Crawling through the sand

[domendred]

First time author, so please be gentle!

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Sycieb felt, as he often did, that being outside the crawler was the worst possible place to be. No walls to protect you from raiders, no ceiling to protect you from the Sun, but worst of all? No great dragging limbs to propel you through these endless sand dunes. The crawler, temperamental machine that she was, had torn free some connectors from her upper nacelle, needed to extract phlogiston from the putrid air. No phlogiston, no fuel to feed her endless appetite. While the crawlers great maw would thresh useless silicates from organics and metallics, she could do nothing but rust without her fuel. So, the ever dutiful servant, Sycieb climbed the riveted plates to patch the connectors, and pray that they would hold till they returned to Chamistasya.

The great ravine city was know for its docking berths and the assorted sinful indulgences Sycieb's fellow crawler servants glutted themselves upon. This is not to imply Sycieb to be a paragon of any particular virtue, unless unwilling poverty was something cherished in the temples now. No, if Sycieb bore any virtue it was bloody minded determination, and at the moment? That virtue was turned to the task of repairing a neglected connector.

"Let me find the bastard of nine fathers who did this to you," Sycieb grumbled to the crawler "And I will feed him into your maw by his feet!" The crawler did not respond, nor would she speak to him until she fed once more. Even then, with her engines rumbling, and grasping limbs dragging them forwards, she would remain silent. Sycieb had long accepted that his lady was a quiet one, and he did not mind over much. When powered she did not speak, but sing to him with her crushing gears and steam filled pipes. Or at least, she would, if he could fix this damnable connector.

Atop the rounded hull of the crawler, not even two days away from the city Iljaskya, where he had purchased the right to serve an independent crawler. Unlike the great lumbering fortress crawler, Lord Morossa, where he was born and raised, his lady was a small a humble thing. She was thrice the height of a man, discounting her keel, which cut deeply into the sands beneath herself. While her interior was dual leveled, and tall enough for even Sycieb to stand, her corridors were narrow, as was her profile. She was a predator, and her name would reflect that, once their maiden voyage was complete. In the mean time, there was work to be done.

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Undadar asked, for what was surely the hundredth time, his brother Undim, "Brother, are you sure you damaged that connector properly? You told us the connector would barely allow the crawler to leave the city! Yet here we are riding through the Wastes for a second day, and we have seen nothing of the fool or our crawler!" Chamassast listened to his younger brother's whining and paid him no mind. Undim, the oldest brother, however did not have the same patience as their middle brother.

"Unda, with every spirit as my witness, I will strike you if you ask me again! I told you I did it, therefore, it was done! We follow the cut of her keel, and we will likely soon be upon her!"
Their older brother was not handling the heat as well as Chamassast, nor the relentless questioning of his younger brother. This did not bother Chamassast, well used as he was to both of his brothers ways. What did bother him was the silence. Given the freshness of the cut in the deep sands, they should be hearing some something, either the crew working or the crawler toiling away.

The genbu they were riding upon, in their covered palanquin, groaned his frustration as well. During these hot hours of daylight, their noble mount would prefer to bury itself beneath a dune, but they had to advance. Chamassast tapped the genbu again with the flick to lightly adjust his direction, keeping them moving after their crawler. And then he sighed, as he heard his younger shift on his cushion, preparing to ask his question, for surely the hundredth and first time.
"Brother, did you make sure that yo- Aaaghg!"

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Sycieb twitched in his postion, straining his ears to hear. Had someone just shouted? It sounded like some woman was crying out in pain. A quick review of morals reminded Sycieb stricking women was frowned upon in polite society, which was different upon a crawler, where there was no fairer sex, as all servants of the crawler obeyed only the great living machines and their ordained voices. This prompted a jolt out of Sycieb, because not he was in fact, the ordained voice of the great machine beneath himself.

Another shout across the dune reminded the young man as to why he had stopped his work in the first place, as he scrabbled out from under the nacelle and for the top port into the great machine. He has his rifle inside, near the round door? Or was it in the canteen? With a curse he began tearing through the narrow corridors searching for the blasted thing.

An armory, he decided, would be in that room, the empty one that was going to be a captains quarters, that had those boxes full of connectors and other well labeled boxes. He paused, staring at a box that clearly had the exact connectors he needed and cursed. Who could have imagined that looking around would have been helpful. What was not helpful was the lack of a gun in the room, and with another curse he ran down the corridor to... Maybe it was in the sleeping nook?

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Many things in life, Undadar decided, were patently unfair. He was not pouting, or even sulking, no matter that his bastard of a brother said. He had asked a simple question, and from out of nowhere, Undim, his eldest brother had struck him repeatedly about the head and shoulders! It had hurt! As they reached the top of the dune, he turned to his brother and-

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The rifle bucking in his hands, the bark of fire from its mouth, the touch of death where it struck. Sycieb watched the pirate fall from the genbu, most of the top of his head missing. The shouts from the other two pirates were loud and they hopped up to throw spears at Sycieb, crying out in surprise and distress.

It was peculiar to Sycieb, that pirates always seemed surprised that their victims should fight back. He was ducked behind the nacelle, the same one he had been working on only a few minutes before hand, now providing him with shelter. He worked the breach of the gun, the brass canister of the old shot deftly removed and replaced with live ammunition. These casings had been a gift to him, when he left Lord Morossa and his family aboard the behemoth, borne from the great metal shell of their Lord. It would not do to lose or waste such precious metals.

New round loaded, and the breach secure, he leaned once more around the nacelle. Quickly, he lurched back as one of the spears scraped off a line of metal less then a foot from his head. Those spearheads were made of metal! These pirates were clearly well off, which meant there must be more then just the one genbu riding towards him now, so Sycieb would need to work quickly.

Spinning around the corner he lined up his shot. Both the pirates stood tall, atlatls in hand to make their shots against him. It did not matter, however, as Sycieb did not aim for the pirates. The voice of thunder, the speed of howling winds, and the death of a genbu were the result of his next trigger pull, tossing the foolish pirates into the sand. The great shelled beasts were powerful, and could march for days it was true, but they lumbered, unlike nimble eleodes or lightning quick jerboas.

Reaching into his belt, Sycieb pulled the long knife from in and latched it to the end of the rifle. His mothers knife and his fathers rifle, were of great comfort as he moved towards the ladded, towards the two men now tumbling down the dune, the great genbu dragging its way through the sand after them. Once the nacelle was repaired, he would need to carve some rations from the beast.

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The great roaring of the crawler, the guttural rumbling of its ceasless hunger, and the twitches of its many legs were the reward Sycieb received for his labors of the day. He had removed near twenty pounds of flesh from the beast, and pulled the clothing from the bodies of the pirates. The crawler's servant had remained in highest alert, expecting more pirates to come at any moment, yet they never arrived. This was... good, Sycieb considered, but worrying. While he was no mariner, he had been trained with them, as all who choose to leave Lord Morossa are privileged to do.

Sycieb, his lady willing, had decided to move forwards after the blood work was done, quickly swapping out the connector. It was a blessing, he decided, from the heavens or the seller of the crawler, that the connectors he needed were left inside the great machine. It took only a few tenths of an hour to turn his lady's bulk till she faced the corpses and urge her forwards. Her great threshing maw, greedy and rapacious as it was, devoured sand and flesh and bone alike, and rendered it all for use.

One of the first lesson every child is taught, upon any crawler worth the name, is that the maw cares not for which it devours, only that it eats. Games are made of it, to throw trash, and food, and even prized treasures as offerings to the great machines, only to watch as all things are torn and sundered. The genbu, massive though it was, the corpses of pirates, thin and gamey, the coarse sand? All this was only a feast for his lady, only blood splattering her hull was safe from her hunger.

Her name, Ilosia Ilimla, was well earned, meaning Hunts-For-Blood in the old tongue, and would be well received amongst his people. For his lady was a huntress, and with a sigh, Sycieb knew he would need to bring more servants aboard the crawler, as a pirate hunter could not travel alone. Chamistasya, he knew, would have servants a plenty, and perhaps a deck gun to be mounted to his lady as well.

Inputting coordinates into the great machines interfaces, he began his lesser works, hallowing the holds and inventorying the new armory, unusually well stocked though it was. The journey to Chamistasya would only take a few days, and much needed to be done before a crew could be brought aboard.

 

[domendred]

The city of Chamistasya was said, by many, to be a thing of beauty. That is because the view from the sands, glittering shingles and silica-glass windows, is visible for many dozen leagues. The roads of the upper city are kept clean and the people are prosperous. And so long as one does not venture into the depths of the city, any fool may believe the city is as beautiful as its spires appear. Inawsam knew better then any fool however, what her city was like.

"Ina, my friend," said the man who was not a friend, but rather, her debt-holder, "Where did you run off to last night? We were so disappointed you did not show up to our meeting!" The snake of a man, Dynyer spoke jovially of his attempt to trade her off to the flesh-workers. Monsters, all of them, she thought with a shudder.

"Dynyer-" She began, only to be immediately spoken over by the sand wyrm wearing the flesh of a man.

"Dear Ina, do not speak to me in such a way," he spoke loudly, and more infuriatingly, like she had hurt him with that word. "Surely I have told you to always call me Master Itpole! We would not wish for others, sweet Ina, to think we are overly close!"

Would that only words were required to harm this man shaped creature. In truth, Inawsam had considered using the shard of glass, with a piece of rubber twined to it and carving a piece or two from her tormentor. It was not the man himself, but rather the two others who followed him like a pair of shadows that stayed her hand. She was perhaps half the height of the grown man, with most of her growing years still ahead of her, but Dynyer Itpole had great scars that showed either his great resilience or terrible skill in combat, and either one would have the guards ready for her. Meaning he was tough enough to not flinch from the blade, or weak enough his guards would be expecting him to falter, and thusly be prepared to spring towards her.

"Master Itpole, I of course apologize," Inawsam lied, "My shift was extended as the-" The words were cut off, naturally, as a hand wrapped around your throat naturally makes it hard to speak, or more importantly, breathe. This is even more difficult when you are then lifted by said throat into the air.

"Do you think I care for the works of some disgusting little dunespawn? You are lucky I do not cart you off to the rippers to take their pleasure before harvesting you for the pieces!" The Devil Dynyer, as locals called him, red faced and gripped with a terrible fury. He growled each word, like they had to be hewn from the deep bedrock that made the lowest levels of Chamistasya.

Inawsam did not respond, as she held on to the wrist he had lifted her by, kicking and flailing as she sought air. Perhaps she would not need to fear the rippers after all, as even deviants such as they do not care for their prey once life has left it. It was not much of a relief, but still, better strangled then disassembled alive.

The fresh air, ridden through with smog and dust, was a far greater pleasure then the surety of a peaceful death had been only a moment ago. Inawsam was a girl who knew how to take what she could get, and knew every dust storm could stir treasure from still sands. She knew, however she had a limited amount of time before the devil broke through once more.

"Oh, poor Ina, sweet little Ina, you know, surely, you can not speak to me of such things," crooned the Devil, his hands shaking as his skin turned to more mortal shades, "You of all people, surely know what will send me into a fury! Surely you did not mean to upset me so? No dearest Ina," The man, Dynyer Itpole once more put a hand to her, not to graps and choke, but petting her like he was calming some beast, and not himself. "No, you would not do such a thing to me? Your kindly Master Itpole? You surely would not, you know how unhappy this makes me!"

Inawsam nodded along, because she would not upset willingly this man any more then she would climb into a crawler via its maw. Both were certain to get her killed, but at least the maw would be quicker. She cleared her throat and tried again.

"Kind Master Itpole, I would never mean to upset you!" Another lie, but Inawsam was much used to lying. "In truth, I believe that Principal Dys, who runs our shop, has a grudge against you! I told him you had asked to meet with me, but he refused to let me go to you!"

Poor Dys, who would likely meet his end at the hands of the Devil, was a dispassionate man, caring only for the numbers and quotas of his forges and kilns. He was not a strong man, or proud, but to provide Inawsam another day, his life would be laid upon the altar of sacrifice. It was not a glamorous work Dys provided to children, but even the least of glim could purchase food or pay off a debt.

Master Itpole, as the Devil liked to think itself, as if naming its self a gentleman made him so, lifted Inawsam gently from where she had been dropped. "Innocent child, sweet child, why did you not tell me of the Principal's vile behavior? Why would you try to accept such horrific behavior upon your own head?"

The Devil Dynyer very much liked when she played such games as these. Who would she sell out to slake his abominable lusts, his gluttonous desires? She did not wish to know the answers to these questions and yet, she knew the Devil desperately desired them.

And she desperately desired to live another day.

If all she had to do was feed some poor innocent into the jaws of Dynyer Itpole, she would, more and more until his bloated carcass rotted in the streets. After all, monsters were meant to be slain. Before her mother had passed, she had told Inawsam stories of the great heroes and bold masters, who had carved the great cities into the worlds bones, like their own Glittering Chamistasya or Foetid Akelestasya, ruined as it was. Inawsam knew, if she survived long enough, while her own hero would come and save her, no one was saving the Principal Dys tonight.

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The ever-present Sun burnt high in the sky above Ilmosa Ilimla, who drug her own ponderous berth through the sand, ever hungering and ever devouring. Her goodly servant, Sycieb, went about his works with vigor and vim. Less then a day before arrival into the city Chamistasya. Truly it was a sad day when the crawler must sleep within the wretched confines of a corpse city, and yet, the berths were much needed for refitting a crawler. Sycieb had already begun the necessary works to assuage his ladies furor, and yet, it must be done. A pair of long gonnes atop her muzzle, or perhaps a cannon added to her spine? It would depend on the quality of armaments the corpse city could offer his fine Lady.

A check through her storage berths showed an acceptable level of silicates, particularly plagioclase, which the city dwellers would be glad to buy, not that they would offer much for it. Far more exciting was the levels of organic materials, much of which was being fed into the aquaponic system. Sycieb could not remember having ever seen such fatty barramundi, even aboard the Lord Morossa, although the upper decks might very well have received far better rations. The thought cheered Sycieb regardless, as he was now technically Grand Sycieb, Voice of his Lady, Ilmosa Ilimla, and therefore entitled to the finest rations of her bounty.

A quick check of bearing and attitude told Sycieb that he had time to cycle for four full hours before needing to hail the city, and such rest would be well needed before dealing with corpse dwellers. He set his chronometer and laid himself into his berth.

Truly, his position offered him many wonderous benefits, such as setting his own schedule and taking uninterrupted rests as he desired. His Lady was generous indeed!

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had to cut this chapter off but i think this was a pretty good stopping point! next chapter should be a little quicker as its about a quarter done already

 

[Oth]

Wonderful. Strong tones of John Carter here, mixed with Dune mysticism. Assuming Crawlers are semi-autonomous botships?

Very interesting how Sycieb and presumably other crawler-servants venerate their machines, to point of explicitly declining claim of ownership/captaincy of their machines.

Presuming "corpse city" refers to static settlements, assumed built out of a destroyed Crawler?

Regardless, hope for more.

 

[domendred]

Wonderful. Strong tones of John Carter here, mixed with Dune mysticism. Assuming Crawlers are semi-autonomous botships?

Very interesting how Sycieb and presumably other crawler-servants venerate their machines, to point of explicitly declining claim of ownership/captaincy of their machines.

Presuming "corpse city" refers to static settlements, assumed built out of a destroyed Crawler?

Regardless, hope for more.

Click to shrink...

Yes, yes, and corpse cities are any city that doesn't move! It's dead. Unlike a proper crawler, as they are built into the bones of the world! I'm really glad you are enjoying it so far!

 

[domendred]

Like most unattended children within the Glittering City, Inawsam was in constant peril. So regularly was ones life under threat that it became the norm, to know and understand that a poor hiding spot would get you found, and that hoarding glim or food would get you killed. Perhaps a gang would find you, and if you were lucky they would just put you to work thieving of whoring.

Worse was to be found by dredgers, who would drag you down to the unfiltered muck their kind lived in, and in time you would be a dredger too. To constantly sift through the waste of the City, to prevent blockages and to slowly die from the poisonous air was the fate of every dredger. Their yellow lycra suits and thick googles made them easily identifiable, but unfortunately, no less avoidable.

The worst fate, as any could tell you, was to be found by the rippers. Glittering Chamistasya was a beautiful city, but its innards were foetid and rotting, which reflected itself in its people. When the poor were sickly, they died. When the rich were sickly, however? Rippers, the mechanics of the human condition, would find the replacement pieces needed to recreate the living machine that is the human body, and this is best done from another, living machine. Those undesirables who are captured by rippers are kept alive as they are disassembled, a process which is said to take days in the hands of the talented.

Inawsam is blessed, in her small size and dark skin. Though others may call her dunespawn or ward themselves at her passing, it had offered many benefits. She had been found, several eclipses past, by rippers. They had drug her out of her hiding, one of her bandaged legs having slid from beneath the crawlspace she had been sleeping in. They had beat her and spat on her for being a dunespawn, but they had not taken her with them, as none of the moneyed would willing to accept pieces from one such as her. Truly, a blessed discovery.

Today, Inawsam walked fearlessly through the haunts of such monsters, content in the knowledge she had already dealt withy worse in day. The rippers spat and cursed, but they did not care over much as long as she was silent and did not give them away to their prey. Today she would clean the workshop of Ves'sere, a lesser ripper who dealt with traders and merchants, and would pay good glim to the child who could fit behind his machinery to clean any fallen gore. A lesser ripper was still a man of propriety, and this one in particular would not abide the stench of rot.

Only the freshest of pieces, from freshly cleaned "machines" of flesh. His subjects were often surprised that the monster they feared took him time in speaking comfortingly and bathing them by hand, often forgetting he was a monster at all, until they arrived on his vivisection altar. Unlike many of his colleagues he did not care to use or abuse his subjects, for which Inawsam was grateful.

"Goodly Ves'sere! I have come as requested, to clean your altar and tooling!" This was shouted a safe distance from the door to the collapsing tenement Ves'sere was currently occupying. Like most independent rippers, the man was dreadfully paranoid that his secrets would be stolen, or worse, his equipment. A clan of rippers might share their tools freely, but Ves'sere had a set of beautiful metal blades that could slide more delicately through flesh, and they were worth a small ransom in metal by weight, let alone what precision crafted tools must surely cost.

The door cracked open as the ripper glared about suspiciously, a ceramic blade, lacquered in blues and greys in hand. "Were you followed duner? Did they see you heading this was?" Unlike with Dynyer, the best option here was honesty. Not for any moral reason, but rather, it would be more suspicious to the ripper if she had not been seen.

"No Ves'sere, I was not followed that I know of, but I do know i was definitely seen. A band of hunters, wearing rubedo and cinitras, but heading to the outskirts, to hunt, rather then return." She did not approach the man, as he had not invited her in. Not for any proper reason, but rather, it would get her cut by the long blade in the rippers hand.

The older man tsked. "Rubedo over cinitras? Sounds like the Draves family is out hunting again. Get in here girl, be quick about it. Can't understand why you'd be just standing about." He did not move away from the door, or open it further, but Inawsam quickly stepped to the door before sliding in past him.

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It was foul work, cleaning first viscera and then... The rubedo from the floors, however, it was satisfying to leave a wake of cleanliness as she progressed.

Inawsam had been told by Ves'sere, more then once, that if she were not a filthy dunespawn, she could have married into a ripper clan. He had meant it as a compliment, and Inawsam decided not to pretend it did not hurt. Inawsam was used much to lying, even to her self.

She was getting rather good at it, truth be told.

Not that she had much use for the truth, anymore.

The tenement they were in had been in use for the last few eclipses, so the ripper would probably be leaving soon. This did not mean that Inawsam could rest easy, or slack from her work. Ves'sere was not an easy man to please, but he would pay for the work rendered, and poor work paid poorly. Every scrap of glim could be used to pay back her debt, and one day, purchase her own freedom. It was a dream, for any dweller deep within one of the Great Cities, to walk freely in the spires, under clear sky and unfettered Sun.

Inawsam was better at lying then dreaming however, and knew that was no lies would take a dunespawn to the heights of the spires.

The scrubbing was completed, to the rippers satisfaction, no less. As he handed her the handful of glim he had promised he confirmed her earlier suspicion. "Girl, the Draves' and Temoy's are out in force, and my location is no longer secure. By next eclipse I will be moving, towards the seventh ward. I will leave the usual signs for you to follow to the new haunt."

He spoke clearly and precisely, not for clarities sake, but because she was a duner. Since everyone knows, particularly enlightened men such as the good ripper, that dunespawn are especially stupid, or otherwise defective. The crawler folk are insular, and do not abandon their families, so for Inawsam to be here, in this City, meant that she had been abandoned. Inawsam did not think this was fair, for as far as she could recall she had never done anything wrong.

Except for the lying, or the thieving, and perhaps selling out people to the Devil Dynyer. She was not sure if the last one counted since she was a duner and they were proper city folk, so it was not like she was betraying her own kind.

Inawsam was getting to be very good at lying to herself, with as much practice as she got at it.

"I understand Ves'sere. I will come to find you after the eclipse. And I will even do my best not to be seen or followed." She threw that on the end because she knew he would remind her otherwise. Idly, she wondered if she could trust the Draves or Temoy families to pay her if she sold out the ripper. It was unlikely, and most importantly, it would lose her access to someone who definitely would pay for her work.

Ves'sere hesitated at the door before opening it. "Girl, when you come find me next, I could, mayhaps, show you a part of the work? I have no one to teach my art, and I have started to regret not taking a student until now. You will consider this?" He sounded more and more unsure towards the end of the statement, as he took in her teary eyed stare.

"I would be honored, goodly Ves'sere! I will find you at the eclipse, and learn all you would teach me!" It was a good dream, but Inawsam did not trust dreams any more. This far down the city, where the glittering spires did not shine, the weight of the city above crushed all dreams.

Inawsam was not a dreamer, but a liar, and hope was the most wicked lie she had.

"That is good! I am- I am glad that-" He opened the door as he spoke to her, his normal paranoia ebbing at the pleasure of her acceptance. In fact, the reason he did not see the blade that snaked in the opened door and into his chest is because he was looking at her with a wide smile. The Draves boy, in his rubedo and cinitras striped uniform shoved the door open and followed the dying man in, stabbing repeatedly.

"He's here! I knew that dunespawn would lead us right to the old fool!" The boy, maybe a full hand bigger then Inawsam called out cheerfully over his shoulder, "Quit lazing about and get in here!"

Inawsam could hear voices outside, loud steps of men grown who did not need to hide themselves approaching the door. She had cleaned the tenement from tip to toes, and knew the entirety of the building, including the collapsed wall in the back with a gap she could wedge through. It took only a moment to come to a decision, to flee but her path would take her past the rippers altar. A metal altar worth a fortune on its own, but more importantly to a small girl, his collection of small metal blades. Such blades that could be sold or used, and would be worth far more in either use then the sharp piece of glass tucked into her shift.

Inawsam was not always a liar, but she could absolutely lie about where such blades came from.

She grabbed them on the move, sprinting past the altar and grabbing the reliquary that held the blades. It was made of fine leather, presumably excess from one of Ves'sere's subjects. Into the shift she was wearing it went, as she scurried to her exit. One of the men called out from behind her, but they were at the door and she was on her way to freedom. And she knew just where to take these blades!

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Grand Sycieb, Voice of the Lady Ilosia Ilimla, gripped the stock of his rifle so tightly it creaked. The corpse dweller had, in the span of a few breaths, managed to offend his Lady, himself, and his Lady a second time, only to seem surprised that anything could be wrong at all.

"Once more, this lowly crawler-servant," Sycieb gestures towards himself, "is named Grand Sycieb, and I am Voice of my Lady, Ilosia Ilimla," He gestures not to the crawler, who is cycled into a lower power mode, focusing her energies into her forges as opposed to locomotion. "We are here to seek a refit of armament to aid my Lady," said with another, sharper gesture towards the crawler, "as well as take on additional crew. Do you or do you not understand what you have been told?"

The berthingmaster looks at Grand Sycieb with an aggravated and put upon expression. "Sir, I just need to know who the damned captain is of that damned crawler, so if you could just answer the question, I would deeply appreciate it!"

Grand Sycieb took a deep, calming breath. Oddly enough, he did not feel calmed by this, so he tried again. It still did not work. Instead he gently sat the rifle to the side, leaning up against the wall. He removed his dust coat and took a second to look at his gloves, before deciding to leave them on.

His calm focus was interrupted by the continued shrilling of the corpse dweller in front of him. Oddly, the corpse dweller became very red in the face, and then started smacking Sycieb in the arms. Which was very rude, as Sycieb was only strangling the man- Oh, the man was dying and did not want to. As the little berth guards struggled to pull the much larger crawler-servant off the fool of a berthingmaster, he idly wondered if the next berthing master would be as much a fool as this one.

-------

 

[Oth]

Oh dear. Was the Draves gang ambushing Ves'sere an attack of opportunity, or did Inawsam lead them right to him? If so, lost a fair amount of sympathy for her. And just when Ves'sere was about to take her on as an apprentice too.

Nice to see the cultural divide between the crawlerfolk and the city dwellers. Sycieb's ritualisms clashing with the heathen berthing master.

Are crawlerfolk especially different from human baseline? Sycieb manhandling the dockmaster gives off the impression of being somewhat superhuman, or physically enhanced.

 

[domendred]

Oh dear. Was the Draves gang ambushing Ves'sere an attack of opportunity, or did Inawsam lead them right to him? If so, lost a fair amount of sympathy for her. And just when Ves'sere was about to take her on as an apprentice too.

Nice to see the cultural divide between the crawlerfolk and the city dwellers. Sycieb's ritualisms clashing with the heathen berthing master.

Are crawlerfolk especially different from human baseline? Sycieb manhandling the dockmaster gives off the impression of being somewhat superhuman, or physically enhanced.

Click to shrink...

she was seen multiple times heading through their territories, so poor ina was gonna get followed at some point. the biggest difference between crawlerfold and city folk is nutrition, and not being in tight and dark confines their entire lives. spire dwellers would be much larger then most city folk too. the cityfolk are just kinda runty, and scy is a big boy. i dont like doing self descriptions so we will get a proper description of scy when ina sees him, but crawler folk, especially from somehwere as vaunted as Lord Morossa, are generally gonna be near "peak" physicality. although i did make sure to note that the marine soldiers aboard the crawlers would be even bigger and stronger

 

[Oth]

she was seen multiple times heading through their territories, so poor ina was gonna get followed at some point. the biggest difference between crawlerfold and city folk is nutrition, and not being in tight and dark confines their entire lives. spire dwellers would be much larger then most city folk too. the cityfolk are just kinda runty, and scy is a big boy. i dont like doing self descriptions so we will get a proper description of scy when ina sees him, but crawler folk, especially from somehwere as vaunted as Lord Morossa, are generally gonna be near "peak" physicality. although i did make sure to note that the marine soldiers aboard the crawlers would be even bigger and stronger

Click to shrink...

So, Middle Ages-esque generational nutrition deficit resulting in notable physique differences? As in nobility and chivalry were genuinely larger than the peasanthood? Fun.

Elaboration on Inawsam does redeem her somewhat, though addition of a bit of her visibly rolling with the loss of Ves'sere due to her long history with tragedy might help, rather than unintentional implications of treachery. Especially since Ves'sere offered her an apprenticeship and was well on the way to becoming a surrogate semi-father figure.

Eager for more on Sycieb and Ilosia Ilimia, hailing from essentially crawlerfolk nobility. His sections on their traditions/ritualisms are fascinating.

 

[domendred]

Elaboration on Inawsam does redeem her somewhat, though addition of a bit of her visibly rolling with the loss of Ves'sere...

Eager for more on Sycieb and Ilosia Ilimia, hailing from essentially crawlerfolk nobility. His sections on their traditions/ritualisms are fascinating.

Click to shrink...

in inas case, it's important to remember that none of this bothered her a bit because she's the best at lying to herself, and definitely isn't upset at all about what's happening, especially if she gets the time to process. next chapter is going to be a scy chap with only a moderate amount of feeding people into the crawler's maw and more being disgusted with corpse dwellers. Ilosia Ilimia eating good, scy is a good boy for taking care of his lady

 

[domendred]

An interesting fact of life, as would be recorded by Grand Sycieb, First voice of Ilosia Ilimla, is that if you murder a man, and no one present can punish you for it, then you have not committed a crime. His breathing became level as the little corpse dweller before him became simply, a corpse. His Lady's honor assuaged, he rose up to his full height as the guardsmen around him back away, loosening truncheons.

"Stop this at once! What is the meaning of this! How dare you disrupt the commerce of this berth!" The small man, dressed in robes of nigredo with checks of cinitras and albedo, storms towards the berth, and towards Grand Sycieb. He slows long enough only to kick the corpse on the ground, before turning to the guards before him.

"You dare," The man is surely considering this a roar, but his voice is reedy and grating, "to lay hands upon a crawler-servant performing his duties? You dare," the little man does not stop to breath in his production of truly great amounts of spittle, "to interfere with the flow of goods in my berthings?"

Ah, Grand Sycieb realizes the truth of the man's own fury, is not disrespect, but in delay, that his Lady is not being efficiently taken advantage of, and that her resources are not being stripped from her stores as quickly as possible. In it's own way, this is admirable, that a man can so single mindedly perform his function, he is almost like a servant, except he serves only his own vanity and greed. Still, to a crawler-servant, it is natural to serve something greater then ones own self.

"Goodly servant, may I know your Lady's name, that we might record her visit in our ledger?" The newest of the little men has pulled a ledger book from the corpse at their feet and is flipping through its pages. It is good, that this man knows how to properly speak.

"This is my Lady, Ilosia Ilimla, who has blessed this Chamistasya in search of refitting more proper armaments to her hull. I am Grand Sycieb, First Voice of my Lady." This last bit of introduction was not asked for, but in truth, he was very proud and desired to announce himself to everyone he met. The little man was scribbling this into his book, its thick pages of almost gelatinous flesh-hide pulling underneath the scribing tool.

"Glittering Chamistasya greets the Lady, Ilosia Ilimla, and is open to both sell and refit any such armaments your Lady may bear. Do you or your Lady require recommendations or merely an inventory?" The berthingmaster, for standing in his element, is no longer just a "little man" but rather, a cog in a much greater machine. He continues, "We have access to most any weapon beneath the Sun, and what we do not have on hand, can be delivered by skimmer within four hundred cycles!"

Grand Scyieb feels his eyes widen. That is a very bold claim, access to any weapon beneath the Unmoving Sun within 400 cycles is something only the greatest of corpse-cities could claim. They must have a fleet of slave-skimmers prepared to cross the sands to complete such deliveries. He decides to put the corpse-cities claim to the test.

"You have access to a galvanic lance?"

"Not one sized small enough to be carried by your Lady."

This receives a nod. A competent response, and the corpse-dweller proves himself a cut about the others Sycieb has had the displeasure to deal with. This is good for his Lady, and perhaps for himself as well.

"How about a screamer cannon? Perhaps my Lady could mount one to the conning tower?"

"At that height a screamer would not be much use, no sir, I would recommend, for arming the tower, a refraction rifle mounted on a swivel bracket. They are durable enough to withstand the winds that far above, and have the reach to kill any many they can see! We make, here in Glittering Chamistasya, our own line of the rifles and they are quite efficacious!"

This was bad, realized the humble crawler-servant. Competent though he was in the sands, it was a very different story here on the bartering floor. His father was a fabricator and his mother was a lubricator, and he had learned their works well. In fact, he was quite proud of his range of knowledge, in that he had been able to single handedly serve his Lady, though, shamefully, she deserved three servants.

"A refractor is well and good, and I shall wish to inspect both the rifle and the mount you would place it upon. However, my Lady is a hunter, and requires true armament of her own. What can you recommend for a forwards facing weapon?"

This was a risky question, as it potentially revealed his own lack of knowledge in both his Lady's needs, but also the value of hull mounted weapons to be controlled by Her own artifice. The cog would not mock or belittle him, but worse, could sell his Lady subpar weapons, and exorbitant prices! Perhaps he would get the reccomendations and then kill this corpse-dweller too? It had worked out very well the last time he did it.

The cogs face twisted into a delighted smile, as any salesman does when he can sense an easy mark to gouge. Sycieb mentally notes this cog should definitely be killed, but perhaps after the sale. It would keep future salesmen honest.

"For a forwards gonne, we have our large bore cannons, with improved autoloaders as derived from the wreckage of Moldering Nyrtess! These cannons can shoot eight times and eighth, although the loaders are made simple enough to replace, and the Masters in their Spires believe we can reach the same twelve shots per eighth that Moldering Nyrtess achieved before its desolation, and even surpass it."

He looked down, as did all the guards still loitering about, and brought their hand to their brow, as if saluting the deck beneath them. Or perhaps, Grand Sycieb realized, saluting towards the bones of the world, where all their corpse-cities are drawn from. It was somewhat sickening of a reminder that these people worshipped the dead bones of the world, instead of the sands which lived beneath the Sun.

"If you prefer other options, we also have a selection of rotary rifles, or liquid fuel weapons, although we do not recommend those to and Lord or Lady without access to producing their own chemicals to utilize."

This was another good point, as a crawler could not use a weapon it could not feed. Dry chemicals for making propellant could be harvested and stored in bulk, and metals for the casings of solid munitions were not to hard to find. Liquids, in any great quantity required a knowledge of local deep water tables, or access to the bones of the world. Basically, leaving the weapon dependent on a corpse-dwellers willingness to profit off his Lady's need for protection. His mind was made up, but he decided to make the corpse-dweller work for this meal.

"You will take me," pronounced the Grand Sycieb, "to witness the manufacture and testing of my new rotary gonnes, as well as the refracting rifles. I shall test and choose each myself for installation." It was not an unusual thing, as otherwise would mean trusting a corpse-dweller to do what was best for his lady. The cog, much to his continued credit did not hesitate to clap his hands and begin issuing orders to the men surrounding him. They were meant to be guards, but the cog ordered them about as if they were pages or slaves.

Sycieb reconsidered killing the man, as he was clearly someone these corpse-dwellers held in a higher regard.

Well, he had until the refit was complete to decide. No point in rusing things now.

-------

Inawsam was, in her humble experience, a worse planner then she was a liar.

"She's over there, between the cargolifts!"

The Draves boys had not given up their pursuit as she had expected. The two who had followed her from the rip- from Ves'sere's, had called for more help. There were eight of them now, actively chasing her, plus any of the rubedo-and-cinitras she stumbled past as they chased her. The older Draves did not chase her, but they would lash out to grab or trip her as she ran from them.

Inawsam knew she had to get out of ripper territory, but that meant going up. And she was a dunespawn, so no one wanted her to go upwards. Some other dunespawns might see her and snatch her away, and she would be taken from Glittering Chamistasya. Her mother told her that frequently, before she left and did not return.

But now? With all these rippers looking for her? And no one left looking out for her? Glittering Chamistasya could have its nasty lanes, far from the Unmoving Sun, its filthy dredges, and abhorrent rippers. If Inawsam stayed she would die, and she had nothing here she valued more the her life, except perhaps these blades. The ones that belonged to Ves'sere.

Yes, because they were valuable, and for nothing else. Inawsam reminded herself that the blades held material value, and that was why she clutched them to her chest as she fell, tripped by a man thrice her size. It was why she did not drop them as she scrambled back up, away from his grasping hands. The blades sole value were in their metal tips, she told herself.

After all, Inawsam may be poor planner, but she was an excellent liar.

Especially when she was lying to herself.

-------

 

[Oth]

Ouch. Ves'sere was more important to Inawsam than she herself would admit.

Apparently appeasing crawlerfolk is pretty important in Chamistaya, to point where an incompetent/bigoted harbourmaster can be written off entirely rather than offend a crawler's Voice? Seems like crawlers occupy a social position akin to foreign nobility, to be placated and courted while still being considered "outsider/other".

Unmoving Sun - tidally locked planet? And that they have what appears to be laser weaponry in production, post apocalypse setting?

Curious if repeated mentions of the Bones of the World are just references to surviving mineral deposits, or something more esoteric.

 

[domendred]

Ouch. Ves'sere was more important to Inawsam than she herself would admit.

Apparently appeasing crawlerfolk is pretty important in Chamistaya, to point where an incompetent/bigoted harbourmaster can be written off entirely rather than offend a crawler's Voice? Seems liek crawlers occupy a social position akin to foreign nobility, to be placated and courted while still being considered "outsider/other".

Unmoving Sun - tidally locked planet? And that they have what appears to be laser weaponry in production, post apocalypse setting?

Curious if repeated mentions of the Bones of the World are just references to surviving mineral deposits, or something more esoteric.

Click to shrink...

Inawsam had exactly one person in chamistasya who cared about her. Now it's just her.
As for crawlerfolk, you don't have to respect the people, however a crawler could just walk into a city and bore a hole through it, so you gotta respect that. It's the crawler's that are nobles, and if you told syc that guy he killed was because it offended him? Hed probably kill you next! Also, crawlers are the source of most metals and other forms of mineral wealth, whereas the cities have other things and manufacturing that makes them worth being allowed to exist.
The other thing I'm trying to express is a sort of casual racism/theocracism(?) but it's like, sure we'd gut you and rob you if we could get away with it, but also you are rich and we want your money and trading is much safer
Yes! I'm super glad you saw that about the sun! I didn't know if I needed to go back and put something in chapter 1 too but this is ok! The setting is less post apocalyptic and more stuck on a dead world, and it's definitely not got any sort of thriving society. However, post apocalypse implies they were there when the world still lived!
As for the bones, that's still a secret!

 

[domendred]

Walking through a corpse-city was, beyond doubt, the foulest thing Grand Sycieb had ever put himself through. So far from fresh air, a cannula had been brought along, with a small tank of fresh, if compressed, air. The rot surrounding him invaded his nose none the less. So far from the Unmoving Sun's glare, there was nothing that could be done but to walk the shadow swallowed streets, rifle held low, but ready. The cog, best of his kind to have appeared before Grand Sycieb, chattered aimlessly, about his Family, the Hasox's, who were making inroads into the mid spire of Spire 6.

Considering there were only eight spires, this did not seem so impressive to Sycieb, but then, living even at the top of the corpse city would still keep you far from living sands. A better view, but one any crawler-servant could get on any of their breaks. They had been walking less then a quarter-cycle, and already they were deep within the bowels of Chamistasya.

"As we head to the factory for the rotary gonnes, we will pass by the location of the autocannons assembly station! It is quite a sight to see, and you, good crawler servant, would do your Lady well to observe, even if only to pass such knowledge on to your fellows!"

Truly a despicable creature, the salesman, to care only for his profits. Truly, this cog stood above all others. Worst of all, Grand Sycieb, First Voice of his Lady, had to admit the little man's point. First hand accounts of the new technologies spawned in the cities were always valued and recorded, lest the horrors of Nyrtess or Quaold be repeated.

Crawler minds, torn from their bodies and enslaved to foul purpose, had powered the industrial might of Quaold, and Saintly Lord Mos-Sayach, of the First Formed, had leveled the city with his magnetic resonators. Nyrtess had attempted to entrap a slew of crawler-servants to force their Lords and Ladies to mine the Dead Bones beneath the city. The crawler-servants had instead collapsed the city atop their own heads. The whole thing was very admirable, from what Sycieb's parents had told him.

Personally, he would have preferred to do so from outside the city, but to each their own.

They entered into the assembly station with little fanfare, as most of the corpse dwellers did not look up from their labors. They were dressed peculiarly as well. They had little in the way of proper coverings, but were instead all adorned with think leather studded collars, with chains leading to the sides of the stations they were at.

"You use slaves in the production of your weapons? This does not effect the quality?" It is a legitimate concern, but it is not Sycieb's. There are no slaves in the living sands, and only in corpse-cities is there such an abundance of bodies and a deficiency of resources that slavery can even be considered. Truly the people of the corpse-cities were cursed beyond compare.

"Keeping slaves is no issue for us, as we allow the slaves to start families! Then we separate the men and women, keeping them both working for the other's security! And, they become even more productive once they start procreating! It is truly a wonderful system our Hasox family has derived!"

Grand Sycieb is glad to know that every corpse-city is doomed to their own destruction. It is only a shame that these wretches are permitted to suffer at the hand of their own wicked kin.

-------

Inawsam had been running for nearly a full cycle. When the Draves and their fellow rippers could follow her no longer, the spire-dwellers servants and the upper city guards took up the chase. After all, who would believe that Ves'sere had been murdered, that she had not stolen some ripper families relics? Not that the stuffy ripper had wanted her to take the blades, necessarily, but certainly better with her then his killers?

Inawsam was definitely in the right for doing what she did. No one could blame her for what she had done, except the rippers who wanted the blades for themselves. A half dozen metal blades, sharp and wicked, like their owner.

The owner she had gotten killed.

Inawsam kept running. If she was running, she was not thinking, not about metal blades, not about a moment of kindness, the first and last she would likely receive.

-------

This refractor rifle assemblage was a considerable step up from the previous factory Grand Sycieb had entered. Unlike the rotary gonnes, a refractor rifle was as much art as it was a science. To harness the fury of the Unmoving Sun to cast a lance of death requires finesse the rough welds and weighty rivets the rotary gonnes could never achieve.

Luckily for those with the skill and training, this meant freedom for those who were capable. This assemblage was a family ran operation, with two men, and three women, working at creating something that would look like art and speak like thunder.

From where the men were blowing glass, the older of the two stepped away from the furnace, stepping over to greet his guests.

"Principle Orcas! A pleasure to serve the House of Hasox this period!" The refractor artisans were distinctly different from the gonne-slaves, his jovial nature and almost portly figure speaking to the distance between the natures of their enslavement. "And a guest? Who is this esteemed figure, standing in my workshop? This lowly Dimug greets you!"

Grand Sycieb took in the man before him, smile wide, and teeth reflecting in the flickering lights. It was incredible to think that such a disgusting place as a corpse-city could produce people who almost reached a level of civility. It was a shame that his existance, and all those of this blighted place, were damned to the torturous existence far from the light of the Unmoving Sun.

"You have the privilege of speaking to the Voice of the Lady Ilosia Ilimla, Hunter of the Sands. This one is called the Grand Sycieb." Courtesy must be repaid with courtesy, as his father taught him. His mother's dark voice had reminded a younger Sycieb, the same due must be repaid with discourtesy. The artisan bowed, and the other about the workshop stood to do the same. Truly, this house must have received every lick of sense these corpse-dwellers had managed to dredge from the Bones deep beneath themselves.

The cog took this moment to interject once more, ensuring he kept the helm of any (and every) conversation that happened in his hearing.

"Good Dimug, of house Baatufu, this goodly Voice of the Lady has come to inspect your armaments that one might be given the honor of being mounted to her hull! Rejoice at the great honor the House of Hasox bestows upon you!" One must imagine the twin blessings of something resembling freedom, and something resembling respect being paid to a man in his own abode is a truly munificent gift. Grand Sycieb, considering the state of most wretches beneath the glittering spires, supposed that it truly may be so. However, since he was being ushered into the workshop, he looked about at the lathes and grinders, chisels and rasps, and committed their works to his memory. Perhaps in a few generations, his Lady could craft and forge her own fiery lances.

The worker-family of the assemblage were small, not in the emaciated ways of the gonne-slaves, but rather simply of stature and breadth. Small of presence, the made up fore their deficiency with deft hands and chattering voices. Grand Sycieb cared little for their natterings but nodded along and made appropriate noises. Yes, it was impressive that their focusing lenses were almost six percent thinner then some other corpse-city. Oh, very pleasing to hear that the alignment coils improve draw strength by two tenths, not that any of this mattered. His Lady would be receiving a refractor rifle, and he would cast the baleful lances at all manner of beasts and men alike in her service.

The Lady would be pleased with these new great armaments, so Grand Sycieb turned his gaze upon the overly pleased cog who had led him here. Now began a true battle, one that unfortunately, could be fought only with words. How much of his Lady's cargo would She be giving up today?

-------

not dead, still want to write, just real bad at motivating my self to actually do it. sorry oth, but this ones for you brother

 

[domendred]

It was not a pleasing thing, considered Inawsam, to know you will die. She is tired, she is slowing, and she can not escape. What was a pleasing thing, however, was the deep clarity that was borne from the realization. Inawsam had decided, what would be for the last time in her life, to make things as difficult as possible for those who were after her. The Draves, flesh rippers and cannibals as they were known to be, were not welcome so close to the surface. And yet, they bore rubedo and cinitras, as shoddily as they might be dressed in their rags, marked them as belonging to the mid spire, as wearing two colors would not be permitted to a mere bottom dwelling ripper clan. No, they had sent word as she escaped their grasping reach, to their masters, of the bounty she had stolen from them.

In the mid spires, these blades might be common amongst the flesh smiths and alchemists who toiled in their labors, but to the common folk? An unexpected windfall, to obtain such blades, whether by hook or crook. Not that Inawsam had to worry about such things, as soon she would not be able to worry at all. The longest blades, one bearing a cruelly hooked blade, and the other, half again the length of her hand, were clenched tightly in her balled fists. The blades were turned back, to sit more closely to her forearm, that they might escape another moments notice. Possibly the moment that would determine if it was her moment of death, or her next pursuer. Ves'sere would not approve the use of his tools for such brutish means of work, but as he was dead, Inawsam decided he would not get a say in this.

"Get out here dunespawn! I will have those blades returned to me!"

She would hope that whoever took the blades from her body would turn them to more practiced work, but it would not matter to her. She would ensure her death, at the hands of whosoever thought to take these relics from her. Currently, she was upon a rafter, in a poorly lit section of an alley off a dirty market plaza. She had been seen, she had been followed, but now it was time to bite at the claws that had been chasing after her for so long.

"It is this way! Hurry up, Cirenze!"

The first man ran through the alley, shouting after others following, and Inawsam let him pass. The second and third, too. The fourth, however, panting and wheezing as he was, paused at the entrance to Inawsam's current haunt, leaning with an arm out against the corner to catch his breath. He would never receive the opportunity, as the hooked blade embedded itself into his outstretched shoulder. His shriek was aborted as the rest of the dunespawn landed on him, her stomach coming down on his head, knocking the wind out of her as it knocked him to the ground. The straight blade flashed down, while the curved blade rent its way out of the joint. The man screamed no more, but the many witnesses in the plaza watched in delighted horror as the man in his fine tunic of cinitras, marked with rustres of rubedo was hacked into. Their shrieking, hysteric as it was, did not hide their pleasure in seeing what had been a respectable man, of means and wealth, no doubt, meet his vicious end. Inawsam lashed out, once, towards the crowd with her sharp, and now bloody blades, and they scattered back.

"Stay clear, or I'll take you too!" Inawsam had always felt that her voice, thin and reedy as a child's is wont to be, was one that could not command respect. It was incredible to think, that a little blood shed and her voice rang like the clarion bells from high within the spire. "Tell them where I've gone, and tell them they will die as their friend did! Screaming and alone!"

It must be a lie, Inawsam was sure. But desperately, deeply, and more then any other lie she had told, she wished this one was true. She could lie to herself about many things, but for a child, fully a head smaller then the men chasing her, to kill every one of her hunters? It was impossible.

As impossible as learning to be a ripper, or of having Ves'sere returned to her. But this one was dead beneath her, and soon, another would be as well. Inawsam took off, away from the returning hunters, through a scattering crowd, towards freedom and inevitability. Perhaps she would make it out of this, after all?

Inawsam was always happiest when she was lying to herself anyways.

-------

"What is the reason for all that racket? Dhoj, go out there and shut them up! These negotiations will not be interrupted by the hooting of rotters here in the Deep!" The cog, quite furious at the interruption of shrieking from the streets, looked up from the display table in the assemblage. The nearest guard, presumably the one named Dhoj, grabbed one of the other guards, pulling him in close and murmuring into his ear, before shoving him towards the door. The pushed guard grabbed one of his companions and they stomped out the door.

Grand Sycieb had no doubt that some poor fool outside would be broken and battered for daring to make to much noise in the presence of the cog before him. The sin of upsetting those whom you had no recourse against was a grave sin indeed. It is the reason why all Servants learn weaponry, a main tool, and a few back up items, as deemed necessary by the Commandant of whatever Lord or Lady they served upon. Sycieb, shorter then most servants, but broader of shoulder, had learned quite a few weapons before the Commandant had given up hope to recruit him into his marines. To be Grand, to Serve directly? There could be no higher honor.

The outside noise spiked as the door swung open, then slammed back shut. The cog, this Principle Orcas, turned back with the same smile he'd had before turning scowling and shouting at his guardians. Back to the haggling, Sycieb supposed. When this was over, he would definitely need to kill this man, if only to prevent his successors from believing they could also rob a Crawling Lord or Lady.

-------

A second man had died by Inawsam's hand. She had hidden herself behind one of the many tents marking the small plaza she had been chased about, and when the man, the large and loud steps of a man who had never needed to hide, came around the edge? The hooked blade had caught his ankle, and ripped through it in a way that would surely have displeased Ves'sere. The man, more artist than ripper, would have never so cruelly hacked into his victims. Would not have left him screaming to attract the eyes and fill the ears of others. Would not have needed to run, so far from the haunts and alleys that he knew well.

Or perhaps he should have, to avoid his fated end? Inawsam was not sure on the last one. She had no time for philosophic thinking, not when it was time to move. As she scurried away, the chasing men had converged on their companion, loudly shouting orders and accomplishing nothing but watching one of their own die. This pleased Inawsam, firstly because they were distracted from her now, but also because they would be imagining meeting their own ends to Ves'sere's sharp blades.

It was unfortunate, then, that the largest door in the plaza was slammed open. Two men, large and dangerous, with heavy cudgels in hand stormed forth.

"Whats all this then? Dying in the plaza, and disrupting the works of the Principle Orcas? You've some nerve!" The first shoved into the crowd, who were hastily backing away. These men wore coats of nigredo, with checks of alternating cinitras and rubedo. Wearing three colors so deep within the city would be a death sentence, excepting the heavy leather armor they wore plainly beneath the coat. Their gloves and boots had strips of metal banding across them, giving violent purpose to any and every movement they took.

"Brother Gzo, can you believe the nerve of these deep scum? Deliberately making such a fuss, and disrupting the Principle like this?" The first man tsked as the second man's cruel smirk spread across his face, "Seems mighty disrespectful to someone who has come so low to be treated this way!"

One of the chasers spoke then, hoping to quell the rising tension, "Good sirs, we a-" which was a poor choice as the cudgel caught him then, about the chin, reducing whatever else he had to say to a strangled yelp. As he fell back, the crowd surged, a frightful ripple spreading through the remaining chasers and what few spectators had stuck about so long.

"Brother Dhoj," asked the smirking man, "would the Principle prefer subtlety or savagery as resolution? I know my preference, and they have already disrupted negotiations once."

"Brother Gzokhaat, you are a man of wisdom and grace! How could I be so blind?" The dark light in the eyes of the one called Dhoj lit up. "Of course, as the Principle often says: permanence is preferable to expediency!" The crowd did not move, as a whole, though the members of it were jostling about, either not hearing or not realizing the weight of the decision made here. Inawsam watched from the small alcove she had tucked herself into as the cudgel came down on the man she had maimed, and as his screams stopped, others began, as the Upper Spire men began their scarlet work. Their bounding steps and cheerful violence scattering the crowds their words had not dispersed. It was at this moment, painful realization came to Inawsam.

She would live now. Her pursuers scattered or slain, would report on her or the blades no more. None would take vengeance on their slayers, from on high as they came. She would not die. Would not join Ves'sere. Not today.

Soon perhaps, but today? She would live, whatever that meant to a slayer like her now. How could she be a ripper's assistant, when she was a killer, a worm feeder? As rubedo dripped from her hands and the darkly glinting blades she held, she felt her knees give out beneath herself, sliding to the ground.

Inawsam would survive, and she would handle what comes next. It was, at the moment, the most comforting lie she could believe in. And Inawsam was the best, when it came to lying to herself.

-------

writing is harder then i think all the time, but im commiting myself to this. i hope someone likes it, besides me! but also, screw you guys ill keep writing even if you hate it i guess. thoughts feelings criticism all welcome!

 

[Oth]

Welcome back, Grand Domendred. A pleasant surprise to see this again.

Hearing all the casual xenophobia from Grand Sycieb towards the brutal lives of the cityfolk, having it revealed that a major cultural emnity exists between the Crawlers and the cities goes some way to explaining the sheer hostility and distrust of Sycieb. Crawling Lords/Ladies and their Servants would rather destroy themselves than allow themselves to be chained again a la Quaold or Nyrtess, which also means little to no trust is ever afforded to the Cities despite their codependence.

Also, interesting that living around the sentient Crawlers has resulted in Sycieb (and presumably most/all Servants) equating entire settlements and their residents as conglomerate entities, what with calling Principle Orcas a cog (of the city-machine) and viewing him as a living appendage of Chamistasya itself.

Having the Draves cease their pursuit by running headfirst into angry Nobles and being purged is a clever way to end the pursuit, as the leader(s) now have bigger things to worry about, Inawsam and the knives now being more trouble than they are worth. Very, very 40K of them, like a underhiver brawl getting collateral'd by an Arbites patrol or a Noble's bodyguards.

Curious on how Servants view citydwellers attempting to break away from the settlements and beg for posts aboard passing Crawlers, what with Syciebs strong disapproval of sedentary settlements away from the living sands. Would hiring cityfolk be acceptable, or strict preference for recruiting from Crawlerfolk populations?

 

[domendred]

Welcome back, Grand Domendred. A pleasant surprise to see this again.

Click to shrink...

I've been through a lot! A big move, a new job and sick babies! But honestly, the biggest reason I stopped writing is because I got lazy I guess just didn't take the time to actually do the writing each night, but now! I'm starting a better habit! I can't tell you how happy I was to see this message though! I was worried is been gone to long and you had forgotten all about me!

interesting that living around the sentient Crawlers has resulted in Sycieb (and presumably most/all Servants) equating entire settlements and their residents as conglomerate entities, what with calling Principle Orcas a cog (of the city-machine) and viewing him as a living appendage of Chamistasya itself.

Click to shrink...

to a servants mind, are maggots on the corpse not a part of the malaise that had caused its death? Or a symptom of it?

Having the Draves cease their pursuit by running headfirst into angry Nobles and being purged is a clever way to end the pursuit,

Click to shrink...

Honestly a big reason I stopped writing in the first place was that I couldn't figure out how to bring in a to the voice in a way that wasn't just aycieb marching along and spotting some spire kids tormenting another and being like "casual murder would be fun" and I didn't like that. Sycieb doesn't treat life as something precious, like we would, but to his mind it's be like going out of your way to stomp on an ant hill

Would hiring cityfolk be acceptable, or strict preference for recruiting from Crawlerfolk populations?

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The problems with hiring city folk are manyfold, but big ones would be just the cultural differences. A big part of the story (I'm hoping) is going to be in a trying to adjust to crawler life and sycieb trying to adjust with deal with someone who doesn't know the ways of service, since she was raised in the corpse city. A servant would sacrifice anything for their Lord or Lady, since the crawler is literally their lives, and carrion dwellers would sacrifice anything for themselves, since they are barely able to live

 

[Oth]

to a servants mind, are maggots on the corpse not a part of the malaise that had caused its death? Or a symptom of it?

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Opinion. Being strictly factual, carrion dwellers would merely be a symptom of the death, with the majority of the cityfolk at large being simply too pathetic to really harm a Crawler in any meaningful capacity. Whatever felled the Crawler regardless, the population is merely a regrettable byproduct of the fallen machine's rotting.

Pondering. Unless Sycieb is referring to the metropoli's historical tendencies to war with the Crawlers whenever they amass enough power, hence being future enemies that they unavoidably must still do business with?

Sycieb doesn't treat life as something precious, like we would, but to his mind it's be like going out of your way to stomp on an ant hill

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Interesting. Further ties into Sycieb's and possibly Crawlerfolk's tendency to depersonalise and/or reject individual entityhood, seeing the ongoing purge of Orcas's bodyguards killing the Draves and bystanders as merely Chamistasya's cellls consuming each other, like a bodily process writ large.

Which would explain his disdaining of the "wretches" of the carrion dwellers, them being pieces of Chamistasya that inexplicably serve no purpose to the greater body.

A servant would sacrifice anything for their Lord or Lady, since the crawler is literally their lives, and carrion dwellers would sacrifice anything for themselves, since they are barely able to live

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Musing. Can already picture Crawlerfolk as a strict caste-based society with servants either born into their roles or assigned them in their youth out of a common trainee pool, with social mobility rather difficult if possible at all. Curious on how personal wealth and ascending to positions work as such, perhaps by purchasing of positions/commissions like officership in historical militaries?