them what they want. And for an unlikely turn Kalfu made Lunatae feel like the killjoy in comparison. For what she lacked in control, he had all of and just tossed it to the wind.

“Still meeting with the churchy council to control yourself love?” His condescension was not a flaw of nature as Beith’s was. No, his was intentional and accompanied with that same wicked sneer that had started the house fire of Delphine LaLaurie.

Lunatae knew of Kalfu’s disapproval and greeted it by reaching for her cigarettes on the table. A claw like digit tapped at the pack and she removed one. “Ksveda is fucking right.” She meant he was right too, but uttering those words may curse her entire philosophical pedigree. She placed the cigarette between her lips, her words traipsing around it, dancing with the vowels. “I’m sure Zeus would be snickering in his crab infested drawers. Sad little Lunatae stuck in monster paradise and I have to keep myself locked up or surrounded by personality deficient assholes.”

“Even I know Zeus never wore pants.” Kalfu rested an ashy fingertip on cigarette and it sprang to life. Her lips pursed around it and inhaled, her speech not faltering by Kalfu’s interruption.

“It’s just…” exhale “after that whole centaur explosion. The talk with the engineers. I feel more trapped here than I did out there.”

“Whatever happened to that centaur anyways? I haven’t seen him.” Kalfu was changing the subject. If anyone was tired of her pity party’s after party, it was he.

Lunatae was listening, though her eyes were tracing about the window. Her cognizance was wandering between self-pity and outer loathing. She turned back towards Kalfu eyes radiating with an unspoken fuck you that could also be noted in her reply, “I sure as hell haven’t seen him. They’ve restricted me from all centaurs, orcs and trolls – most races pending.”

“He killed that wolf baby. I’m sure the wolves took him beyond the wall and slaughtered him.” Kalfu said this as if it was a delightful speculation, but with his nature…as nosey as it is… he surely knew what had befallen all parties.

“And give up this safe haven?” Lunatae suspected the same, but had spent months convincing herself otherwise.

Kalfu shook his head so that thick dreads bounced against his shoulders. His lips cracked a tsk tsk. “Listen here girl, pack laws have been around centuries…you don’t just give them up.”

“Look, I have enough problems without worrying about a dead wolf and an out of control centaur. It was last festival. I’m sure everyone has forgotten.” Brown eyes flickered with a blue and then cracked red. Her sarcasm was wholly unconvincing. She rested her temples upon those inhuman fingers and rubbed, cigarette bobbing between her knuckles. Kalfu momentarily felt a bit of pity, but it was a strange an unfamiliar emotion and, as always, it was discarded with all those other strange and irrelevant emotions. He reached down and pulled Lunatae to her feet with a singular motion and she was moving towards the door before she had time to respond.

“You need a drink and more importantly…I need a drink.” And outside they went.

Arthur set the book he was reading down to look out of the window; it was day outside, which meant he had been reading through the night again. When you’re dead and have no need for sleep though, there’s not much you can do to pass time at night, other than haunting and terrorizing the living. The latter option was a bit stretched nowadays with the humans hunting down mythical beings because they were “abominations”. Sighing deeply, Arthur marked his place in the book he had been reading and left it on the small table next to the armchair he had been “sitting” in. He got up from the chair, floating a few inches off of the ground and looked around at his library, admiring his collection, most of which was provided by the Engineers; they had even gone so far as to locate and restore the collection of books he had had in life.

He left the library and came out on to a staircase that spiraled downward. Arthur made his way down to the entrance hall, passing bare stone walls, the only thing to break the monotony of the slate grey walls was the occasional alcove with a dusty and coppery candelabra with sputtering candles to provide small orbs of yellow light here and there on the staircase. The staircase ended in a small entrance hall with a heavy wooden door that led outside, but instead of drifting toward that door, Arthur drifted to a wall just under the staircase and phased right through it and came out over a large pit with a faint light at the bottom. Arthur drifted downward until he came to the bottom of the pit, which was actually a lab, for lack of better words. There were herbs, mortar and pestles, scrolls, and spellbooks of all sorts spread out over many tables. This hidden room was where he continued the practice of his dark arts. He kept it hidden no only out of habit, but out of the want of privacy as well. He didn’t want just anyone to barge into his work space.

He was grateful to the Engineers for building this hidden lab of his in the stone tower they filled with books for him as well in the city they built for others such as him. He appreciated it, but he hated feeling as if he was in their debt and didn’t know how to break this feeling of his; perhaps that’s why the Engineers built this city for the mythical beings, to have them be in their debt and use that debt to have the Voldoans do whatever they asked of them. This was why he delved as far as he could and tried to find out as much as possible about the Engineers. He wanted to know why they would just build an entire city for the mythical beings being hunted by the humans and just let them live there under the protection of their spells and the Flesh Golems, especially when the Engineers were human themselves.

Arthur drifted over to one of the many tables in the hidden lab and peered down at the work he left there; there were scrolls held open with heavy books and stones with strange writings on them. He hovered there and studied the scroll for a while before he grabbed a nearby pen and a piece of parchment that was already halfway filled with writing and went back to his work of translating this scroll that could hold some old truth of magic.

If we were created in God’s image
Then perhaps it was wise
Not to repeat such a mistake
When our turn to create something came

---

A pathway, sided by a row of houses and a small public garden. Voldoans gathered around the fallen Flesh Golem in the middle of the street, some of them children poking at its skin with an innocent yet freakish sense of curiosity, which was common enough for young Voldoans. The Flesh Golem’s left leg was a complete mess, the rods protruding in peculiar directions and the leg bindings unhinged. The leg itself was rendered misshapen without the contraptions holding it together. It was laying on the cobblestone like a strip of soggy meat. Flesh Golems didn’t have bones, that’s what the metal was for in the first place.

The Flesh Golem in question was covered in intricate markings. Rows upon rows of etchings akin to fabric embroidery and kitchenware decoration, all by one hand. Its chest, void of any metal augmentations, had a name carved into the skin.

“Jeigh!”

The Flesh Golem bellowed behind its peculiar mask at the sound of its name. The Voldoans surrounding it backed away as it attempted to lift itself up, only to fall back down with a very audible thud. The residents turned their heads to a nearby street corner in the distance as another Flesh Golem, upright and active with two Engineers riding atop it, entered the area. It hunched itself over after it was given the signal to do so, with one of the Engineers quickly dismounting the platform and landing on the cobblestone, seemingly in a hurry to see to the Flesh Golem’s leg.

“Lucky you.” Robert called out, “Guess no one else was in this part of the neighborhood at the time.”

Thomas ran over to Jeigh’s side as the Flesh Golem bellowed once more, with an audible sense of despair. “It’s alright Jeigh!” The Engineer called out, patting the giant’s head. “I’ll get you back up and running in no time at all.”

“Are you certain of that?” Robert called out, standing beside Jeigh’s broken leg. As Thomas joined him, he pointed at the mess and said, “This doesn’t look like any quick reparation. You may have the parts, but the leg itself looks rather beaten. It might give out again if he stands up.”

“Nonsense.” Thomas replied, kneeling down and placing his supplies on the ground next to the leg. “He’ll be fine.”

“Oh, Thomas, at least consider having him wheeled in? They could carve him a new leg and he’d be right as rain in a week!”

“Look, just…” Thomas looked back up at Robert and said, “I’d rather not have him go through that, alright? He doesn’t like it. None of them do.”

Robert sighed and shook his head as Thomas turned away and began gently removing the snapped bindings from Jeigh’s leg. He had to admire that sense of parenthood he possessed. Flesh Golems did feel pain, after all. They weren’t designed too, but when the Engineer’s carved them from it, well… They evolved. Muscles, nerves, all the sort. Working themselves up to greater levels of strength. Never grew any bones, still. But they had that matter in check. Jeigh was one of the oldest Flesh Golems in Voldoa, from the first batch that Thomas and his mother Helena had a hand in carving. One of the oldest and, therefore, one of the frailest. And Thomas had managed to keep him out of the Underground for quite a few years.

He couldn’t keep him out of there forever, though. Try as he might.

“Alright!” Robert called out, turning to the surrounding party of Voldoans, “Can anyone tell me what happened here?”

A young nymph, with green skin and amber eyes and leaves for hair, wearing a simple white garment, walked over to Robert from the nearby garden. “He fell.” She said, with a rather weak voice.

“And… could you tell me what led to his falling?” Robert replied, a brow raised.

“There’s nothing else. He was stumbling through the square when we all saw him. It looked like his leg was jammed or, something. It broke apart, and he fell down.”

Robert lowered his head in disappointment. “Thank you.” He said politely, turning away from the nymph. He turned his gaze back to Thomas and watched him carefully replace each old leg component with a brand new one. He made sure the rods fit perfectly, and all the braces were nice and taut. And he did it all with this… smile, etched across his face. Like a parent treating a child’s leg when they got a scrape on the knee while playing outside. Thomas was just so… compassionate. Robert always thought it was a result of his father’s death and his mother’s waning condition. But whatever the case, these Flesh Golems… he was more likeable to them than any other Engineer he could think of, not even Tarblatt.

Robert took a seat on a bench next to the garden, watching Thomas the whole time. He would wait until later to tell him that, whether he approved or not, Jeigh had to take a trip to the Underground.

The nymph sat down next to Robert, watching Thomas as well.

“He really cares about that thing, doesn’t he?” She asked.

Robert sighed once more.

“I guess they’re not just things to him.”