Recycled nightmares, or perhaps merely memories, stretched and distorted as the cerebral scenarios played across a dormant mind. Some things were more vivid than others.

She hugged her mother for the last time…

…the smell of death…

She came to the new, terrible world…

…the smell of death…

She realized that the back-up battery was no longer working…

…the smell of death…

Once-rapid movements of closed eyes had long, long since stilled. She no longer had eyes to move. The desiccated lids pulled away from each other, revealing slivers of the hollows within. All of her softer tissues had withered, clinging to the long bones that had slowly slumped downward, freed from those tendons and ligaments that had held them in order.

How long had she been dead in this damned box? No way to tell, though it felt nearly as long as she’d spent alive… awake… free…

Nothing got in, nothing got out.



That had been the point, hadn’t it?

And it worked.



Whatever eons wheeled through the firmament far above could thrust no trace deep enough into the earth to reach her.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Nothing, until that faint, quivering, feeble halo pulsed into perception. Fluttering life force, miniscule web of mana wrapped around vital organs, fragile like a butterfly, fragile like…

…A human?

Oh, that was so much worse…

How many would it take? What if it was just the one?

A moment’s pause for a deep breath, as if she still needed one, as if there was any air left in the damned box, as if her lungs weren’t mixed into the same homogenized pool around her ankles as was all of the rest of her.

“Blessings and curses both lie in the beholder’s eye.”

Or some such sentiment passed on by that bitter bitch who’d raised her. She had been too stubborn to die, too.

That’s how she’d ended up here, after all.

…fragile like a butterfly, body and mind, ready to crack like spun glass at the slightest tap…

DIG

She watched the pulsating emanation flare for a moment.

DIG

Another swell in the mortal’s mana.

DIG

A tremble, then a flicker, and the web turned a more familiar shade.

Good.



Whether days or hours passed, either way, other halos joined the first and the more there were, the faster they approached.

So close. So very, very…

One orb descended rapidly, then extinguished altogether a moment later.

Poor bastard must have fallen…

Whatever happened to the-

A new shape appeared. Two in fact, though one was thoroughly eclipsed by the brighter, stronger force. No pulse, no life to be found in either of them, only a steady emanation from both. Different from her own and yet still…

Undead.

As that pair approached, the miners busied themselves with lowering each other into the vault. She watched their little lives huddle around her, felt the vibrations of their tools as her sheer will alone, that whispering compulsion, gnawing on their minds, forced them to swing again and again with all their might until-

At last what she could only assume was the mortals’ master, or masters, finally arrived.

Quicker than her sluggish, rousing consciousness could process, someone pried the lid from her horrible little prison. Putrid fluid spilled out immediately, releasing all the stenches of rot. She heard, for the first time in- the wretched gods only knew -how long, several pairs of feet skid backwards on the sand-dusted floor.

Sand? All the way down here? Impossible! Even under this wretched world...

Huddled bones remained within the tiny chamber. Frail, dead hands wrapped around some… something… glowing just enough to cast a sickly green fog over a slice of the room. The miners spoke quickly and fearfully to each other in their simple language, already-pale faces turned nearly white beneath the verdant mask.

One of them bolted for the rope and crude harness attached, clear across the vault.

The green glow brightened, and the miner’s legs buckled. Sand swirled slowly around the chamber, sticking in the rancid puddle just before the casket. The miner tried to crawl towards his escape, but instead began to slide towards the growing light. One by one, his bones began to snap as he neared the little chamber, starting with his feet. When the next bone snapped, the previous one contorted, twisting his legs around like so much bleeding candy being shaped, until white fragments pierced his skin.

The mortal’s agonized wails couldn’t cover the sound of his pelvis splintering beneath some crushing, unseen force. The harrowing seconds finally brought him within reach of an incredibly long arm. The skeletal limb whipped out like a viper’s strike and snatched the human’s mangled ankle. Remnants of skin cracked and fell away from her with the movement, while little threads of that same green light wrapped and flowed around the bones beneath.

With one hand removed, the source of the green glow was revealed to be not in her hands, but jammed deep into her exposed sternum. Little webs of healed bone wove around the junction between the strange stone and its vessel. The stone had been there for quite some time before she had died.

The other miners found themselves frozen in terror, except for the quivering of their legs, as if every muscle tensed in anctipication of their flight-response restored. Forced to watch by their own fear, they saw their fellow man hollowed out until his remaining bones collapsed and were ground to dust by the power of the stone, or the corpse. Every speck of the miner was swept up in some fel wind and twisted around the skeleton in the box.

The empty hand opened as the arm retracted to grip one edge of the sarcophagus while the other hand reached out for the opposite side. The sounds of clanking bone and crackling skin accompanied the jilting movements of the thing as she pulled herself up and out of her prison. The remnants of long garments hung from the figure, swaying with her as she stood, while the magic threads pulled each of her displaced bones home and began to knit them back together with… whatever was left of the miner.

The sarcophagus, which had seemed unnecessarily large just moments before, was apparently barely tall enough to contain her extended frame. She loomed over all others present by at least a full meter, though, presently, she didn’t seem to notice any of them.

Tendons stretched down her fingers while she watched with her empty sockets, testing the new movement at her apparent leisure. Her head tilted slightly as she turned each of her hands in kind. Ligaments began to fill in the hollows of her jaws and throat, though the empty blackness where her eyes had once been remained unchanged.

In these idle moments, the mortals found their footing again and darted towards the harness. They nearly tripped each other, perhaps purposefully, in their mad scramble to escape.

Ne’hekara’s head jerked, like a hound sighting its quarry. She snatched up the closest heartbeat easily in her long reach. The second miner lifted with ease in her grasp, despite his kicking limbs and clawing hands. At least she drained every last fiber of vigor from him straight away. No need to cripple what she’d already caught. The wiry man went limp, just before his remaining soft tissues rapidly dissolved as she tossed the corpse away, sending his loose bones clattering across the vault’s alloy-tiled floor. With the particularly horrific scent of masticated bone, every remaining piece of the miner slithered in dusty veins to join with Ne’hekara’s legs as the tendrils trailed upwards, turning into red and yellow vines of connective tissues.

Another human clung to the rope, inching his way up with his own hands and feet; there was no one left at the top to pull him.

The other mortals’ fingernails began to peel away, one by bloody one, as they clawed at the seamless walls in futile desperation. Their quickened hummingbird-hearts looked like tiny strobing lights to Ne’hekara’s internal vision.

An echo of subtle, sinister laughter bounced about the chamber, a fitting accompaniment to the dry smirk curling Ne’hekara’s skeletal features.

In quick, due time her graciously provided feast was finished while the other two entities remained placid.

When she had finished, her form had mostly filled the remnants of her discolored garments, the cloth stained with all the muddled hues of decomposition, in stark contrast to the pale flesh beneath. Visible, too, through all the holes in the tattered cloth, was a network of lines that seemed embedded in her skin. Metallic glints flickered in the light of an untended flame from a shattered lantern, destroyed minutes before in the death struggles. The lines twisted and twirled in ornate patterns that covered her body, from her bony feet to the empty sockets of her eyes.

An audible throb radiated out from the green stone, sending ripples of verdant light along the metallic lines in a flurry of crackling sparks. The sparks illuminated the ornaments along her sleek black braids, all beginning just below her narrow shoulders, twisted and plated in intricate patterns that wove their way down to the floor and rested in neat piles at the discolored hem of what had once been her billowing robes and fine gown, all rotted to shreds and dingy with decay. Her hair had clearly continued to grow after she was entombed, with loose strands falling over a golden circlet on her brow.

Finally, Ne’hekara seemed to remember the others as she glimpsed them again through her slightly thickened fingers. With a few long strides, she approached them.

Eyes had finally filled her empty sockets and she blinked repeatedly as she leaned down towards the larger of the pair. With each blink, the reflected light over her eyes changed hue until she straightened suddenly to tower over him once again.

Her head tilted further with each syllable she spoke, like some unsettling owl. “Fe-renc-zy?” The ligaments in her throat moved visibly with her words, though the rasp of her voice cleared slowly. “The last time I saw you, Drefen had you chained to a wall in Cur’Chu’Al’s dungeon, feeding you to that paras-” Ne’hekara paused and curled a finger over her thin lip. “Oh, I see. His experiments were eventually successful, then.”

She brought her face close to Ferenczy again, so quickly this time that the breeze her movements made carried her scent, that of moldering books in a damp and disused library, though thankfully rid of the stench of rot.

“And what a fine little lab rat you did turn out to be, after all. How many centuries have you survived, then? Perhaps millenia?” Ne’hekara inquired, her head tilting again with the same ravenous curiosity. She glanced briefly over her shoulder at the containment pod.

“Perhaps I have been out of the great game for longer than I thought.” She whispered to herself.

Antigone kneeled before her father, her face downturned and eyes ever-restless as always. Unable to stop herself, her eyes counted every little stone, every discernable fleck of rock and sand within her field of vision. Every detail was observed, noted, and translated. Who had walked there and where they had come from and what that might mean for the assassin-heiress.

“Find out why Black Spire suddenly needs so much more… sustenance… than usual.” Nessioi commanded with his voice like gravel grating on stone. He took a leisurely drag from the hookah beside him, where he lounged perpetually on a cushioned dias at the center of his audience chamber. “The truth of it, my dear Antigone, however you can obtain it. If Ferenczy means to make a move on the mortal civilizations, I’d like to buy our way out of that conflict before it starts.” The Old Goat continued through a cloudy exhalation of sweet-smelling smoke.

Antigone was grateful to be bent below the lingering layer of mind-warping haze, though less grateful for being sent to the wamphyri stronghold. The mere thought of the heinous symbiotes and their ancient lord sent a chill through her copper skin, but business was business, and the wamphyri were very profitable clients.

Despite her disquiet, she replied: “Of course.” Her contralto voice had a surprisingly rich tone despite her slight frame. She rose and turned in one quick, fluid motion. Her sand-toned skirts sliced soundlessly through the air, and her cloven feet left not a whisper upon the dark sandstone floor. Antigone would not be heard, unless she wanted to.

Guards straightened as she passed, each giving a respectful nod, though she was nearly two feet shorter than they, without even accounting for the lengthy horns curving backward ever so slightly over their dark-haired heads, making the spears in their hands almost seem thricely redundant.

She made her way through her father’s sprawling palace within the red rock of Thermopoli, through ornately-carved corridors, past countless intricate tapestries, crossing thick carpets rich in both colors and designs, stopping only to fill her supply pack along the way. From her own apartments, she retrieved a gold and ruby amulet adorned with the crest of the wamphyri lord, a symbol decrying her certain level of diplomatic immunity on their land. She would hang it around her neck later, but first, into her pack it went, so that no one within the city might discern her destination. Along with the amulet, she collected the other basic trappings for a brief journey into the Dune Seas: some light rations, a waterskin, and, most notably, a heavy layered-canvas tent that would be her only protection if she found herself caught in a sudden sandstorm.

Finally, she stepped out into the shadowed courtyard at the center of the city. There, a ceaselessly-tended olive tree, once merely a tiny seedling that had first sprouted on another world, the World That Was Lost, still grew with its gnarled roots dug into sandy soil that was continually nourished by its caretakers. Generations of young satyrs had honed their natural agility as they harvested the purple-gray olives amongst its sprawling branches, which reached upward past several layers of the city.

Through the tree’s canopy, Antigone could see the suns’ set streaking its first colors across the desert sky far above. Soon, the cool hours of the night would settle into the sands of the Western Dune Seas that stretched between Thermopoli and the dreaded Black Spire.

Antigone tightened the thick leather strap across her chest, securing her pack, before leaping up onto the ledge of the next floor. With the ease of much practice, her hooves found purchase on the tiny lip of railing while she calculated her next leap. A housekeeper gasped loudly at Antigone’s sudden appearance, nearly dropping the neatly folded linens she carried. Without apology, the assassin-heiress was already bounding towards the next ledge. She wouldn’t waste a minute of the night’s mercy by taking the long way through the ever-crowded subterranean city. She could suffer the heat of the day if needed, sure, but she wished to save her strength, lest she find herself caught off-guard at the Spire, and risk becoming just another source of “sustenance” for the tower’s residents.

Antigone vaulted over the final railing surrounding the city’s uppermost layer and passed through the open doors of Thermopoli, which were closed only in times of imminent threat. The passage was crowded with carts and the stout beasts that pulled them as the many petty merchants, artisans, and traders made their nightly commute to the market on the surface of the steppe. Lines of shops, stalls, and stands wound around the rim of the city in a bustling web of thriving commerce.

The small satyr melded with the diverse patrons making their various ways through the narrow aisles between the stalls that were selling everything from new pottery to street food. Antigone plucked a snack of candied fruits speared on a skewer from one of the food-stalls, but the shopkeeper denied her attempt to pay with a fearful gesture. “No charge. No, no charge, Lady Antigone. No charge.” The sweaty man repeated himself until she put her heavy purse back into her pack. He dabbed at his forehead with a dingy cloth once she had disappeared back into the crowd. Whatever debt he must owe Nessioi wasn’t her business that night.

The vast majority of the market’s patrons passed her by without notice. Towering elves stooped to peruse the multitudinous wares, some in elegant urban dresses and others in the utilitarian outfittings of desert nomads, while dwarvish crafters shouldered their way through the throngs in an eager search for their kin, with whom they would trade their differing minerals, metals, and other materials from the mine-cities that were bored into mountains near and far.

At the edge of the market, Antigone pressed her way towards a stable where beasts of burden of every description were tethered. Reptilian bogas shook their feathery manes at each other, scaled heads bobbing in communication, bodies moving to adjust the heavy leather saddles on their backs. The piercing screeches of two saber-toothed hares mingled with the sudden shouts of their keepers as an altercation ensued between the animals.

Upon sighting Antigone, a stablehand hurried away after a deep bow towards the assassin-heiress and returned swiftly with a leadrope in hand. Emerging from the stable behind the worker, came a beast that most simply called a Six-Stride, though some older elves still used the name their ancient ancestors had given it: Sleipnah’o’duhai, a multisyllabic mouthful which directly translated to some poetic phrase about a legendary beast that ‘eats the desert.’ Antigone simply called the thing Useful.

Feral herds of the six-legged beasts still roamed all of the Dune Seas indiscriminately. Their pale coats were just thick enough to protect their skin, while reflecting the searing suns’ light. At night, the creatures were practically fluorescent under the magenta moonligh. Still, they were much too skittish and too swift for the desert’s predators to catch with any regularity, and so their numbers were limited almost entirely by the availability of what little water they needed to survive.

Useful, however, was a domesticated variety bred specifically for traveling discreetly at night by Antigone’s own assassin ancestors. Its darker coat wasn’t reflective like that of its wild kin, and the decreased thermoregulation was mitigated by life in a stable. Not great for prolonged ventures into the desert, but Useful could assuredly carry Antigone to the Black Spire by sunrise.

She nodded thanks to the stablehand, who backed away with another bow. After she’d attached her pack to Useful’s saddle, she gave a quiet whistle like the distant whoop-call of a nigthbird and the creature kneeled with a wheezy little grunt. Even kneeling, the animal’s back was nearly too high for Antigone to see over. It turned to sniff her and laid its heavy head on her shoulder. Antigone huffed impatiently, but begrudgingly gave Useful a few stiff pats on its muscular neck before hopping up into the smaller fore-compartment of the large saddle.

Another whistle-whoop and Useful stood again. Antigone settled into her seat and tapped the heels of her hooves against the beast’s shoulders. Useful eagerly alighted into a brisk trot, picking its own path through the thinning crowd at the edge of the market. Once they reached the open sand, Antigone wheeled the beast towards the west after a quick glance at the stars above. Another tap from her heels, and Useful accelerated into a smooth gallop.

Trusting Useful to maintain their course through whatever sense the Six-Strides possessed to guide them across the desert to seasonal oases which sustained them, Antigone soon climbed back into the larger of the saddle’s compartments. She laid back on the cushion there and the sounds of Useful’s three pairs of flat feet slapping rhythmically against the sand lulled Antigone to sleep. She knew that the beast would spot any approaching threat long before she could, waking her with-

That wheezing grunt snapped Antigone out of slumber. Something was amiss, making Useful uneasy. The satyr assassin sat up and scanned the horizon for movement. Finding nothing, she glanced again at the sky. The moons had already passed each other, meaning her journey was just over halfway complete. Halfway between points of civilization was not a great place to be isolated and ambushed. Still, there were no ominous shadows of a building sandstorm across the sky either, so what had spooked Useful?

Antigone looked around again and finally spotted an odd glow just beyond the edge of the cliff-face that marked the border of the Gray-Skins’ land, where anyone found after dark without appropriate business with the wamphyri’s lord was fair game for his… progeny. Antigone slowed Useful to a quiet walk as they approached the light, which flickered like a campfire though the glow it cast was quite blue, even under the violet night sky.

As Useful approached the edge, Antigone could see the shadow of a gully in the sand, leading to a fresh cut in the scarlet sandstone where something quite large had recently smashed through the cliff-face. Chunks of the bright stone looked especially red against the sand under the light of the Morrigans’ Moon as it sank towards the Southern horizon.

Antigone bid her mount to kneel again and left Useful’s noisy bulk out of sight as she approached the cliff-face. She dropped to the sand and peaked over the edge to spot the source of the blue light. It was, in fact, surprisingly enough, a small fire perhaps ten meters below her.

She squinted, struggling to make out the shape of the figure near the fire, only to fail at suppressing a reflexive jerk backwards once she began to discern the details.

What in the fuck…

Antigone had seen many, many strange things in her travels, but nothing like what she had just seen reaching out to tend the fire.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t a one of the Runner’s Rangers maintaining the truce-boundary from the ravenous young wamphyri, and it wasn’t one of Ferenczy’s fledglings, camped near the border in hopes of catching some lost traveler unaware, and that meant it wasn’t her problem. She had her orders.

She soundlessly pushed herself back from the ledge and returned to Useful, leading the creature a little ways down the cliff’s edge until she was sure nothing could see that far in the desert-dark, if it hadn’t already seen her peak over the ledge. The cliff had just enough slope to it that anything nimble enough could pick its path down with surmountable difficulty.

Antigone continued to lead while behind her, Useful had slightly more trouble finding its footing and sent a few loose bits of sandstone tumbling down the incline. The sound of the rocks was muffled by the sand, but something on the desert floor began to wail and flash a bright red light.

Antigone immediately looked back towards the fire, and saw it blocked by the shadow of a standing figure, while she and Useful froze in shock from the deafening sound and blinding light, so clearly illuminated by the strobe of an automated sentinel staked into nearby sand.

“Oh! Oh… I… Oh, no.” Thessi stammered, leaning away from Bartholomew.

He, her pupil, had just managed to sneak a brief kiss onto her lips, quite unexpectedly.

A nervous smile curled Thessi’s lips before she could politely hide it behind her delicate hand. Rings on all of her thin fingers glinted in the cozy orange light of a nearby lamp.

She considered for a quick moment.

Bartholomew wasn’t necessarily unattractive, for a human, at least. Skin tanned from hours of recreation under the desert suns, fine muscles discernible even under his loose shirt, thick brown hair curling just above his dark brows and striking blue eyes.

Still… at a mere 35 years of age, he was just so… young.

Quickly, she stood and began gathering her things. The delicate chiming of jewelry accompanied her movements as the elf-maiden shoved loose sheets of parchment into a leather-bound book and placed her vibrant quill and a vial of wizards’ ink into their case. She stooped to grab a few fallen pages from the thick rug beneath her silk-slippered feet. Each turn of her head shook the fine chains and sparkling stones hanging about her long ears.

With all of her belongings finally in hand, she moved to step away from the table. Bartholomew grabbed her wrist and said, “I just want to be somebody that means something to you.” There was a flood of sincerity in his words, so much that it seemed forced. There was something equally unsettling about the way his grip on her tightened, trying to keep her tethered next to him.

That was too much, to impose on her person in such a way. She felt her temper threatening to snap.

A silent, momentary challenge passed between them as she looked from their hands to his face, before pulling hers away with a pointed jerk. His grip, no matter how strong, meant little to an elf. The following curl of her lip was nothing less than a snarl for just a moment, accompanied by the hum of mana concentrating around her. A deep breath lifted her breast as her fist clenched amidst the growing wisps of shadow beginning to orbit it.

She could do it. She could simply drop him through the floor, to wherever things went when they couldn’t escape her Void.

Behind her, a jagged gash cut the air itself. It opened and another hand appeared, one so pale that the animated web of black veins writhed visibly within. It jutted out from the Void as the tear continued to peel open with a sickening sound like flesh rending. Some unidentifiable fluid dripped from the hand and dribbled from the swirling edge of the gash itself.

Thessi finally exhaled. While she continued staring down the seated man, the Void Walker reached out and slipped her own hand into the reaching one.

“We have been good friends, Bartholomew, but I believe you should find a new tutor now.” Thessi said with a smile, bright like the edge of a cutting blade to match the cold steel of her eyes. The flabbergasted man watched her turn with his mouth still hanging slightly agape.

Led along by the hand’s gentle pull, Thessi stepped through the tear. “It was just a- …kiss.” The dejected voice carried through as she disappeared into the darkness beyond the lamp-light’s reach.

In her place, an eye, massive and lidless, appeared. It came closer and closer to the tear until it pressed against the edges, stretching them with its curved girth, threatening to come through.

It stared at him until he was sure the swirling black iris would somehow drag him down into its hollow spiral. Too afraid to move, he could only let the fear spread across his features. When Bartholomew seemed sufficiently horrified, the eye retreated and the gash stitched itself closed again with squelching, reaching threads.

In the dim, cavernous space on the other side of the portal, Thessi muttered angrily to herself while she awaited the opening of the exit. With a huff, she straightened her corset and knocked a fold from her skirts. “...’come study the arcane with me, I can’t configure this glyph properly’…” She went on in a mocking tone of Bartholomew’s voice. “Stupid, stupid-”

A rumble beneath her feet cut her sentence short.

“Oh? Do you have something to contribute?” Thessi snapped, looking upwards, to where some distant light cast the foggy silhouette of a massive heart against a towering, membranous curtain. The shadowed heart throbbed in slow, colossal rhythm, pumping that strange, thick, black blood through the web of veins and capillaries that wove their way over the surrounding tissues.

The visceral surface she stood upon fell rapidly in a sharp, exasperated exhale.

A smaller rift appeared near Thessi’s feet. Through it, she could see a richly furnished room where a gaggle of young men, both humans and elves, lounged on couches and in armchairs. None of them noticed the peephole above them.

“That stuck-up bitch thinks she’s too good for you, too, eh?” A familiar voice scoffed.

“I told you so.” Another familiar voice chimed in.

“Whatever. At least I don’t have to pretend to be her friend anymore.” A third voice, Bartholomew’s, grumbled from his brooding perch on a couch.

“Not to mention that freaky… what do they call it? Void magic? Her brother’s got it, too.”

Thessi’s jaw clenched as the exchange went on.

Eventually, the group of rejected suitors revealed their intent to merely marry into her family’s substantial wealth.

She was trying, and failing to smother her temper a second time, so focused on steadying her breathing that she didn’t notice her own hand moving reflexively.

The spy-hole snapped closed just before a dagger sank into the flesh where it had been. Thessi had pulled the blade from its hidden sheath in her corset and intended, however subconsciously, to fling it through the portal.

A groan echoed around her.

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry. I didn’t-” She poured apologies as she retrieved her knife. The black blood slithered off the blade of its own accord and Thessi slid it back into its home within her bodice.

“Thank you.” Gratitude weighed on her words, having realized that her patron had kept her from doing something very stupid. After all, sending a dagger with her esteemed family’s crest molded into the pommel through a young aristocrat’s throat was hardly befitting of a respectable elf-maiden.

Thessi watched the wound that her dagger had made as it healed in seconds. All the spilled fluid retracted itself before the puncture closed, as if Time itself wound backwards just a little bit, for just that little cluster of matter.

She gazed back up at the slowly-beating heart.

“Will you ever speak to me? Will you ever tell me what you are, or of the world you live in?” Thessi asked suddenly with poignant existential curiosity in her voice.

The distant beat of the colossal heart marked each stretching, tensing moment of silence as it passed.

Thessi abandoned her expectation of an answer, when a whisper pressed right against her ear. In the very corner of her vision, she could barely see tendrils of black curls undulating slowly, each one leaving a trace of itself lingering behind as it moved. Lips colored by the black blood flowing within brushed her skin and sent a chill like no other down her spine.

“I may speak, but I haven’t much to say.”

The voice spoke in overlapping languages. Some hissed and some purred and some rumbled like thunder. The many tongues made a chimera of words meant for many worlds, as if each word would somehow find its way into a different ear that would understand, somewhere, sometime.

Thessi felt her knees weakening, her eyes rolling, her blood pounding. The pressure of the whisperer’s presence was crushing her, though all the while she felt that she might simply explode. Black-veined arms held her steady as she began to collapse.

Then, she was falling, falling much faster and further than a simple faint to the floor.

The comforting warmth of the Void was ripped away and on the edge of consciousness, she recognized the familiar chilly bite of desert-night air.

Her fluttering eyelids managed to open just as the rift above her was closing. As awareness returned to her body, she realized that she’d been laid prone on a soft carpet. She sat up and found herself in the dim, unoccupied living space of the rented home she was sharing with her brother and their companion. The moons’ light came through the tall windows, casting a violet hue over everything.

The echo of the whisperer’s strange voice haunted her thoughts, sending another wave of fear over her.

She hadn’t much time to consider the events further, though.

On edge, she whipped around at the sound of the front doors’ latch being undone. One hand came alight with magic, while the others’ fingertips danced against the hilt of her dagger.

When her brother staggered through the door, she relaxed. “Damn you, scaring me like that.” She said, as if her standing alone in the darkened home, poised to fight, wasn’t strange in and of itself.

With a clap of her slender hands, an oil-lamp flickered to life on a nearby table. Thessi sighed heavily as soon as she took one look at her twin, and the dark stain of blood down his chin and onto his shirt, his dusty, tousled hair, and- gods, was he missing a boot?

Then again, what else were brothers for, if not embarrassing her and the family…

“Well, come on, then, let’s have a look.” She said, taking his face in her hands and turning it side to side. Thessi winced at the sight of his still-crooked nose. At least something about this night was normal.

“Let’s get you cleaned up before anyone else sees you and Father sends us another letter about our ‘mutual responsibility to maintain the social standing of our proud and noble line, carried through the eons by dutiful scions such as ourselves.’” Thessi said, forcing her voice deeper into a parody of their father’s while she quoted him.

Since she could actually see what she was doing, she easily straightened his nose with a tiny zap of basic healing magic, then took his bloodied shirt and left him to wash off the rest. He could take care of replacing his boot, too. A barefoot walk to the cobbler’s might teach him a lesson.

She hesitated on the other side of the closed door to the bath. She could hear the crude, noisy pump already filling the tub. Finally, she called through the door: “Meet me in that room that barely passes for a ‘study’ when you’re done. Something strange has happened to me, and we must discuss.”

The shyr lord watched with a mixture of curiosity and morbid glee as the strange creature leaped from slave to slave, draining them as a water deprived slave drains water skins as she was soon the only one standing amidst the dead. The creature was now reborn, standing even taller than himself. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he'd have even doubted that this female had once truly been a decaying corpse. Now it stepped forward and leaned in to examine him. While the one with him stepped back nervously, Canak stood still as a statue, or perhaps more apt a corpse, as she examined him and began speaking his name with some difficulty. To his keen ears he could sense that her vocal chords were still forming. Even on top of that, the syllables seemed a bit unfamiliar and clumsy in her mouth. Despite all that, she'd done something quite peculiar; she called him by name. Soon enough she began speaking of things long since consumed by the shifting sands of time itself. His head tilted the slightest fraction of an inch. The movement was....unnatural. It was too smooth, too mechanical, like a wheel turning.

"Fascinating. Truly fascinating" he mused, mostly to himself. She'd uttered names that stirred up ancient memories. Pain, the scent of excrement and urine, the taste of blood and dust, and the madness, gods the madness. He could remember vaguely through the haze of insanity wandering through the cruel deserts. He could remember being so hungry for blood that he'd began ripping the skin off of his own face. Gods how long had he been that way? A wild animal set loose in a place that wasn't meant for him. An animal that soon enough adapted to survive. Keen senses that burned through the fog and gave him clarity. A caterpillar that had emerged into a deadly butterfly. A slight condescending smile began to curl at the edges of his mouth as he finally took a moment to reply to this woman he realized he knew.

"Longer than you Ne'hekara" he purred. He glanced to sarcophagus that once entombed her and felt that smile grow even more till the tips of his cruel fangs were peeking out from his lips. "A queen entombed in her own palace but powerless to do anything about it. A bitter irony indeed" he mused. His thoughts moved at inhuman speeds as he soon felt a thought come to the front of his undead mind. He glanced back to his underling and with the wave of a finger, he summoned them forth. "This woman is our guest. Escort her to the upper chambers, call for fresh water, fresh clothes, and.....food if she so desires it" he said with a cruel and knowing smile. He turned to leave but stopped, glancing back to who had once been the Dead Empress.

"We have much to discuss, you and I" he uttered with a wicked smile.

After some time had passed and Ne'hekara had been properly fed, washed, and clothed; Lord Canak entered the room she'd been given and took a moment to look around. The room had fine enough accommodations and was decorated with several of her now inactive Immortals, skeletal machines that appeared to be made from a strange black metal. The skeletal figures were all distinct in one way or another to each other and all were nearly as old as the spire itself. All still radiated the faintest amount of magic. Thibor took a seat at a table and looked to the former Dead Empress and smiled wickedly. "I trust my servants have given you all that you needed, minus perhaps the answers you are likely seeking" he mentioned, motioning to a seat across from him so that they could speak in a civil manner.

"As you likely have noticed, much time has passed since the last time we saw one another. The sands of these lands have shifted and forgotten of your reign as it's dark queen, forgotten the horrors that my kind once wrought across the lands of the Old World, and that is precisely what we want" he said with a smooth, no nonsense voice. He wasn't speaking out of turn, wasn't stating an opinion, he was declaring an unarguable fact that time had passed and that the memories of mortals were short indeed.

---

Tharos moved through the back alleys and side streets of the Shining City as best as he could without being noticed. True, if he was thinking clearly he'd might have gathered his will and opened a rift into his home using the Void Magic that he and his sister were born with. Alas, his head was muddled with alcohol and bruises. He hissed as he stepped on a sharp stone and took a moment to sit down, rubbing the injured appendage. How he'd managed to lose ANOTHER boot he'd never know. Somewhere around the city was a left boot with no foot to fill it and no match nearby. He chuckled at the thought as he eventually began his hobbling back towards home. He wasn't looking forward to the look she'd likely give him but it was one he was used to by now. Just had to bear his teeth and endure it he supposed. It didn't take long before Tharos was standing in the shadow of their home. He was prepared to try and come into the house quietly but alas, his sister it seemed had been prepared for company of the worst sort as he stood in the threshold and blinked at the sight of her concentrated spell and the dagger she was preparing to draw.

"Expecting a burglar?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. He chuckled when she mentioned scaring her. "If it is any consolation, you scared me Thessi. I didn't know what to expect but my sister prepared to fight to the death wasn't it" he said as he closed and locked the door behind him. He stood a bit sheepishly as she examined his injuries. His nose had been straightened a bit but it wasn't his most clean work. He rolled his eyes when she mentioned their father. The man was too worried about their reputation and image. More apt he was more worried about HIS reputation and image. He was going to bite his tongue on that matter though. He'd made his feelings known about this for years now. He hissed as she properly fixed his nose now and sighed a bit in relief. He gave up the blooded shirt for her as she left him to clean himself up and raised an eyebrow as she insisted he meet her in the 'study' when he was finished. He took some time to wash the blood and dirt off his person and before long he'd had his hair tied back and a proper pair of clean clothes on.

"Alright, no longer look like I've been dragged by a cart; what is this you said about something strange. I'm ASSUMING it has something to do with how you greeted me earlier" he said with a raised eyebrow as he took a seat and rubbed his bruised face

---

It had been at least 2 weeks since the Zitan by the name "Twitch" had left the Shining City. Twitch preferred being in the deserts rather than the cities that were within the stone barriers that shielded them. True, he found it all fascinating as an outsider but being an outsider also meant he was different and often despised. He made his peace with it and generally kept to himself. After all he was allotted the chance to explore the deserts and the remains of the Masari thanks to his employers and friends; Thessi and Tharos. Not many took well to Skavvers like himself. After all they were quite unpleasant and alien looking compared to the foreigners, though he'd likely say the same thing if the roles were reversed. He supposed he could understand the general animosity he supposed. It was the eyes he wagered, too many of them.

Thessi and Tharos however were different. The Twins had recognized he had a talent and didn't mean any harm. After a time, they employed him. After a bit more, they befriended him and even allowed him to keep some of the things he found out in the Dune Seas. In his time he'd managed to not only find a Masari Sentinel that was in relatively good condition but all the parts to get it operational again. True, it wasn't in pristine condition but Masari artifacts were second to none. You couldn't do better if you'd tried. Needless to say, that machine was quite useful out in the deserts when Twitch was alone. It wasn't easily killed either and could be dismissed into a small floating machine that could materialize and de-materialize the Sentinel. Quite impressive! Twitch wasn't quite sure how it was made, how it worked, or why but that was half the fun after all.

Now he was stuck in the Dune Sea and unable to move his skimmer. He examined the skimmer as night came about and shook his head in exasperation. He wasn't going to be able to salvage the skimmer or the items on board. Not all of them anyway. He tapped his chitinous finger against his jaw as he looked around and came to the conclusion that rather than abandon everything, he could build a sled that he could physically pull and save some of the more valuable artifacts. The Zitan started by summoning the Sentinel and instructing it to stand watch for intruders in a given perimeter (thank the Makers that it picked up on his sign language) as he set to work salvaging wood and rope to build a large enough sled that he could comfortably pull and still save as much as possible. It was crude but it would serve him well enough.

A shrill screech caught Twitch's attention as the large humanoid machine sprang to life and drew it's shield and spear. Twitch looked around to see there was nothing of note until he caught the machine's gaze at the cliffs above. Twitch didn't suspect it was an animal. It didn't smell like an animal anyway. He scanned the edge and could only assume perhaps it was an outsider.

"You.....outsider? Hide......on.....cliff?" he called out. He didn't speak the common tongue well. It was clumsy and required a bit of concentration to communicate in such a way. A by product of being an insect like creature that developed in a different manner than the more mammalian creatures that roamed these deserts...

In the shadow of the cliff-face, bright crescents of steel flashed under the violet moons’-light.

Antigone held her twin daggers at the ready as she spoke.

“You are the outsider here, rhysh-alir.” She said, the Sartoi slur hissing through her teeth. Hornless One, a trespasser, an outsider.

Her eyes locked on the armed and shielded figure beside the strange creature. She’d definitely seen things like it before, unlike the thing trying to speak. However, she’d never seen one move, didn’t know that they could. The long-inanimate machines were sold for top coin as decorative artifacts, ancient remnants of whatever society had lived amongst the dunes before the first Exiles had arrived.

It did not rush to attack her, but she suspected it would defend the stuttering creature if she made her move, since the thing readied no weapon of its own. Unsure of the automaton’s capabilities, Antigone opted for the diplomatic alternative.

There could be something valuable in this discovery, after all.

She stepped forward into the waning moons’ light, lowering her daggers halfway in response to the machine matching her advance.With her restless eyes darting back and forth between them, reflecting the different hues of moonlight, she kept watch on both of them. She noted the sled full of ancient technology near the bizarre pair, more or less confirming to her that the croaking one could utilize the Masari relics. If she could bring this thing into the fold, her family’s ever-growing ‘influence’ in Thermopoli could turn into something much more significant, much more secure.

“To whom do you swear loyalty?” Antigone said with a bit of a sneer, but still lowered her weapons a fraction more. With a flick of her thumb, a ring twisted loose near the hilt of one dagger. Weapon still in-hand, the Satyr flipped the ring like a coin then flicked it in Twitch’s direction. “Whatever they’re paying you, we’ll give you double in Thermopoli,” she gave a sarcastic little bow, while her arm gestured wide towards the direction she’d come from, “the cliff-city within the steppe.” She clarified and pointed more intentionally. “Show that ring to any Satyr there and they’ll take you where you need to go.”

However the insectoid thing responded didn’t matter much to Antigone. If it accepted her offer, she’d be glad for the easier path. If it denied her… Well, as long as it stood on this world, a creature so conspicuous couldn’t hide from Nessioi’s assassin-cultists for very long.

Either way, she still had her business at the Black Spire.

A quick whistle from Antigone, and Useful lifted its head. Sand poured from the beast’s fuzzy maw as it crunched down another mouthful. The Satyr leapt nimbly back into the saddle, resting her daggers on her leather-plated thighs. “I hope to see you there, Strange One.”

“I’m terribly sorry about that, Tharos. I was, obviously, on edge. I still am, if I’m being honest…” The elf-maiden apologized and explained with the intertwining, flowing syllables of the New Fae tongue. She sat at the only table, placed directly in the middle of the modest study. Shelves lined the surrounding walls, but most were empty, while the others were half-filled at best. A single oil-lamp on the tabletop cast its orange light and flickering shadows around the room.

Too lost in thought, she didn’t look at him as he moved to sit. Instead, her grim gaze stared through the worn rug at their feet while her mind raced for how to explain.

Thessi glanced quickly towards her brother’s shirt, which was already spotless again, thanks to a little magic unbinding the blood from the cloth. “Here.” She slid it across the table to her brother, then returned to nervously wringing her hands. “Easy fix.” She said, buying herself another moment to think.

Finally, she blurted out a statement as simple as it was vague: “It spoke to me.”

There was a moment of fretful hesitation before she continued. “That Which Breathes Below, it… it spoke to me.” Another momentary pause while her fingertips tapped the tabletop, giving her train of thought an opportunity to jump tracks.

“...Do you remember the stories that Grandmother used to tell us? About when she was young and small, and still… still living on the Conquered World? About how their gods lived among them?” Thessi rambled on, before stopping again to search his face, making sure he was following. “She said they ruled from mighty temples, where only their most devout acolytes could enter, because the very presence of a true god could be lethal to the uninitiated, cause others to collapse, even break bones and cause hemorrhaging…” She took a deep breath, preparing to face the feeling of recollecting what she’d felt in her own brief but poignant encounter.

“I think that’s what it is… a god.” Her voice quieted, as though something might manifest at the behest of just a word. “When it spoke to me, I felt like I was being crushed from all directions. Its voice chilled me through every vein, down through my very spine, with merely a whisper.” She drummed her fingers along the table again. “And that voice… or voices… I can’t begin to describe.” She continued, then gave a sudden, odd chuckle. “It was worse than the most pretentious poets back home, these strange languages all speaking over and between each other…”

She finally looked at Tharos for more than an instant, with mounting fear continuing to darken her expression. “Grandmother said that the gods destroyed the Old World with their grudges and their games...” She suddenly gripped his hand, a little too tight for comfort, and leaned forward intently. “What if this is the beginning of another terrible end?”

"No harm done....literally and metaphorically" he said with a chuckle and a grin. Her brother might have felt just a bit different if she'd used the blade. Thankfully that hadn't been the case and thankfully he hadn't gotten more injured than he already was. Still, it did beg the question as to why she was on edge. He was judging by her posture and demeanor that something had happened as she took his shirt and used The Art to clean the garment. The way she wrung her hands and seemed lost in her own thoughts. He was patient as he put the shirt back on and waited for her to speak. He raised an eyebrow when she eventually spoke in vague terms. 'It spoke to me' was incredibly vague and unhelpful but she thankfully continued by explaining that she'd heard from That Which Breathes Below. He sat and listened when she eventually asked about the stories their Cor O'Si used to tell.

"Vaguely. Though I'm also kinda hazy this morning..." he admitted with a sip of water. He was indeed following but he felt a bit embarrassed he wasn't recalling the stories. Not exactly anyway. A byproduct of too much drinking, a few too many blows, and a rambunctious childhood. He felt some of the fog clear a bit as she mentioned the stories of pilgrims who would journey great distances to see the temples of the Elderkin and Fledgkin, that the presence of such deities caused physical harm to those who weren't prepared for the encounter.

"I remember her mentioning how her father would journey to Ar Shanta to make offerings to Tel'Arrn" he recalled. She continued to mention her encounter and how it felt: the pain, the voice or voices sending an icy chill through her. He frowned a bit. It did sound like That Which Breathes Below and it didn't bode well. She took his hand and pondered if what their grandmother had said was true, if this was the beginning of another terrible end. He set his water down before he rubbed her hand reassuringly, sighing gently through his nose. "I don't know. I BELIEVE you saw something and you aren't one to lie, that's my job. I say we put this behind us for now until we know more. One occurrence doesn't necessarily mean the end times" he assured her. He pat her hand and offered a warm and reassuring smile.

"Until then, I got a lead on something that might interest you" he said as he produced a parchment from his pocket. The parchment was a rough map with details written on the map that denoted that something was occurring there. A dig of some sort. "I heard from a fairly reliable source that there was a Masari site uncovered only a few days journey from Nekhmu. Biggest and best preserved they'd ever seen according to them. If we get lucky, we might be able to get there and find a few things worth our time and worth someone else's money" he said with a smile.

_{• Ar Shanta - "The Elder Tree" Temple of the Hunter
• Tel'Arrn - "The Storm" God of the Hunt
• Cor O'Si - Grandparents}

---

WORK IN PROGRESS!

Nekhara stared down at him with her huge, sunken eyes reflecting the verdant glow emanating from the rot-smeared stone in her breast.

…Powerless!?

Powerless!?

Shyss Canak dares to call ME powerless!?

Illuminated by the unsteady green light, tendons bulged beneath her paper-thin skin as her jaw clenched, letting Shyss know that his quip had cut right to the bone.

…of all the wretched faces to see upon rising from the grave…

But, to retaliate in her weakened state would be utterly foolish, so Nekhara let Canak have his little victory in her sullen silence. Instead, her eyes moved languidly to look past Canak.

Her partially-rehydrated eyes felt sticky in their sockets. What little fluid had formed made for gritty movements that she could feel against the insides of her eyelids. Artificial lenses were barely suspended in the overly-viscous humors and struggled to cycle. The thick fluid made a haze that required additional compensation to focus properly until finally, Nekhara could discern the parasitic puppeteer for which she was searching.

Fused with the butler’s spinal column was… something else. Egregious differences in tissue structures showed Nekhara how the foreign tendrils spread into each limb in a cruel mockery of the host’s nervous system.

…Shyr Polaes, the Blood-Drinker…

An eon had passed since she’d first witnessed the things wriggling and writhing over smoldering ground. So small, so insignificant, they had seemed then, but how insidious they’d quickly proved.

The Masari had studied the stars long before they’d gone to join them, and called everything they found amongst them by a single word old as the first world they’d left behind:

…vatyr…

Outsider.

Alien.

Wrenched from her studious reverie, Nekhara’s brow lifted in surprise as she witnessed the innumerable unnatural sinews suddenly multiply and expand throughout the once-mortal limbs. With a single great leap, the monster within compelled the man’s form through the crudely-made ingress point above.

…my skin is not my own, but at least I can be certain my mind is…

With another blink of her large eyes, Nekhara took a moment to calculate the distance for herself. A splattering of formulae displayed the computations, along with a single rune flashing a warning in red.

She couldn’t make the same jump.

Not in a single leap, not as she was, not with what little fuel the malnourished mortals had provided to her shriveled organs and depleted components. Her eyes closed briefly to mourn her last shreds of dignity.

…I’d rather climb back into that fucking box than ask for a helping hand from Canak…

Which left her with a single, slightly less abhorrent option.

The geometric patterns just beneath her skin pulsed with a dim light as her half-machine heart struggled to pump the requisite materials through dormant constructs within her limbs.

She started across the chamber and her long strides quickened to a loping sprint, a laborious lead-up to a much less impressive leap that placed her a few meters below the tunnel’s end. She met with the seamless paneling exactly where the computations had marked. The clank of metal snapping to meet metal was immediately followed by a pained yelp escaping Nekhara. The impact’s force had split her fragile skin wherever her magnetized bones met the metal wall.

Smears of her thick blood left a sticky trail of odd tracks on the paneling as she climbed, moving with the humiliating posture of some horrifically elongated skink scurrying along a garden wall. Clumps of the decayed fabric sloughed free from her dangling garments, landing with wet smacks on the floor below as she scuttled along.

Finally, she pulled herself over the lip of the tunnel’s entrance and tried to stand. The claustrophobic tunnel was barely tall enough for the wiry men that had carved it from the bedrock, one swing of their bloody-handled tools at a time. Nekhara was nearly twice that height, forcing her to remain bent like some aged crone. The crystalline implant in her sternum was the only light within the cramped tunnel. Swirling shadows swam along the stone walls and eerie shades reflected from the artificial components in Nekhara’s eyes, while the two abominations stared at each other while the slow, silent seconds stretched tediously thin.

“Well?” The ghoulish Elf snapped with thoroughly indignant impatience.

With a wordless huff, Canak’s valet turned succinctly on his boot heels and proceeded upwards along the gently-sloped passage.

Nekhara noticed that Shyss was still lingering in the chamber below, but she hadn’t time to ponder why before the rough-hewn ceiling fileted a swath of her scalp open. The exposed portion of her alloy-augmented skull sparked against another jagged projection. She flinched and stumbled with an irritated hiss.

The butler wheeled around at the sound as Nekhara returned the strip of flesh to its place. Threadlike filaments reached out to meet the precipice of desiccated dermis. The dark fluid seeping from the wound dripped down the side of her face slowly as sap. The valet’s face folded into a hideously inhuman snarl, and Nekhara took some small comfort in knowing that there wasn’t enough blood in her circulatory fluid to prove appetizing to the Shyr Polaes.

Avoiding the ceiling, and another visceral inconvenience, forced Nekhara to all but crawl the remaining distance behind her appointed escort. The climb seemed endless under the weight of her humiliation, though the runes at the edge of her view tracked just under a kilometer before she could see the lamplight ahead.

Finally emerging from the tunnel, Nekhara could once again stand upright. She inhaled deeply as she straightened, attempting to savor her first chance to truly stretch since she’d gone to ground so long ago. The accompanying inhale, her first full breath of the chamber’s air, caused her to reflexively retch, and deactivate her olfactory processors. She’d been entombed with her own rotting flesh and still the overwhelming warren-stench of unwashed bodies was as recognizable to Nekhara as it was, regretfully, memorable.

…humans…

She could see their sun-starved, grime-smeared faces peering at her between the guards that had apparently gathered in response to the echoing screams of dying men. Each of their gleaming breastplates showed Canak’s ancient crest molded into the metal. Their weapons were readied, but they hesitated at the sight of Canak’s own valet. The butler stood alone between Nekhara and the cluster of guards. Stoic as ever, he calmly raised a stiff hand and the guards lowered their varied weaponry. The brief clanking of moving armor was immediately followed by an exchange of growls and hisses. Nekhara presumed it to be an informal conversation of sorts, though she could only liken the Shyr Polaes language to eager predators calling out to each other through the night. With a definitive final bark from the valet, the guards turned to clear a path for their master’s servant and his charge through the crowding mortals.

Nekhara continued following Canak’s butler through a narrow alleyway, enclosed on either side by walls of mismatched materials. Ragged lengths of cloth served as doors, where more faces emerged to stare as she passed. Some of their eyes reflected the dim lantern light and Nekhara realized not all of the watchers were human.

Refuse accumulated in every alcove explained part of the urban stench. She felt the grit of sand underfoot and glanced downwards, immediately regretting it. There were no gutters along the passageways, only the sand, forming clumps of human excrement.

…my home, my Spire, a palace from the gods, and they fill it with shit and piss…

Overhead, more pale faces stared down unashamedly from rickety catwalks that linked the ramshackle buildings. Nekahra noted that most of the onlookers above were children, and surmised that even the most emaciated adult would almost surely collapse the frail bridges, perhaps taking down adjacent buildings. There was hardly any more sustenance to these mortals than there had been in the men she’d already devoured. They were all equally malnourished of both body and soul, each nearly mindless as any given animal. They ate, bred, and died for nothing but the habit of it all like so many rats, and so they would continue for so long as there was just enough gruel to sustain them.

Still, that insatiable hunger ached in her every unnatural bone. The urge was nearly overwhelming, to grasp any one of them, lift them up, and watch life itself leave their eyes as it flowed into her. Canak had commanded his valet to see that she was fed once they ascended to those rooms that were to be hers, though, and so Nekhara hurried along behind Canak’s valet, rushing through the layers of the subterranean slum as quickly as the guards could force the human mobs out of the way.

They finally reached a familiar stairway near the cavernous ceiling and Nekhara turned to the desecrated chamber below. “What is the purpose of this… slum?” She inquired of the valet while she watched the mortals scurrying some thirty-odd feet below, retreating to their hovels.

Canak’s butler retraced a few steps to stand beside her. He gazed down as well with an odd glimmer of pride in his expression, the corners of his mouth turning up into the faintest of smiles. “Undoubtedly, you noticed the Drinkers amongst them?” He began, continuing once Nekhara nodded confirmation. “They are the cattle that graze upon the mortals. No man would eat filthy, trodden grass from a field, but a fine steak he will readily devour. Thus is our way here.”

No stranger to cruelty, Nekhara’s face remained blank. “And who decides which of you are cattle, and which of you are men?”

The valet cast a dubious glance at her in response, so she answered her own question. “Shyss, of course.” She grumbled, rolling her gritty eyes in their sunken sockets.

“Master Canak,” the butler emphasized his lord’s proper title, “determines which neophytes are worthy of His blood, and which are cast down to await their harvest time.” That seemed enough of an explanation to him as he turned again to leave.

Nekhara’s curiosity was quelled, however temporarily, so she followed without further questioning.

The chamber above clearly served as some sort of barracks for the soldier caste. As she circled the center room from an interior balcony that curved towards the next stairway, she watched them playing the same games of cards and dice that had been the staple entertainment for men at war since time immemorial.

More winding steps led to the next chamber, where the walls were draped in bright fabric to hide the dark stone of the Spire. Nekhara surmised what occupied these levels even before she saw them. Satyrs were all chatting amicably in the pillow-laden foyer. Some were weaving, some were spinning, some were sewing, and some were simply laid out on settees and cushions, gulping wine from painted jugs and feeding each other grapes. Whatever they did, the communal conversation continued without pause, even as they noticed her and the valet passing by. She reactivated her sense of smell and breathed deep of the incense smoldering in dozens of hanging vessels around the chamber. She savored the aroma as long as she could while they reached another curving stairwell.

Through the archway ahead, pillars of green-black stone were illuminated by dozens of flickering flames atop massive candelabra. Her stride quickened excitedly til she was ahead of Canak’s butler. She crossed to the center of the room and turned to gaze upwards at the familiar room, one that still looked just as it had so very long ago.

Except for the candles.

She went to a column and laid her hand upon the stone, feeling it humming faintly. “What did they do to you…” Nekhara unintentionally whispered aloud.

The butler huffed. “Master Canak found this ruin half-buried in the midst of the Dune Seas.” He said sourly. “He has only improved upon it since.”

Nekhara cast a withering glare at the valet. “Not you, or your damned Master.” She spat, though the scorn quickly faded from her features. “A desert?” She hissed. The valet nodded, causing Nekhara to shake her head in contrast. “No, no, no…” She whispered continually, suddenly racing down a nearby corridor, one she knew would take her to a balcony. There, she could see for herself what had become of the world. WIth her frustration mounting, she struggled to open the towering arched doors at the end of the corridor but eventually succeeded in making a passage just wide enough for her skeletal frame.

A lance of sunlight utterly blinded Nekhara, until her eyes artificially adjusted.

When she could finally see the landscape before her, she stopped. Utterly still, she stared out at the desert which stretched to the horizon in every direction. Hot wind whipped up her rotting clothes, blew her trailing hair amongst the sand swirling along the stone underfoot while she stood unmoving, desperately seeking to understand. Each lens cycled within her eyes, until one showed her what else was blowing with the dust on the desert wind.

//::RADIATION ANALYSIS PENDING. . .

The text flashed in the upper lefthand corner of her vision. A processor whirred laboriously within her skull as the calculations produced further readouts:

//::HAZARD RATING: NONLETHAL . . .
//::CONFIGURING FILTRATION CONSTRUCT TO MINIMIZE BIOLOGICAL DAMAGE . . .

Nekhara felt the movement within her abdomen as her organs adapted to better process the ambient radiation, though it was no more harmful than the sun beating down upon her exposed skin.

The readout continued.

//::SOURCE . . . ARTIFICIAL
-CONSISTENT WITH MASARI WEAPON SATELLITES
-ORBITAL BOMBARDMENT APPROX 6,335 YEARS AND 8 MONTHS PRIOR TO DATE OF ANALYSIS

She turned her head to the sky and felt the telescopic lens expand within her eye. Barely visible opposite the sun, where night was just creeping over the horizon, was a bright spot, a steady reflection too close to be any cosmic body.

Nekhara’s frown deepened.

…over six thousand years in sustained orbit, so it’s probably operating autonomously, but no way to know if they’re still watching…

“Ahem.” The butler’s tedium-laden voice came from some ways behind her.

She twisted around to see him standing just out of the sunlight’s reach within the corridor.

“Shall we continue?” He asked through a definitive frown, patience clearly exhausted.

Nekahra noted his tone, but rushed back inside all the same. Better to get out of the satellite’s sight quickly as she could. She followed Canak’s servant back down the corridor, back to the foyer with its twisting staircases, where the odd pair continued their climb. Each following floor was quiet, devoid of activity except for the hurried footsteps of servants attending to their work. They were all mortal, at first, and while clearly allowed to bathe somewhat often compared to those she had seen below, they still had the same malnourished physique as their fellows.

Another ten, or perhaps it had been twenty, further stairways leading to yet more circular chambers all grouped in threes, and Nekhara noticed that though they wore the same drab, unembellished, unisex uniforms, more and more of the servants were clearly Drinkers. Their heads were bald, too, but without the stubbly regrowth the humans had.

“You enslave your own kind for domestic tasks, as well?” Nekhara asked with a shadow of sardonic humor. She was surprised to hear Canak’s butler chuckle.

“‘Indentured servants’ would be a more apt moniker.” He responded without breaking stride. “A couple of centuries performing menial tasks, in exchange for being spared from the Pit.” He continued with a shrug.

Nekhara’s eyebrows raised dubiously. “And some still choose the… Pit?”

Another chuckle from the valet. “The opportunity is not presented to every piece of fresh meat. No common thieves or debtors or any other such riffraff. Every so often, the Merchant Princes and their Courts need rid of a political rival, or an unsubtle mistress, or an uppity bastard.” He sounded amused. “These… undesirables find themselves aboard the slavers’ wagons with all the rest, but they’re easily sniffed out even when stripped of all their finery.”

Nekhara had enough information to ponder without further questioning, assembling an understanding of this new regime. So much time had passed, and yet they were still so primitive. Candles, wagons, princes! The endless desert had surely necessitated survival over progress, that she could understand. She had more questions for Shyss by the moment.

Canak’s valet finally came to a stop. He opened an unassuming door, one nearly identical to the hundreds of others they had passed, and gestured to the rooms beyond.

“Are these accommodations acceptable to… my Lord’s esteemed guest?” He asked with the expected bow once she had stepped past him.

She roused herself from internal reverie enough to note the snideness of the Drinker’s tone. “Deliberately tactful as ever, your Master.” The Elf-ghoul mused aloud. “Middle-court apartments, so as not to offend his ‘esteemed guest,’” she paused for a pointed sneer and watched a shiver pass down the parasitic tendrils of the valet’s spine, “nor any of his own court. I suppose that is, in fact, acceptable.”

At the very moment the servant lifted a boot to make his departure, she began again. “I expect you’ll be retrieving suitable attire while I make use of the bath.” She glared down at the butler. “That is what your Master bade you to do next, isn’t it?” Her smirk widened as a snarl twitched the Drinker’s lip for a fraction of a second.

“He did, indeed.” The valet grumbled.

Before he could display further insolence, Nekhara’s long arm flashed out like a striking snake. Her thin fingers easily pierced the flesh between his ribs. The thing within him shrieked and flailed, forcing him to do the same.

“Do you think your Lord Canak heeled in my very presence because I am someone to be trifled with?” Nekhara hissed, dragging him towards her until she could see her own wretched visage reflected in his bulging eyes.

The man’s voice wailed over the unnatural shrieks: “No! NO!”

She flung him to the floor and crushed the sodden remnants of her slipper against his sternum until the rotted material squelched between her toes. Fluid poured from his punctured chest onto the floor, and writhing tentacles emerged from the wounds to lap it up.

“Get out.”


Nekhara plunged into the bath.

The water was deep, submerging her completely. She opened her eyes, grateful to feel the moisture quickly permeating them. She didn’t bother to turn herself upright, and her hair floated above her. The long, dark tendrils swayed like kelp in the sea.

…sunlight, in the water, so long ago…

The warmth of the bath sank her ancient bones long before the water could swell her desiccated flesh. She watched the runes carved into the stone around her come alight, dissolving the decay peeling away from her rejuvenating flesh.

…so… very… long…

Her eyes closed again, succumbing immediately to restless throes behind her thin eyelids.

“Vei, nek-hara!”

His face, she could no longer recall, but her father’s voice cried out unchanged within her mind.

“VEI!”

Blades met and their metal screamed together.

A hand, dripping iridescent blood and pulsing verdant magic, reached for her and she took it..

“Erita… nek-hara…”

The last hope of her dying mother, limp hand slipping through her tiny fingers.

“Come now…”

Strange words in a stranger’s voice.

Leather creaked as the gauntlet curled to wipe tears from her little cheek.

“...What is your name?”

She could not understand, so she made a familiar sound, calling for help that would never come.

“Ah, Little Raven, it is, then.”

Nekhara’s eyes opened. Her hair still waved with the water, obscuring her long legs almost completely. She could see the pale green of her own skin again, and all the facets of the crystal in her chest. Tiny points of seedling stones were also visible, having grown while she’d slumbered, and died, and decayed.

She turned in the water, feeling her feet meet the bottom of the immense bath. Her ears emerged as she reached the low steps leading out of the bath, and heard chittering nearby. Another step, and she saw Canak’s butler standing a meter or so from the bath’s edge. Behind him were two other figures.

The butler cleared his throat and the chittering stopped. “Eternal Empress…” the valet practically growled with a begrudging respect that had clearly been driven into his brain by some means he was not altogether comfortable with, “...may I introduce the Lord Canak’s own daughters, the Ladies Ascending Irsu and Yrrta.”

The utterly indistinguishable sisters stepped forward as one and curtsied. Their slender hands flourishing ornate red skirts as their heads bowed. Hair ornaments chimed softly with the movements as their crimson tresses slipped over their shoulders. Their long ears were thoroughly warped in the distinctly Polaesi way, and their identical, delicate features were unmistakably Fae.

Nekhara stepped clear of the water. Freed of corrosion and rot, golden rings glimmered along her ears and down her throat. Each one was at least three inches across and delicately thin. Her hair, still trailing in the water a few steps behind, glinted with gold bands and spirals of ornamental wire.

One of the twins unfurled the bundle in her arms, revealing a heavily embroidered dressing gown lined with bronze-colored silk. The Polaesi youth lifted the robe high in her petite hands, just barely reaching Nekhara’s shoulders. Her sister busied herself with gathering Nekhara’s hair from the bath, moving with their guest as she swirled with uncanny grace and slipped her long arms into the offered sleeves, which ended barely past her elbows just as the hem fell barely below her knees.

Nekhara noted these short-comings and turned an exasperated expression upon Canak’s servant, who nervously cleared his throat. He began to explain hastily. “Unfortunately, there are no other residents within the Spire matching your… stature.”

An amused smirk replaced Nekhara’s exasperation as the butler continued. “When… Your Excellency… is ready, the Master has extended his invitation to utilize any of the resident tailors to begin work on more… bespoke attire.” He elaborated.

Nekhara inspected the utterly immaculate embroidery. “I see there has been no diminishment in the Satyr’s craftsmanship.” She mused pleasantly. She approached the girls, then, who were both nearly two meters tall, and inspected them. Even her augmented eyes could not distinguish between the symbiotic threads and the Elven cells that composed the young Ladies flesh. “Interesting.”

Irsu and Yrrta looked at each other with their enormous black eyes and began chittering again. Excited grins on their black-painted lips revealed canid sets of teeth, all narrow and needle-sharp like pups’ first fangs.

“The Lady Yrsua would be honored to have one so revered to tutor her daughters.” The butler said, and the girls curtsied again.

“Not the Lady Canak?” Nekhara inquired.

Irsu and Yrrta squealed something like giggles and Lord Canak’s servant surprisingly smiled, though his eyes looked down at his own boots somewhat bashfully. “There are… several Ladies Canak.” He answered with politely embarrassed bemusement.

…some things never change…

“The Ladies, therefore, prefer to be addressed by their given names… to avoid confusion.” The butler continued.

Nekhara glanced from the girls’ ageless faces to Canak’s servant again. “And this would be a… permanent position?” She asked with a measuredly disdainful concern.

Canak’s servant chuckled. “If you are asking if the Ladies Ascending will ever… ascend to adulthood, yes. Master Canak’s progeny that are born of the womb do mature, in their own time, however slowly that may be.”

The frown on Nekhara’s face turned further downward and she hissed out a response: “What!?”

“I will let the Master explain his own machinations; I fear I would not do justice to his brilliance.” The butler continued with a reverent bow of his head at the mention of Lord Canak.

A momentary flaring of nostrils betrayed Nekhara’s annoyance. “Fine.” She mumbled and turned to the twin Ladies again. Structures within her throat writhed beneath her skin. When she spoke again, her voice slithered out with the uncanny reverberation only a Fae-borne could interpret. The rings piercing the front of her throat clinked melodically against each other, like so many tiny chimes.

“Sy’thyr-dorrei’ma?” The syllables all seemed to overlap and intertwine.

Irsu and Yrrta visibly straightened before responding in unison. “Sorit-da.”

“Gaila.”

Yrrta and Irsu bowed their heads and curtsied slightly again.

Behind them, Nekhara noticed that Canak’s butler was taking leave of his own accord. Something between a snarl and a sneer crossed her face just before she stooped to speak quietly to the girls. “Aiyt’thysser-sol’sah’vynt.” She whispered so softly that even the little Ladies’ preternatural ears struggled to hear. When they understood, though, predatory grins split their faces nearly ear to ear.

“Arhytt-aya!” Nekhara barked and even in the incomprehensible language of the Fae, the command was undeniable.

The butler’s boot-heels clacked together, unwillingly halting himself just past the doorway. He’d barely had time to turn his scowling face towards her before she was looming over him.

“You were not dismissed, servant.” The ancient one hissed with her Elven throat, giving the Common words a queer accent that was as unsettling to the butler as her sinister leer.

The thing within him tensed, drawing his hands into defensive claws and flooding the shared mind and body with animal apprehension. “I am the Master’s own servant, the right hand that returns to Him when my task is done. Exalted as you may be to some here, I am not yours to command!” The butler spoke with surprising dignity despite the symbiotic entity’s wordless yet emphatic resistance to the act.

A silent moment passed and Canak’s valet moved to leave again, only to find he could not. Blood dribbled down his chin from his mouth, which opened and closed silently, like a fish asphyxiating in open air. Confusion knitted his brows just before the involuntary wail of agony escaped him. The deafening cry gargled the escaping blood from his mouth in a delicate pink foam.

Nekhara’s hand was deeper within his chest this time, wrapped around his sternum while her fingers laced between his ribs like lovers’ hands entwined. Her grip tightened as he began to struggle wildly. His wails lost all humanity, devolving rapidly to beastly roars.

The Eternal Empress turned to Irsu and Yrrta, who regarded the unfolding scene with aristocratic ambivalence barely masking their amusement.

“Yai’la-ubyt-myr.” She said to them in calm contrast to the flailing creature in her grasp. The twins nodded and fell into stride behind their tutor.

“Second lesson!” Nekhara spoke in accented Common for her captive’s benefit. They passed into another room within the disgraced Empress’s assigned apartments. She crossed the wide parlor towards a line of metallic sculptures standing at attention, just as innumerable identical ones did in other rooms throughout the Spire.

She lifted the screaming servant level with one of the constructs. His fists beat at her arm with a force that would shatter mortal bone, but her malevolent sneer only widened as she felt his pitifully organic phalanges fracturing against her alloy-augmented limb. His feet kicked frantically at the open air with equal futility as she suddenly yanked him close. His eyes bulged as he strained away from her, like a spooked horse straining to flee.

“A servant with his own mind serves only himself.” Nekhara said, staring into his fearful face before cutting a glance at her new proteges. Yrrta and Irsu each gave a single nod of understanding. “Yathas!” Nekhara snapped and with an almost flippant motion, she tossed the servant away from herself. She watched the miniscule moment of relief cross his face, for he did not understand the command.

Then, the mechanical maw enveloped him. Metal appendages snapped closed like some convoluted bear-trap. The snapping of bones was just louder than the whirring machinery.

The twins flinched with each of the first few cracks while Nekhara stood still with a look of vacant satisfaction on her face. Little lights flickered to life along her brow in a pattern mirrored upon the domed ‘head’ of the construct. The machine’s first movements were clunky and crude as a marionette. It seemed to be testing the function of its own limbs until, eventually, it managed to clap its fist to its chest with a sharp clank.

The young Ladies flinched again.

The construct knelt at Nekhara’s feet, where it would have stayed for an eon had she not commanded it to another task.

“Syth’es-sowwa.”

The lights on its domed face flickered furiously before dwindling to a single pulse of orange.

Nekhara huffed with exasperation at the text blinking in the upper corner of her left lens.

//:no network connection…
//:linguistic database inaccessible…
//:present neural map incompatible…
//:command translation failed…

She blinked the error explanations away and tried again with irritation graveling her voice through gritted teeth. [color=8dc73f]“Summon the fucking tailor!” Nekhara barked.

Tiny implements plucked a visceral pizzicato within the butler’s throat to speak with the dead man’s voice: “As you wish, Your Excellency.” The construct stood easily, though its following steps were clumsy as a child’s. Its stride eventually lengthened into an imitation of the tense, deliberate gate of its butler-battery.

The remaining trio watched it exit the parlor and pass out of sight. Once the mechanical servant was gone, Nekhara settled into a nearby chair with the long fingers of one hand rubbing circles into her temple.

“Father may not like that.” Irsu said cautiously after a few moments’ deliberation.

Without looking at the girl, Nekhara answered.

“I don’t give a fuck what your father likes.”

When the tailor arrived, escorted by the mechanized servant, the three She-Elves were still in the parlor. The twins’ own attendants had joined them. Four Polaesi women, with their bald heads bowed and hands folded, stood a respectful distance behind Irsu and Yrrta, who were seated across a low table from their mentor. The trio were eagerly conversing, altogether ignoring the arrival of the servile posse.

Nekhara held a huge chalice with its base resting on her chair’s upholstered arm. The table near her other hand held a platter of delicacies, which she readily grazed upon whenever one of the mentees had her turn to speak. Whatever lesson was at hand eventually reached its own natural conclusion and, as the conversation dwindled, Nekhara looked over the girls’ swiveling heads to finally wave the fearfully patient craftsmen forward.

“Lady Yrsua’s personal tailor,” the robotic pizzicato recited as an aged Satyr stepped forward and bowed as much as his hunched spine would allow while the construct continued, “and his apprentices.”

Two much younger Satyrs bowed behind the master tailor.

“Task completed; now, take that pitcher from this trembling wench before her cowardice sends my wine crashing to the floor.” Nekhara spoke to the thick glass face of the construct, who immediately obeyed. The Polaesi woman looked all too eager to surrender her burden and the scrutiny that accompanied it. The machine-servant refilled its mistress’s chalice even as she stood and approached the tailor, who bowed again. After a long drink from the cup, she said: “Let’s get on with it, then.”

“Y-y-yes, Your Excellency.” The tailor stuttered and motioned to the taller of his apprentices. The youth stepped forward and placed the stool he carried at Nekhara’s feet. The other apprentice placed a small ladder near the stool, and both stepped back.

Nekhara stood on the presented stool as the aged Satyr carefully climbed the few steps of the ladder and removed a measuring tape from around his neck. “Let us hope your hands are steadier than your tongue.” Nekhara scoffed, and the tailor swallowed hard.

His hands were steady, though, despite the fearful quivering of his eyes. He began reading her measurements aloud, though the smaller apprentice holding a well-worn little book in his youthful hands, was unmoving, staring up at Nekhara.

“Lysander!” The tailor hissed, snapping his apprentice into action.

“Mother likes her tailor. Please do not make him into a machine.” Irsu offered respectfully, and Nekhara smiled without looking at her.

“Worry not, my pupils. Such a capable craftsman is secure within his purpose.” She answered.

Minutes later, the tailor and his company were bowing as they backed from the chamber, the first stage of their work completed.

Nekhara returned to her chair and her construct refilled her cup. She attempted to resume her conversation with the young disciples, only to be interrupted by the synchronized motion of the attendants. The twins perked up suddenly, then lowered their eyes. “Father requests an audience.” The two said as one.

Nekhara sighed. “Due time, I suppose.” She said as she swirled the wine in her glass before downing it. The young Ladies curtsied and took their leave, followed by their attendending servants.

Canak arrived almost immediately after, and sat at a small table in her parlor before motioning her to join him. Nekhara hesitated before obliging the Polaesi Lord. Her mechanical slave followed, its steps no longer thunking against the stone floor. It fulfilled its ongoing task of keeping its mistress’s chalice full.

She took a deep drink while Shyss spoke. Her brows raised in undisguised incredulity.

“So, you have truly taken up the cause?” Nekhara asked with a scoff and a small shake of her head. “I suppose it’s the least you could do, given what’s been, well, given to you.” She made a dismissive gesture. ”I must confess I truly never imagined we’d be serving under the same banner.” The Elf said, staring pensively at the wine in her cup. “Although, I suppose we both were given the same dismal choice, eh?” She mused, tapping a long finger against the base of the chalice.

“I wasted some six millenia ‘trapped in a prison of my own design,’ as you so succinctly said, and at least half as long living amongst our mutual enemies before that. My tether,” she paused to open her robe slightly to show the sickly green stone embedded in her breastbone, “was… disconnected for my first two thousand years here. The wormholes, the ‘portals,’ as you would call them, tend to misalign Time during the voyage. Once I was able to contact our… homeworld, I learned that events I had already lived were still to come. Time is anchored upon re-manifestation, but life unfolds differently under the… proper influence. A single whisper of betrayal yet to come turned the tide of the war, did it not?” Another pause for his acknowledgement.

“Having already assured the longevity of Mother’s reign, we must now move to… forge, if you will, a stable passage for the whole of the Horde.” She continued, and put her hand against the wall immediately beside them, causing a sudden swell of light to show the dormant power still trickling through the petrified Spire. “I can reawaken this spawn of Cur’Chu’Al,” she smirked, letting the gravity of that information sink in, “but the amount of energy required will be massive. I had devices in place for collecting that, but I was found out by the Masari, the other damned Fae that I followed here, before I could utilize it. Those devices were destroyed when they fled and killed the world they’d spent three thousand painstaking years to perfect.” A wry chuckle escaped her. “I barely made it to the stasis chamber, where you found me, but all the instruments governing my timed release must’ve been destroyed in the bombardment as well.” She visibly shuddered at the memory of her confinement. “Reconstructing such complex things is beyond the… frankly primitive capabilities currently available to us. There is a simpler way, though.” An insidious grin split her face.

Two of her slender fingers, no longer skeletal, grasped one of the larger points growing from the parent crystal in her chest. There was a hissing of heat as her bones broke through her skin, extending and twisting around the smaller stone, turning red hot as they severed it from the whole. She set the pointed crystal on the table and sliced her own fingertip with a suddenly razor-sharp fingernail. With her augmented circulatory system once again operating as designed, the machine fluids were separated from her biological blood. A fat drop of iridescent green fell from her finger onto the crystal, and the thing crackled audibly as it replicated itself.

“Pound for pound, your half-dead slaves are worth less than the bread it takes to sustain them, but if we put your ‘cattle’ to the slaughter and slit every single throat, we might manage a single message to the Undead Empress…” She nervously clicked her long nails against the tabletop. “Once we are assured Her horde will be ready and waiting, I can bring our world to this one, with a little help from the other side, and a lot more blood. The memories of mortals are short, indeed, but we shall soon remind them what it means to make war.”